There are patterns to this thing, layers of constant action and reaction that feel both brand new and incredibly familiar.
There are Sundays like today where I could take what I wrote exactly three years ago and fill it in like one of the Mad L*bs that the kids love using on my phone.
As we were getting ready to take off on our ... game for the day, [pool noodle line hockey], a few of my more active kids were ... bouncing [up and down on the rubber cones that they had shoved their feet into like stilts]. They were excited. People were finally all back from vacation. And, we [had a brand new, slippery, shiny floor], which threw them even more off kilter.
"MH," I caught his attention first…
…rolling my eyes and catching his gaze for the thousandth time already this morning, like we're trying to make up for all of the weeks that he missed on vacation.
He's full of it this morning, goofy and right in the middle of things, causing general, sparkly eyed mayhem wherever he turns; no longer December's too quiet, ghost of a child who flitted along the edges like he was trying to be invisible.
It's January.
Epiphany is past. Christmas is over.
And, they breathe a little different during normal time.
The fifth graders settle in to draw while one of the girls tells us stories about her ministry trip to Belize and the people that she met while she was there. They braid each other's hair during the lesson and use up extra energy in goofy fights over pens and glue sticks, filling up a page in their notebooks with words that describe their identity in Christ.
We talk about Hosea and Joel and about how Jesus bought back humanity after we had gotten ourselves into trouble, the same way that Hosea bought back Gomer. Something about the bugs in the book of Joel gets us totally side tracked, but we make it back to focused.
Sort of.
There are Mad L*bs on my phone while we wait for parents, fourth grade boys who come over to show me masks that they made, and more talk about trips out of the country, this time with a second hour leader who was on the same Nicaragua team as my twelve year old self.
Nicaragua. Kenya. Belize. The US.
One of my seventh graders comes up while we're talking, and we begin the transition into second hour. Some time with him and a quick promise to be over in middle school soon.
Two eighth graders and a freshman who I pass in the hallway with a sarcastic comment about "an awful lot of trouble all standing in one spot."
"Actually," one of them grins back at me, "we'll follow you."
So, we walk across the church with smiles and eye rolls and teasing, talking about all of the times and things that they have done to my poor little phone, which is somehow just another extension of my self to these kids. Not my property so much as it is a part of me. A set of memories and events that they can tangibly hold on to.
They fall back to talk with a couple of sophomores, and I stop for a pair of seventh grade girls.
The leaders' meeting is started already, but I never quite make it in, caught up, for today, in the January-ness of my kids. The smiles and the words that come so easily this week. The blatant way that they ask for more time.
The seventh grader who I finally step across the threshold with as he spins around and looks at the new floor with wide eyed shock.
"I don't like it. It looks like it will hurt."
The pair of them who pull me off to find a space where they know that we won't be interrupted.
More talk about Belize, this time with the oldest sister, and we are fully into the swing of things.
Game. Video. Music. More video. Breakouts.
And, it's less talking now and more doing. More hauling them to their feet every time that we need to stand. Explaining the game until the girls understand. Connecting a new sixth grader with friends he knows from school. Leaving the side where I am "supposed to be" to check on the boys, who are still vaguely confounded by the idea that splitting the game by gender means Jessica being on the other side.
Laughing with them at the difference between the girls, who are actually playing the game, and the boys, who are largely just beating on each other with pool noodles in a semi organized rotation. Nodding as the ones I would have expected mention their distaste.
Too violent. No rules. No structure that they can follow.
It's noisy in here with the new floor. Bright. Loud. Slippery. Echoey. New colors on the walls. And, they have a little of that shocked and dazed appearance like we have just ripped the rug out from under them.
But, they gather back together for the video and music. Quiet. Focused.
And, the echo means that they can hear each other sing. Not individual voices, but the mass of them. From where we stand in the middle, one of the girls whispers how odd it is to be able to hear the boys. Hear them and see them.
See my wiggly ones standing still. See the talkative ones being quiet. Watch as two boys near the front, each with their own reason for less developed inhibitions, throw their hands up into the air in worship. Watch as the friend standing next to them glances around, smiles, and does the same.
Watch as it spreads. As we end worship with dozens of hands in the air. 100+ voices echoing, "For the sake of the world, burn like a fire in me."
Two eighth graders and a freshman who I pass in the hallway with a sarcastic comment about "an awful lot of trouble all standing in one spot."
"Actually," one of them grins back at me, "we'll follow you."
So, we walk across the church with smiles and eye rolls and teasing, talking about all of the times and things that they have done to my poor little phone, which is somehow just another extension of my self to these kids. Not my property so much as it is a part of me. A set of memories and events that they can tangibly hold on to.
They fall back to talk with a couple of sophomores, and I stop for a pair of seventh grade girls.
The leaders' meeting is started already, but I never quite make it in, caught up, for today, in the January-ness of my kids. The smiles and the words that come so easily this week. The blatant way that they ask for more time.
The seventh grader who I finally step across the threshold with as he spins around and looks at the new floor with wide eyed shock.
"I don't like it. It looks like it will hurt."
The pair of them who pull me off to find a space where they know that we won't be interrupted.
More talk about Belize, this time with the oldest sister, and we are fully into the swing of things.
Game. Video. Music. More video. Breakouts.
And, it's less talking now and more doing. More hauling them to their feet every time that we need to stand. Explaining the game until the girls understand. Connecting a new sixth grader with friends he knows from school. Leaving the side where I am "supposed to be" to check on the boys, who are still vaguely confounded by the idea that splitting the game by gender means Jessica being on the other side.
Laughing with them at the difference between the girls, who are actually playing the game, and the boys, who are largely just beating on each other with pool noodles in a semi organized rotation. Nodding as the ones I would have expected mention their distaste.
Too violent. No rules. No structure that they can follow.
It's noisy in here with the new floor. Bright. Loud. Slippery. Echoey. New colors on the walls. And, they have a little of that shocked and dazed appearance like we have just ripped the rug out from under them.
But, they gather back together for the video and music. Quiet. Focused.
And, the echo means that they can hear each other sing. Not individual voices, but the mass of them. From where we stand in the middle, one of the girls whispers how odd it is to be able to hear the boys. Hear them and see them.
See my wiggly ones standing still. See the talkative ones being quiet. Watch as two boys near the front, each with their own reason for less developed inhibitions, throw their hands up into the air in worship. Watch as the friend standing next to them glances around, smiles, and does the same.
Watch as it spreads. As we end worship with dozens of hands in the air. 100+ voices echoing, "For the sake of the world, burn like a fire in me."
It's January.
Normal time.
In it's own strange way, this is their normal.
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