Several years ago, I experienced the unexpected joy that can come from willingly stepping into discomfort.
At the time, I was working as an independent web developer. Income was inconsistent, so I took on nearly every project I could find, often through Craigslist. One day, I came across an ad for a church website. The budget was modest, and the post didn’t include many details, but that wasn’t unusual. I reached out, and soon after, I met with the pastor to talk through what they needed.
The conversation itself was straightforward. The church had an outdated website with minimal information. I offered to rebuild it using WordPress so they could post events, upload sermons, and manage a modern, mobile-friendly site. Then the pastor began talking more about the church itself.
It was a full-gospel, charismatic Pentecostal church located in Northeast Portland. He described it by saying, “It’s not an all-Black church—it’s just a church that happens to be made up of Black people.” The neighborhood was lower-income and diverse. I lived in a suburban area southwest of Portland, with a higher median income and very little diversity. We were two people from very different worlds meeting in the middle around a simple need.
He needed a website. I had the skills to build it.
We drafted a contract, I built the site, and everything went smoothly, until the very end when it took a turn in a different direction.
After I launched the website and sent my final invoice, the pastor asked if I would be willing to bring my family to the church on Sunday, say a few words to the congregation about the website, and stay for lunch afterward.
What I had been sure would be uncomfortable became one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.
My immediate reaction was resistance.
I didn’t like public speaking. I didn’t want to be the only white family at a Black Pentecostal church. I didn’t want to be uncomfortable. I just wanted to get paid and move on.
So, of course, I said yes.
I’m not entirely sure why I agreed. I genuinely liked the pastor, and I didn’t want to be disrespectful. Saying, “No thanks, I’d rather just take your money,” didn’t sit right. So we stepped into something unfamiliar.
At the time, my wife and I had four boys—ages 3, 5, 9, and 11. We arrived early that Sunday morning, unsure of what to expect. The moment we walked through the door, a woman greeted us with big hugs and told us how excited she was that we were there. We took seats in the back row, but a man quickly came over and said, “Oh no—you’re our guests of honor today. You need to sit in the front.”
As more people arrived, it became clear that we stood out. We were the only white family there.
While we were different on the outside, we were not on the inside. Skin color doesn’t make us different human beings, but it does shape experiences and stories. And those stories matter.
When worship began, it was unlike anything we had experienced before. It was loud, passionate, expressive. It wasn’t what we were used to but we joined in. Even our younger kids started dancing a little.
Later, during the greeting time, I realized how different “community” can look. At our home church, this part of the service lasted about a minute. Here, it lasted fifteen. People asked real questions. They hugged. They prayed with one another. They prayed with us. Over and over, people thanked us for being there.
Later in the service, the pastor called out, “Can I get a hallelujah?” and our three-year-old shouted back at the top of his lungs, “HALLELUJAH!”
It wasn’t embarrassing. It wasn’t awkward. It was loved.
Toward the end of the service, I was invited to the front and handed the microphone. I explained how the new website worked, showed them features on my phone, and watched genuine excitement ripple through the room.
Afterward, we went downstairs for lunch. We were ushered to the front of the line, served food, and sat together. We ate, talked, laughed—and for that afternoon, we weren’t visitors. We were family.
What I had been sure would be uncomfortable became one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.
We came from different neighborhoods. We had different life experiences. We looked different.
But that day, we were one church family.
I learned that stepping outside your comfort zone often opens the door to something far greater than you expected. What began as a simple business transaction became connection, community, and mutual transformation.
In the end, it wasn’t their lives that changed.
It was ours.
Stepping outside of your comfort zone to engage with people you might not otherwise cross paths with.
Looking beyond the transaction and seeing real people with real lives, real stories, and real needs.
