My Mentor Betsy

A mentor of mine was Betsy. Betsy was my youth minister at church all through my middle and high school days. In order to get a full sense of what she did to support me, you need to know a little about who I was back then.

Picture an awkward teenager with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a scrawny build. Now add to that image pimples, a large retainer called a bionator, and lots of neon late 80’s/early 90’s clothes.

Upon first glance, you see smiles and hear laughter. This youth seems larger than life with a loud voice, a flair for the dramatic, and big hand gestures. He can’t seem to sit still or concentrate for very long.

You might think this youth has friends because he can talk to almost anyone. He helps take care of his brothers and sister. He babysits. He is responsible.

But when no one is looking, when he is alone, he cries. He sobs uncontrollably. He wonders why it looks like he has friends, but his peers tease him and beat him up. He is desperate, lonely, and insecure. He wants to be accepted, but can’t accept himself. He needs to belong to something, is searching for meaning in a world that seems meaningless.

This youth, me, went to church regularly. It was our family’s culture, our tradition. At this church was Betsy.

I can’t recall specific conversations or interactions with Betsy, but I remember feelings, insights, and revelations made possible because of her. Betsy was a very warm and welcoming person. She treated youth as adults, people able to think critically and make decisions for themselves. She never provided answers, only questions. Betsy was a role model, a teacher, a mentor.

Wednesdays were youth group night, and I attended every week. One Wednesday after school, I came home and felt a despair I had never felt. Partly it was due to hormones, and partly it was because I had finally had enough of the teasing and humiliation. I couldn’t take being called a faggot one more time.

No one was home, so I went to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and headed to my bedroom. I sat there for over an hour trying to muster the courage to slit my wrists. I stared at my reflection in the window and all I say was a monster that needed slaying.

Before I could muster the courage, my mother came home. She yelled for me from the top of the stairs, and I quickly hid the knife and ran to greet her. She told me to get ready for youth group, so I reluctantly went back downstairs, changed my clothes, and washed my face.

That night at youth group, we were playing a game called Lifeboat. Everyone was given a different character to play, such as a single mother, a gay survivalist, a nurse with a life-threatening illness, etc. All of the characters were on a sinking ship with only one lifeboat that held two people. It was the groups task to determine who would be able to get on the lifeboat and why. I randomly picked the gay survivalist.

I don’t remember who the group picked for the lifeboat, but I do know it wasn’t the gay survivalist. When I read my character description to the group, the group unanimously responded that I was the first to be thrown overboard, end of discussion. Betsy immediately intervened and asked hard questions of the group as to why I was the first to be thrown overboard without hearing all of the other characters. I sat stunned and silent as the group, the same peers from school, justified their hate. In the end, I was still left to drown.

That Wednesday night, my relationship to Betsy changed – I now viewed her as my mentor not just my youth minister. I found someone who stood up for me without any fear of what others thought and without having to say a word. I found someone I could trust.

As the months and years went by, I sought out more time with Betsy. She always listened, inquired about why I felt what I felt and thought what I thought, and provided opportunities for my personal growth. Betsy saw something in me and wouldn’t let me lose it. She let me be me with all of my flaws, missteps, and humanity.

Four years later, Betsy was the first adult I came out to and it was mostly due to that exercise and what happened afterwards. Betsy was honored I actually came out to her. She advocated to the priest who wouldn’t let me volunteer. Betsy loved me.

Betsy and I have gone in very different directions, and we no longer talk. The impact Betsy had in my middle and high school days can still be felt. She is why I love youth work. She is why I listen with an open mind and an open heart. She is why I am who I am.

Thank you Betsy.