Transitions

So there are these boys. Eleven-years-old and full of more life than I could ever imagine, bold as lions in their courage, and yet, still absolutely petrified by the move up to middle school. There are these boys, who will carry a friend across a field on their shoulders, just to prove to me that they are strong. And, there are these boys, who, when hit with an ice cube from my hand, will come back, fully expecting to be allowed to peg me in the head in return, because it has never crossed their minds that I could mean to hurt them.

There are these boys who still grin like banshees when a game gives an excuse for me to chase them and who respond to uncertainty by moving closer, my name echoing across open spaces often and loudly.

There are these girls who can somehow manage to talk about nothing and everything at the same time, eleven-years-old and as protective of their friends as a mama whose cubs are threatened. There are these girls who light up from across the room, and then proceed to give me the whereabouts of anyone and everyone that we both know. There are these girls who can throw a seed pod hard enough to leave welts and these girls who expect sympathy for their newest scratch.

There are these girls who love nothing more than to remember stories and who come back with a murmured, "ask Jessica," just as often as they move out to explore the world on their own.

There are these kids, who somehow managed to convince me to move up to middle school with them, as if three years of being their Sunday school teacher hadn't been enough.

(kindergarten, 4th, and 5th)

And, week by week, in between the crazies of summer and ministry trips and days spent split between children's and middle school, we are figuring out how to make the transition.

They are learning, layer by layer and moment by moment, that they are seen and cared for by leaders other than just Jessica. And, for all that I love them with everything that I have - perhaps because of it - I can't help but grin every time that I see them in conversation with someone else, every time that a hand that is not mine reaches down to tousle short hair or wrap a hug around growing shoulders. Because, in a time of their lives where everything is changing, these are good, healthy, normal transitions.

Even "without" a small group, (middle school splits for discussion groups by gender and grade, and they are slowly adjusting to the idea that 8-10 minutes of discussion time at the end of the hour "counts") they come to check in with me before splitting off on their own adventures.

When they are excited, they stay for longer, running in circles around me and spouting off pieces of stories.

When they are anxious, they hover just out of reach, always checking to make sure I am watching.

When the girls are "gone," the boys pull me into their game, with a knowing smirk that is the confidence that they can beat me - or at least come close.

And, when they are sad, I gain a quiet shadow that doesn't give a rip what is or isn't cool so long as they can be close.

Slowly, we are picking up a rhythm. Slowly, we are all learning to transition to a new way of doing things, a new way of living life together. Slowly, they are learning that they are braver than they thought and stronger than they knew - and that eighth graders only sometimes bite. (One of the boys informed me, after the first partial week of school, that he hadn't been eaten, but had, perhaps, been chewed on a little and then thrown back up.) And, eventually, if I am doing my job right, there will be the names of other leaders uttered just as often - if not more - than my own. Eventually, my face will join a long list of faces. Because, there are these kids, who I wish could have the whole world on their side.

But, for now, a few middle school leaders ought to do some of the trick. (: