A few days before my high school graduation ceremony, the principal came to me with a special request. He wanted me to walk in the processional with one of the school “stoners”—we’ll call him Brian. No one else wanted to walk with Brian, and I was pretty sure why. Brian was burned out, toasted, fried. Drug use—and quite probably a pre-existing learning disorder—left him marginally communicative and perpetually dazed. I had tutored him when I earned credit as a teaching assistant for the special ed teacher. I’d taught him to sight-read critical words like danger, stop, and no trespassing—words intended to keep him safe after graduation.

The principal came to me because I was a good kid. He expected that I’d accept the assignment without complaint, as I did all other requests from authority figures. Out the 37 seniors in my graduating class, the principal knew he could count on me to do what he’d asked and to do it with at least a little compassion. He didn’t say this, of course, but I was used to it. I was the go-to for tasks requiring someone trustworthy. The problem was, I’d already made my plans. Carmen and I had been best friends since junior high, and since there were more girls than boys we planned to walk together during the graduation processional. Now the principal wanted Carmen to walk alone so that Brian could walk with me.

The principal seem stunned when I said I didn’t want to. I had my partner. Why couldn’t Brian walk alone? The principal pushed and cajoled, finally leaning on me with his considerable authority until I said yes. Brian would walk between Carmen and me. The compromise tasted bitter to me, not so much because I cared anymore or I might get teased for walking with him, but because once again, I’d been forced to be the reliable one, the kind one, the responsible one. And I was damned tired of it. Once again, I’d been trapped by being nice and obedient.

How often does church feel like this, like our faithfulness has bought us nothing but increased expectations? We try to be nice, patient, forgiving—and God just keeps sending us more opportunities to exercise our gifts. The church seems full of prodigals, and like the good son who stays home, we have to put up with them. When are we going to get some recognition for being good and faithful servants? When are we going to catch a break?

Looking back, I realize graduation had a lot in common with an Episcopal liturgy: lots of what we call pew aerobics—minus the kneeling, of course. There we were, a “stoner” flanked by two “brains.” Carmen and I steered Brian through the processional, pulled him up when we were supposed to stand, and yanked him down when we were supposed to sit. In the midst of this I realized what bad shape he was in and why I’d been chosen for this duty. There really was no one else who could be counted on to take care of Brian with a modicum of kindness, to get him through this ceremony that—considering the diameter of his pupils—it was unlikely he’d remember.

I wish I could say this redeemed the experience for me. And it might have. But then the same principal who’d asked this favor of me mispronounced my name. (Seriously, there are 37 people graduating and you can’t remember that my last name is NOT Kristofferson?) He also would have forgotten to call me up to give the valedictory speech had a PE teacher in the second row not begun waving her arms, stage-whispering, “Kris hasn’t given her speech yet!” At seventeen, one of my primary skills was nursing resentment. It’s only after a couple of decades, a few tragedies, and more than several personal failures that I see the grace in that night.

The heart of the Christian call is to love others as God has loved us, even—especially—when they don’t deserve it. It means remembering that love isn’t earned, it’s freely given (c.f. John 3:16). To love as God loves—that’s a tall order. Until we realize that love begins with faithfulness in the smallest things. Those tiny moments of grace where you let another’s imperfection stand without comment—that’s love. When someone drops the ball (on your big toe) and you forgive them before the throbbing stops—that’s love. The Church is where we get to practice extending grace, and Sundays are our dress rehearsal for the rest of the week. But know this: faithfulness in these small moments may be rewarded—by God entrusting even more of His Kingdom to our all-too-human care.