Again

There are moments, when I look around a room at a group of forty-some highschoolers who came to youth group on a long weekend, their heads bowed close together over pieces of paper that say things like, "Somalia," "Sudan," "Haiti," and "Afghanistan," that I can feel the presence of God settle over the room like a blanket.

They utter the simple phrase, "Do you want to do it Haitian style?" and I know that He smiles as their voices fold over and into each other in a rhythm that only He can pick out. 

Every time that I think that I could not possibly fall any more in love with these kids, they turn around with those not-quite-grown-up eyes that carry more stories than we could cover in a month of Sundays, and I find out that I was wrong. Again. For the dozenth time that night.