In January of 2005, I experienced one of the craziest weeks of my life. I was preparing for my ordination exams, something I had been working toward for years. I had already earned my Master of Divinity, was serving as a pastor, and now needed to complete the final requirements to become ordained in my denomination.
For probably six months leading up to those exams, I had been studying like crazy. I remember going to the Colorado State University library and finding my way down to the lowest level, where it was quiet, there were no windows, and almost nothing to distract me. I would bury myself down there for hours studying theology, church history, Bible content, sacraments, and church polity. There was so much material to cover, and I wanted to be ready. I had invested years of my life preparing for ministry, and this felt like one of those final hurdles I needed to get over.
But right in the middle of all that preparation, life got a little crazy.
On January 9, 2005, our daughter Ella was born. My ordination exams were scheduled for about a week and a half later.
Then, just a couple of days after Ella was born, we received some terrifying news. Her newborn screening had come back positive for cystic fibrosis.
I remember feeling completely overwhelmed. We didn’t know much about cystic fibrosis, but what we were hearing was frightening. At the time, we were told about people who didn’t live much beyond their twenties, the possibility of lung transplants, and all the complications that could come with the disease. Here we were, young parents with this beautiful newborn daughter, suddenly wondering what her future might look like. It was heartbreaking. I was scared out of my mind.
I remember talking with a pastor friend in Memphis, Tennessee, who had someone in his family with cystic fibrosis. He told me, “Scott, you’ve just gotta lick the skin of that baby.”
I thought, what in the world are you talking about?
He explained that people with cystic fibrosis often have unusually salty skin because of the salt in their sweat. So his advice was to lick Ella’s cheek and see if she tasted salty. I remember thinking this sounded like some old wives’ tale from the 1800s. But I was desperate for anything that might give me some hope, so I did it. I was constantly licking that Ella’s cheek, trying to figure out whether she tasted salty or not. She never really did, but I was sure my taste buds were not working.
Of course, she’s 21 now, and occasionally she can be a little salty, but that’s an entirely different issue.
We took Ella in for additional testing and then had to wait several days for the results. Meanwhile, my ordination exams were approaching, and I was trying to prepare while carrying all this fear and uncertainty about my daughter.
I remember driving down to take my exams and calling the lab to see if the results had come back. I’ll never forget that phone call. Ella’s first test was a false positive. She didn’t have cystic fibrosis.
I was in tears. I can’t really describe the relief I felt. All the fear and anxiety that had been building over those days just came pouring out. Our little girl was okay. I was so thankful.
And now, emotionally exhausted, I was supposed to walk into one of the most difficult examinations of my life.
Ordination exams in my denomination were both written exams and oral exams. The oral exams where by a committee of pastors and church leaders. They questioned you across several areas, including theology, church history, Bible content, sacraments, and church polity. You had to defend your answers, and support them with specific passages of Scripture. It was intimidating.
I made it through most of the exams, but somewhere along the way, I struggled. If I remember correctly, it was theology, which was ironic because theology was actually one of my stronger subjects. I understood the material, but I was having trouble connecting my answers to specific biblical passages.
When everything was finished, they told me I hadn’t passed all the exams. I would have to come back and complete that portion again before I could be ordained.
I was devastated.
I remember one of the committee members coming up to me afterward and explaining that I had passed most of the exams but not everything. He told me he was a gatekeeper and to be honest… his words … incredibly condescending. I had spent months preparing, and after everything that had happened with Ella, I was completely spent. I felt humiliated and defeated.
I remember calling my dad and just crying. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it was something like “I am so sorry and you will make it through this… I love you.” I had worked so hard, put so much of myself into this process, and now I had failed. It’s amazing how quickly something like that can make you question your self worth.
And to make matters worse, there was a party waiting for me at home.
Our friends had planned to come over that evening to celebrate my ordination. The assumption was that I would pass my exams, drive home, and we’d all celebrate together. They had even bought a cake congratulating me on becoming Reverend Scott Lowe.
So I called my wife, Amy, and told her I hadn’t passed. I couldn’t imagine walking into a room full of people who were expecting to celebrate something I hadn’t accomplished.
I was embarrassed enough already.
But the cake had been bought, people had been invited.
I remember that drive home. I was exhausted. I felt like I had nothing left. In the span of about ten days, we had welcomed our daughter into the world, faced the possibility of a devastating diagnosis, received incredible news that she was healthy, and then I had failed my ordination exams. I didn’t really know what to do with all those emotions.
When I got home, our friends were there.
One of my best friends, Josh, had heard that I hadn’t passed. So he got that frosting you can write on a cake. AND… made sure it was correct… Instead of “Congrats, Rev.” He changed it to read “Congrats, ALMOST Rev.”
And I’ll never forget how that felt.
I had walked into the house feeling like a complete failure. They celebrated me. They were celebrated because they loved me.
I remember thinking that night, I can get through this.
I’ve thought about that experience so many times over the years, especially when I’ve gone through other difficult seasons.
We talk a lot about resilience these days, about developing grit, pushing through adversity, and finding the strength within ourselves to keep going. And I believe there’s something important about all of that. We do need to develop perseverance and learn how to get back up when life knocks us down.
But I also think we sometimes misunderstand where resilience comes from.
I’ve discovered that some of the greatest moments of resilience in my life haven’t come because I suddenly found some extraordinary strength within myself. They’ve come because I had people around me who encouraged me when I didn’t have the strength to encourage myself.
People who reminded me of who I was when I had lost sight of it. People who believed in me when I wasn’t sure I believed in myself. People who showed up in my lowest moments and reminded me that I still had worth, that I mattered, and that my life had purpose beyond whatever success or failure I was experiencing at the time.
That’s what my friends did for me that night.
And I think that’s something we can all do for one another.
I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to grow, become a better person, work hard, pursue my purpose, and make something meaningful out of the opportunities I’ve been given. But when I look back, I realize how much of that growth has happened because of the people who have surrounded me. I’ve had some incredible encouragers in my life, people who have helped me find courage when I couldn’t seem to find it on my own.
I need those people. I still do. Probably more than I’d like to admit.
And I want to be that kind of person for others.
I want to be someone who notices when another person is struggling. Someone who doesn’t just celebrate the successes but in the lows. You know. The $H!t.
I think we underestimate how much our encouragement can mean to someone, especially when they’re in a dark place. Showing up is something.
We don’t need people to FIX it but show up.
I don’t remember much about the actual questions of the exam but the I remember the CSU library. But I remember that drive home. I remember calling my dad. I remember how defeated I felt.
And I remember walking into a room full of people who were celebrating me when I didn’t feel like I deserved to be celebrated.
Twenty-one years later, I can still picture that cake.
“Congrats Almost Rev.”
It makes me smile.
And it reminds me that sometimes the courage we need to keep going doesn’t come from digging deeper within ourselves. Sometimes it comes from the people who love us enough to show up, cheer us on, and remind us that we still matter.
I’m grateful for the people who have done that for me. And I hope I can spend the rest of my life doing the same for others.
Sometimes being the person who changes the cake can make all the difference.
Oh and lastly, I did pass 2 months later!
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