My YouthWorks Summer: Week 9
This is the tenth of ten blogging installments from my life-changing summer in Milwaukee. In this recap I review my ninth and final week of programming, in addition to my one-day debriefing in Minneapolis. Be sure to check out my final postscript thoughts at the end! A logical place for such thoughts.
If you’ve missed any of previous recaps, flash back to Week 0. Also, check out what a camera crew produced when they visited our site during this epic final week.
As I sit on the carpeted floor of the Minneapolis airport — six hours early for a flight that refuses to arrive any sooner — it feels right to finally close this chapter.
Three months.
That’s how long this journey has stretched — in real time and in reflection. And somehow, it all comes down to this final post.
We couldn’t have asked for a better group to finish the summer.
Mostly senior high students — mature, grounded, quietly awesome. It took a couple days to crack through their shells, but once we did, something clicked. I found myself getting more attached than I expected.
Maybe because they were the last.
The final faces. The final names. The final stories walking through our doors in Milwaukee.
Let’s start a little lighter.
We got filmed.
Out of 70+ sites across the continent, a camera crew showed up in Milwaukee to capture our summer. Which means at some point soon, you’ll get to see this life I’ve been trying to put into words — the city, the ministries, the rhythm, the chaos, the beauty.
Gingerbread Land made the cut (of course). And hopefully… maybe… my face sneaks in there somewhere too.
We spent our last days saying thank you.
To ministry partners.
To the church that housed us.
To the people who became our everyday world.
And those goodbyes… they hit.
Gingerbread Land especially. Sister Clara. Miss T. Women who live this life year-round while I just stepped into it for a season. That reality humbled me more than I can explain.
I didn’t just leave a place.
I left people who stay.
Friday was the hardest day of the summer.
We tore everything down. Packed it up. Stored it away.
And I hated it.
It felt like watching my life get dismantled in real time — every memory boxed up, every moment reduced to something stackable and movable and… over.
I wanted no part of it.
But then Saturday came.
And with it — peace.
Real, unexplainable, doesn’t-make-sense peace.
By all logic, I should’ve still been wrecked. But instead, something shifted. It was time.
Time to leave.
Time to turn the page.
Time to trust that something new could exist beyond something this good.
We drove to Minneapolis for debriefing, and it felt like coming home from war — in the best, strangest sense.
Celebrated. Seen. Understood.
And then… the hardest goodbye of all: my team.
I’ve never shared that level of life with a group of people before.
Not just the fun — though there was a lot of that.
But the exhaustion.
The breaking points.
The tears.
We didn’t just work together.
We lived together. Fully.
And for three months, I found something I’ve been searching for most of my life:
Community.
Belonging.
So yeah — leaving that hurts.
Even with hope.
I’d love your prayers as I step back into life in southern California.
There’s a real need to process all of this — not just move on from it. I’m planning a solo retreat soon, just to sit with everything. To detox. To reflect. To listen.
Because this summer deserves that kind of ending.
If you’ve followed along this whole way — thank you.
Really.
This has been more than just a recap. It’s been a way of holding onto something while also learning how to release it.
And while this chapter is closing, I know this isn’t the end. Not even close.
There’s more to write.
More to process.
More to become.
Milwaukee — I love you.
I’ll be back someday.
The end.
TMZ
PS: Revisiting this now still stirs everything back up.
Even months later, I’m still adjusting. Still learning how to exist outside of something that felt so full of life.
There’s been mourning.
Confusion.
Loneliness.
At times, it’s felt like learning how to walk again — like stepping back into “normal life” after something that reshaped everything.
But this space — this writing — has helped.
And I’m not done telling this story.
Not even close.
