Bridgetown 3

Friday morning, we rearranged the vans and took off for the Real:Life exhibit, with the admonition that missional people are aware of the things going on in their world. 

So, they learned about everything that you could possibly imagine cramming into a kid in the course of one exhibit, and they learned about it slowly and carefully and well. Most of them had been through on prior trips, but that did nothing to dampen the respect or earnestness with which they encountered each story. 

We talked through it a little. They blew off some steam at the park. We talked through it again in smaller groups. They blew off some more steam. And, then, we took all of the thoughts still floating in their eyes, and we brought them with us. 

In the case of our van, we took those thoughts back to the church, where we were confronted with piles of paper and boxes of crayons. "You need to create twenty-three invitations to tonight's Love Feast. Here's what they need to say."

Oh, the irony. The artists are out scrubbing graffiti off of power boxes, while eight of us sit here, tongues between our teeth, hunched over meticulously folded cards, just trying to make sure that someone else will be able to read what we write. When we say buckle down and get 'er done, we quite actually mean that we are going to take the kid who rides bulls as a pastime and see how he does with a different kind of challenge. 

And, as if that were not enough, the next job was to set twelve tables for an English style high tea. 

Huh?

Yep. Pardon us while we Google to make sure which side the fork goes on. 

But, they did it. With much excitement and many "proper" pinkies being waved in the air, they welcomed back the graffiti removal crew and all headed out to invite their personal guest to a multi-course English style tea. And, then, they sat, and they listened, and they ate, until their stomaches, hearts, and minds were full to bursting. 

They washed hundreds of dishes, cleaned everything that could possibly be cleaned, took loads across the street to the Portland Rescue Mission, and then went absolutely, deliriously, manic, nuts. We pulled into a parking lot and the leaders stepped out, only to turn around and see all three vans rocking and jumping. 

We opened the doors, and they had a dance party in the parking lot. 

I have never been in a louder van. 

And, yet, in the middle of all of that, they caught a story about a newly runaway girl on the radio, and everything went silent as they stopped to pray for her. 

And, yet, they stopped on a worship song and sang, because they knew that all of the fullness inside of them had a reason and a purpose, even if they couldn't put it into words. 

Back at the bunkhouse, they played quarters (bloody knuckles) until the pain had slowed their bodies down enough to listen, and then they hung out with each other and colored and laughed and talked about strange things in the dark in our cabin until they couldn't help but fall asleep. 

In the morning, they cleaned and packed and cleaned some more, then handed out more flyers, in a different apartment complex, for a different kids' club and talked a little bit about Haiti - Yes, they are already thinking about next year. We headed to two other neighborhoods for kids' club, and they spent two hours painting faces, running games, handing out food, and giving constant piggy back rides. 

(Jessica's brain may have nearly exploded when a little Som*li boy came up and asked for a piggy back ride like it was the most natural thing in the world.)

Basically, they spent two hours continuing to love well. I could go into more of it, but I have already written half a book as it is!

And, then, we shook up the seating arrangements once again, and headed for home. 

Now, they are left with the hard job of fitting all the pieces together into this puzzle that we call life.