Emory's Last Morning at the Crosswalk

Today was Emory’s last day on the parking team.

For the past several years, he’s been riding in his dad’s backpack while Jon welcomed thousands of people to our church’s parking lots. Emory has served when it was cold enough to see your breath and when—like today—you could fry an egg on the asphalt.

You might think I’m using the word “served” liberally. Parking team policy required that Emory stay in that backpack during inbound and exit traffic. He dropped his light wands more often than he pointed them in the right direction. His speed at picking up the E Lot cones proved somewhere between that of a turtle and a penguin. He tended to be quiet around guests but belt questions to Jon about what he observed.

But Emory was absolutely serving. He made sure Jon brought him on as many Sundays as possible—at one point on an alternating schedule with his big sister, Xoe. He respected the prayer time during our pre-serving huddle. He wanted to learn the cars and what their names were. (We mention vehicle makes and models a lot on the radio.) He proved a trooper in the cold and heat.

Most importantly, he was learning to serve. He was discovering faithfulness. He was experiencing community, even though it might take him years or even a couple decades to understand what that truly means. He was starting a journey that could take him to any number of amazing encounters and breakthroughs.

The paid staff at our church call the parking team a “first-serve environment.” Because we aren’t teaching or counseling in the parking lots, our team tends to attract people who are serving at a church for the first time or the first time in a long time. You don’t have to know Jesus yet to serve with us. You can just be exploring Christianity. Or you might be new to the whole gig, having just surrendered control of your life to heaven’s prompting.

We have a lot of “welcome to the team” days and almost as many goodbye days like today. We have a lot of turnover, as our teammates sometimes feel called to other environments that make their hearts beat faster. Other teammates decide that serving, our church, or even Christianity isn’t for them. (Those are the hard losses.) There is a pile of hats in the parking room with names embroidered on them—names of people whose journeys have taken them elsewhere.

All of us who still wear the bright yellow hats and vests are still learning to serve. That goes for Emory and for me—and I’ve been on the team twice as long as Emory has been on the planet. Together, we’re still learning how to pray, how to encourage each other, and how to come alongside hurting teammates. We’re learning how to confront our motives, how to communicate empathy—how to make people feel welcomed, not just greeted.

Before you discount Emory’s service, know that he represents all of us. We’re all only part way on our journey of serving. We’re all proud to wear our safety gear. We all look forward to Sunday mornings.

After the service had started this morning, Emory asked, “Hey, dad!?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“How many cars do we have to park until we’re done?”

“Oh, it’s not a certain number of cars. We park until Mr. Donald says there aren’t any more cars on the road.”

For Emory now, the road is clear. He’s got a different destiny for Sunday mornings—at least until he’s got a driver’s license and wants his spot back. We’ll hold it for him, just in case.