A pile of store-bought fried dough claiming to be doughnuts sat on the counter; they lied. A pitcher of sugary red Tang and several bottles of neon orange Fanta brightened the inside of the fridge with their cheery unnaturalness. Tea, sugar, milk, and a fresh pot of coffee perched expectantly in their various dedicated spots on the counter. All of it just in case.

This was the first Saturday of the ladies’ prayer group (see God is my sister to catch up). I had no idea how it would turn out, but I saw two distinct scenarios playing out in my head. The first included a bunch of white women, Mary, and some awkward silences. The second included all the white women, all the black women, some kids running around in the backyard, and larger awkward silences. I figured the first attempt at this bung (Tok Pisin for “meeting”) would be extreme one way or the other. I didn’t see it beginning in moderation. I decided it would be wisest to prepare for the extreme that included a whole lot of people and some bottomless children, at least as far as the food and drink were concerned.

Predictably, the Americans showed up first, just as the clock ticked 11am. On time, energetic, and, well, on time. Ray was ecstatic to see all her favorite people in one place. Lots of love and attention filled her little cup and boosted her toddler ego as she stuffed half a lying doughnut in her mouth. She waved goodbye and blew kisses backwards as she was corralled into the bedroom by her father, and the women settled into the living room with drinks. We talked through our expectations for the prayer group and how we could try again if Mary ended up being the only one to show up. I felt less alone at that point. I’m not sure why I felt alone before, but that conversation seemed to take the weight of success or failure off of me. I was able to hear their thoughts and ideas, and feel their excitement. Time lagged and we began to wonder if even Mary would come.

She finally arrived around noon muttering about public transport, but she was the only one. It was quite obvious that coming into town on Saturdays was too burdensome for the others. It costs money, it’s inconvenient, and town is simply not a fun place to be on a Saturday. So we moved the time of the prayer group to Monday at noon, still at my house. The women would already be in town and the group could meet outside of the office atmosphere. Mary followed up that discussion with her testimony and an explanation of why she wanted to start the multicultural prayer group. There were some awkward silences and I generally felt uncomfortable, but it was a good start. As everyone left I gave Mary the mounds of leftover doughnuts for her son and told Brian the exciting news that the Fanta was all his.

Since that first attempt we’ve met several times. While the number of overall women attending varies, close to all of the employees come regularly. Each time I feel a little less stress, though I don’t come “down” from the effort until the evening. I spend the afternoon mechanically putting the girls down for their afternoon nap and doing the housework. As I move through sweeping, dishes, making dinner, and doing laundry, I replay everything that happened during the meeting in my mind. I wind up beating myself up for missing this detail, failing to shake that person’s hand, fumbling the language, misunderstanding a simple conversation, accidentally letting Ray scare herself when she turned on Frozen and saw the angry snowman… on and on and on. Fail. Fail. Parenting fail.

A friend stayed behind from our last meeting to help clean up. I was regaling her with what a giant idiot I am allowing her to hear some of the chaotic and self-critical thoughts jumbling themselves into a cohesive unit intent on destroying my joy. I wasn’t able to get far down my list of complaints when she stopped me short and reminded me to be kind. She went on to recount how the meetings have gone, both positive and negative; she had a wildly different perspective than my own. In the end I realized that much of my shame at “failing” was really just selfishness. It had nothing to do with God and whether he was being glorified, and everything to do with my own perceived success. The “you fail” mentality is something the Devil can and does easily use to discourage me from continuing. Obviously if he can convince me this is a reflection of my own abilities and I’m stinking it up, it won’t be much harder to convince me it’s not worth doing.

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.

Colossians 3:23-24

I’m looking forward to the group becoming more and more established. Deep down somewhere I’m excited God is using it to teach me hard things. In that vein I’ll be trying to practically apply Colossians 3:23-24. I appreciate everyone covering the group and me with prayer. Those prayers are clearly being answered.