The Art of the Excuse

They called him a LINO. “Leader In Name Only.” It was a running joke in the youth group at New Hope Fellowship.

Aaron Shepherd, pastor’s kid, junior in high school, and default scapegoat.

When the youth group forgot to pray before the pizza arrived—Aaron got a passive-aggressive text from one of the deacons.

When one of the sixth graders had a meltdown after being kept out past midnight on a school night—Aaron’s dad, Pastor Mark Shepherd, got an angry phone call from the boy’s mother demanding to know why the “pastor’s son” didn’t ensure everyone got home on time.

When the games got too rowdy and someone broke a ceiling tile in the gym—yep, you guessed it. Aaron.

Even though they had a youth leader. An official one. Budgeted. Titled. Enthroned.

Tyler Goss.

Nineteen. Blonde. Confident. And the son of Raymond Goss, chairman of the church board. That made Tyler effectively untouchable. His word was law. If Tyler said they were going to Denny’s after Bible study—no matter how late—it was happening. If Tyler said to pile everyone into three cars meant for five passengers each, no one questioned it.

Aaron tried, once.

“Shouldn’t we wrap up soon? It’s already 10:30 and some of the parents—”

“Relax, Shepherd,” Tyler said with a too-charming smile, flipping his backwards cap. “We’re building community. Something your dad preaches about every Sunday. Unless you’re planning on texting the group chat that the PK says we all go home?”

The group looked at Aaron like he was a youth group grinch. He smiled politely, palms up. “Just a suggestion.”

When the curfew calls came—and they always did—Tyler shrugged and looked vaguely concerned. “Oh, I thought Aaron was keeping track of time. He’s more familiar with the families.”

And Aaron’s dad—exhausted, juggling sermons, counseling appointments, and now late-night voicemails—would frown over his reading glasses and say, “Aaron, son, I need you to take some initiative. You know how these things reflect on the church.”

But the truth was, Aaron didn’t lead the youth group. No one followed him. He was a LINO. A glorified mascot with a built-in guilt complex.

So one Thursday night in November, after Bible study ended and Tyler stood to announce the obligatory “Denny’s and Dodgeball” plan, Aaron made his first official excuse.

“Hey, guys,” he said, already backing toward the foyer, “I’m heading out. Big calc test tomorrow. Gotta get those derivatives memorized.”

“You’re not coming?” someone asked.

“Nah, not tonight. Enjoy though.”

Tyler gave him a mock salute. “Look at you, being all responsible.”

Aaron smiled, zipped his hoodie, and left.

He got home, brushed his teeth, and read two pages of his math textbook before falling asleep.

The next morning, his dad knocked on his bedroom door.

“Come in,” Aaron said warily.

Pastor Shepherd stepped in with a furrowed brow and a mug of coffee. “I got three calls this morning from upset parents. Apparently the youth group didn’t get home until nearly 1:00 a.m.”

“Yeah?” Aaron said, not looking up from his textbook.

“Weren’t you there?”

“Nope.”

“But... weren’t you supposed to be helping Tyler?”

“I’m not his assistant,” Aaron said, carefully controlled. “I told him I had a test.”

His father paused. “Well... you should still be aware of these things, son. Parents call me.”

“I can’t control the youth group, Dad. I’m not the youth leader.”

There was a silence.

“I see,” his father said, and left.

Aaron exhaled.

It had begun.

The next week, the youth group planned to go ice skating after Thursday Bible study. Tyler hyped it up with a TikTok montage and everyone came dressed in jackets and beanies. Even some of the homeschoolers showed up.

“Coming with us, Shepherd?” Tyler asked as they packed into minivans in the parking lot.

“Can’t,” Aaron said. “Knee’s acting up again.”

“You okay?”

“Old basketball injury.”

“I didn’t know you played basketball.”

“Only briefly,” Aaron said, patting his knee like an aged war veteran. “But the scar tissue, man. Rain’s coming.”

Tyler blinked.

The rest of the group laughed and took off, voices echoing into the night.

Aaron walked home in peace, listening to the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack on his phone.

He woke up the next morning to the smell of coffee and the voice of his dad on the phone in the kitchen.

“Yes, I understand, Mrs. Lowell... yes, I agree, past midnight is not acceptable for seventh graders... yes, I’ll speak to the youth team...”

That was new. “Youth team.”

When he came down for breakfast, his father looked tired but said nothing.

Aaron made waffles.

And so it continued.

“I’ve got a paper to finish.”

“My grandma’s in town.”

“I told my mom I’d help reorganize the spice cabinet.”

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

Each excuse felt like a sponge soaking up one more drop of stress, one more bead of sweat. The group barely noticed. The younger kids didn’t care—Aaron was just the PK. The cool kids wanted Tyler’s approval. And Tyler—well, Tyler was too busy living his golden-boy life.

For the first time, Aaron felt... free. He started drawing again. Sketches of fantasy worlds and characters that weren’t constantly cornered into corners of responsibility. He started practicing piano again. He even helped in the children’s ministry—where the kids listened to him, respected him.

One Thursday, when the youth group was planning a bonfire on the beach, Tyler asked casually, “You coming?”

“Can’t,” Aaron said, backpack already slung. “I’ve got a book report due.”

“Book report?”

“Yeah.”

“On what book?”

“The Book of Lamentations.”

Tyler looked confused. “Wait, like... from the Bible?”

“I’m writing a devotional for church,” Aaron said, grinning. “You know. Lamenting and all that.”

That night, three parents texted the church WhatsApp group asking who left their kids to be picked up at a gas station because one car “couldn’t make it all the way home.”

Pastor Shepherd stood in the doorway of Aaron’s room, phone in hand.

“I didn’t go,” Aaron said before he could ask.

His father sighed and rubbed his temple. “I know.”

There was no lecture this time.

In December, at the youth group’s Christmas lock-in, Tyler insisted on letting everyone stay up watching Elf and Home Alone back-to-back until four in the morning. The younger kids crashed on the sanctuary pews. One girl cried from homesickness. Another had a sugar-induced meltdown.

Aaron?

He had politely bowed out after pizza and games, citing a fictional family tradition of reading A Christmas Carol by candlelight.

“You’re not staying the night?” one of the girls asked.

“Nah. Ghost of Christmas Past waits for no man.”

He walked home, lit a candle, and actually did read a few pages of A Christmas Carol.

The fallout came swiftly. Angry parents. Overflowing trash. A broken bathroom door. A group chat war.

At church on Sunday, Pastor Shepherd shook hands in the foyer with a grim expression.

Tyler got a talking-to from two board members.

And Aaron?

He smiled and adjusted the soundboard for worship.

By January, his excuses became so polished they could’ve been published in an almanac.

“Family dinner.” (Leftovers.)

“Helping my neighbor shovel snow.” (True. For five minutes.)

“Studying for the SAT.” (He’d already taken it.)

When the youth group went bowling until 1:30 a.m. and one of the younger kids peed in the backseat of the church van, the blame finally hit Tyler square in the face.

“Where was Aaron?” the parents asked.

“He said he had a doctor’s appointment,” Tyler mumbled.

“On a Thursday night?”

“Chiropractor,” Aaron said later when asked. “Neck tension. From all the responsibility.”

Tyler stopped asking.

The turning point came one night in March when the youth group planned a “midnight pancake run.” At 9:50 p.m., as they wrapped up their lesson on 1 Timothy, Tyler stood and announced, “Alright, who’s hungry for pancakes?”

The room cheered.

Aaron stood. “I’m out.”

“Of course you are,” Tyler muttered, loud enough to be heard. “Should’ve known.”

Aaron turned to face him. “Yep. You should’ve.”

There was a pause. The whole group was quiet. A seventh grader spilled his root beer on the table.

“You’re the pastor’s kid, man,” Tyler said. “You’re supposed to set the example.”

“I am,” Aaron said. “And the example is: know your limits. Go home. Get rest. Don’t enable bad leadership.”

Tyler opened his mouth, then closed it.

Aaron left.

The next day, Pastor Shepherd entered the living room, where Aaron was sketching a dragon curled around a clock tower.

“You made quite an impression last night.”

“Did I?”

“A few kids told their parents they wanted to come home early next time. They asked if I could drive instead of Tyler.”

“Did you say yes?”

“I did.”

They sat in silence.

“I’m sorry I kept holding you responsible,” his father said quietly. “That wasn’t fair.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. But thank you for staying grounded.”

Aaron shrugged. “I just made excuses.”

“No,” his dad said. “You made boundaries.”

By summer, the youth group had shifted.

Tyler was still around, but less... shiny. The board was discussing hiring a full-time youth pastor with actual training. Tyler started showing up late. Some of the younger kids started asking Aaron for advice instead.

Aaron still made excuses.

But now they were different.

Not because he needed to avoid something—but because he had somewhere better to be.

“Can’t hang out tonight—taking Jonathan and Theo to the library.”

“Gotta help Amy with her guitar chords.”

“Volunteered to help Mrs. Kim in the church garden.”

And when they asked why he wasn’t in charge of the youth group, he smiled and said, “Because I’m just the PK.”

But they followed him anyway.

Because sometimes, excuses weren’t a way to avoid responsibility.

Sometimes, they were the first step toward something better.

Something true.

Something worth staying up late for.

But only if it didn’t go past curfew.