I paced the dark hallway at our church, trying not to picture the crowd in the sanctuary and trying to listen to the speaker onstage instead. The sound system amplified his every word. My hands took on a life of their own, my fingers knotting around my notecards.
“You’re next, Shawnelle,” someone whispered.
In a few moments I’d be the one onstage at the mike, sharing details about the time early in our marriage that I’d almost left my husband, Lonny. But it wasn’t the idea of exposing the personal stuff that made my breath come too fast and my heart hammer.
It was standing in front of people and speaking. Just me, alone in the spotlight, all eyes on me. Pollsters say people fear public speaking more than death. I could see why.
I still had nightmares about the one big presentation I had to give in high school for oral communication class. I’d written the speech, then practiced at home for weeks until I had the whole thing down cold.
But standing there at the lectern in the school auditorium, I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I went totally blank. I couldn’t remember a single word of what I’d written. The silence in the auditorium made my cheeks burn in shame and I scurried off the stage.
I’d avoided public speaking ever since. Address a small group? No, thanks. Give a talk to one of my sons’ classes? I volunteered for something else. Ask a question at a conference? Usually if I waited, someone else would ask the same question and I wouldn’t have to speak up.
Clearly, God hadn’t meant for me to be a speaker. He’d made me quiet and reserved, and he gave me gifts that fit my nature.
Like writing. I could sit at home, measure my words in front of the computer and write as though I were talking to a good friend over a cup of coffee. I’d had a number of personal stories published. I didn’t mind opening up about my deepest struggles in print.
But out loud, in front of an audience, that was a different thing altogether.
I leaned against the hallway wall and wrapped my arms tight around myself to keep from shaking. If only I hadn’t prayed that prayer! It seemed wrong to be thinking that in church, but I couldn’t help it.
One day just a few weeks earlier, I was driving two of our boys to guitar lessons, listening to their favorite CD. The singer sang about giving everything to the Lord, about doing anything he asked.
The words gripped me. Maybe I was too cautious in my faith, too careful, too reserved. What if I offered more of myself? Gave everything?
Lord, I prayed as farmhouses and winter-bare fields blew by our van window, I am yours. I’ll do whatever you ask of me. Anything.
I thought “anything” might mean a mission trip that would take me far away from Lonny and the boys, or some other sacrifice.
A couple of days later, I was making grilled cheese sandwiches when the phone rang. I let the machine pick up.
“Hi, Shawnelle. This is Pastor Matt. Someone from church read a story about how God healed your marriage. Would you be willing to speak about that at a program we’re putting together?
"It’s called God Is With Us, and it’ll be all real-life stories. We’d like to have the drama team and several speakers. We’ll run an ad on the radio and do three performances…”
I almost dropped the spatula. Speak?
At a church program with hundreds of people watching me? No way this side of heaven could I ever do that! I would have to call Pastor Matt back and tell him no.
Then I thought of that prayer I’d said. Hadn’t I promised God I’d do anything he asked? What if facing my fear was just what he had in mind?
Finally I called Pastor Matt and said yes. “I’m so glad,” he said. “The congregation will get a lot out of your talk. The community too.”
“I hope so,” I said.
Pastor Matt must have heard something in my voice because he said, “You’ll be on for five minutes. Don’t worry, just five minutes.”
I wrote the speech out on notecards—I wasn’t going to risk going blank at the podium again—and practiced with a timer so I wouldn’t go over my allotted five minutes. Even with just my boys for an audience, my pulse raced, my breath came in big gulps.
“Slow down, Mom,” they said. Or, “Mom, they won’t be able to hear you if you talk that softly.”
I tried to visualize myself standing alone onstage, speaking confidently into the mike, but all I could picture was looking out at row after row filled with people, some I knew well, some strangers, every one of them staring at me.
One night Lonny and I were driving into town when we passed a banner announcing the program. It whipped in the wind, and all my fears seemed to whip up along with it.
“I can’t do it,” I told Lonny. “I’m going to call Pastor Matt back and cancel.”
“You’ve written stories about that rough patch we went through,” he said. “What makes this so hard?”
“I don’t like being the center of attention. You know that.”
“And I know you hope your experiences can help people, show them how God works in our lives,” he said. “This is just another way of telling a story. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“My knees will buckle. I’ll throw up. Sweat like wild. I’ll pass out. Embarrass our church.”
“You’ll be fine,” Lonny said. “Concentrate on your message, not on yourself.”
I couldn’t back out. Not when I’d promised Pastor Matt. Not when I’d promised God.
Dress rehearsal came. I managed to stand in the spotlight and speak into the mike without passing out or experiencing any of the other dire outcomes I’d envisioned. But then, the seats were empty.
Now they were filled. Earlier in the evening I’d stood in the back of the foyer and watched people arrive, filling up the rows in the sanctuary.
I spotted one of the boys’ teachers, the lady I chatted with at the post office, someone from the library, parents I knew from the kids’ soccer games. How could I face them if I flubbed my speech?
The lights dimmed. I retreated to the hallway to wait my turn. The drama team did their skit and bounded off the stage, applause ringing in their ears. Three speakers went ahead of me. They sounded assured, not nervous at all. Especially this last one.
Then it was time. “You’re up, Shawnelle.”
I walked out onto the stage, clutching my notecards. The sanctuary was still, a stillness that seemed to tighten around me. I set my notes on the lectern, hoping it hid my shaking hands. What was it Lonny had told me? “Concentrate on your message, not on yourself.”
I looked down at my notes. There across the top of the first card, I’d written the title of the program: God Is With Us.
Of course.
He’d been there in the painful depths early in my marriage. He was there in the healing too, in the strong relationship Lonny and I had built together. And he was with me now.
Why did I think I was taking the stage alone?
The shaking stopped. My heartbeat slowed.
I took a deep breath and spoke into the microphone. “The counselor told us there was not much hope for our marriage,” I said, my voice calm and steady. “But she was wrong.”
I went on, talking about how God had moved in our lives, in our marriage. The more I shared about him, the more I forgot about me.
Before I knew it, I’d finished telling my story. The spotlight felt like a warm glow. The audience clapped. I noticed someone wiping a tear from her eye. Wow, did I do that? I wondered but I realized, no, it was God, being present with us all.
I returned to the hallway backstage and let out a huge sigh of relief, glad it was all over.
Then I heard one of my fellow speakers say, “Just think. We get to do this two more times.”
I gulped. But I did say I would do anything, right? Well, here were two more chances.
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