iNTERSECT

We take our post camp numbers-high and seem to keep running with it, adding a few kids every week, until the ones who have been here faithfully for years turn to me with a bright light in their eyes to report what they have carefully counted, none of us sure where on earth we're getting these numbers from.

None of us sure of anything except that God is doing something in and around us. That new kids are signing up for clusters. That the Haiti applications are gone before we can blink. That we are suddenly faced with the thrill of scrambling for leaders.

Numbers have never been the thing that we are going for, but there is a holy sense to watching new and old faces come through the door, as if we are slowly going over the same picture with another color. Something that was unspoken but missing. A rainbow forming around us. It could so easily be older brother of the Prodigal Son, but, instead, they rejoice over each life like finding a lost coin.

Whoever you are, we've been turning this place upside down looking for you.

We are at 64 high schoolers, and there is a different sort of feel to it these days, skirting on the edges of so many things that could be messy and so much that is inherently beautiful. 

 They are talking about summer opportunities tonight, making each other pancakes and flitting through conversations about Haiti and local-ish ministry trips, about RFKC and clusters and Student Owners. And, they are beautifully confident in their ability to handle these things. 

 Because, it is Haiti season, has been for weeks now, as we talk about what we're going to be doing (we don't know), when we're going (we think we know), and who is going with us (right now it looks like everyone and their uncle). 

 Lent and Haiti, where they are growing like weeds, alternately thriving and struggling, acutely aware of the things in their worlds that are and are not.

And, it is this season that reminds me not to pull the thread to quickly on life, to slow down and breathe. To enjoy the magic that is these kids suddenly sprung to a new kind of life. Because, spring comes early in the desert. A wash of February green that teases us with the idea of summer around the corner.

Here but not now. Already not yet. Eternity in the middle of these everydays.

The slippery sort of eternity that disappears if you look at it straight on for too long, that has to be caught out of the corner of your eye and held onto gently. Eternity that exists in kids who are thoroughly and completely who they are. 

Gryffindors who are making pancakes, washing dishes, and taking attendance with the sort of focused responsibility that is changing the world with every act. Ravenclaws analyzing, questioning, finding their niche and settling into the rhythms of this place. Slytherin kids who are here specifically for pancakes and laughter and the intentionality of community.

Talking about future, past, and present in a giant jumble of bodies and stories and emotions.

There are hints of things rising to the surface. Old hurts that are nearly ready to be dealt with. The sparks that are the rubbing together of so many lives. Anxieties that meet like amber on a cat. But, tonight we are beautifully present. Washed over by Grace. Enough.

Tonight this room is filled with hope, memory, safety, anticipation, and playful grace. Tonight, the light is bright, and it is easy to see.

Snow Blast 2015

Middle school camp comes the weekend after, four of us repacking into bags that still carry marks from high school retreat. But, the kids are ready to go all in. So, all in is how we go.

They help us with name tags and luggage and anything that they can think of to stay close and avoid waiting on the bus. The boys save me a seat just as they have for so many camps before this. I am quietly reprimanded for not being at church last weekend and loudly reminded of the Grace that covers - that these growing ones found the words that so often elude us. That, thirty minutes in, forgiveness has already been asked and offered.

And, then, we do whatever it is that you do on middle school bus rides. We talk. Play cards. Heads up. Mad Libs. Listen to music. Walk and stand and officially prove our bus driver the most patient person on earth. Devolve into slapping games until the backs of hands are red skinned and stinging. Watch as the kids slowly become confident that they can do this without ear buds or movies.

Pull into camp and hear them declare, "This is our camp." "[Summer camp] was just a break, but now we're back."

This muddy, slushy, rainy place. This is their camp.

Even when the music is not at all what they were expecting or we mark our first cabin time with not-the-kind-of-tears-that-you-hope-for-at-camp, they are happy to be here. So, we spend another weekend spoiling our kids.

Mini marshmallows roasted over tea lights. Basketball games with made up rules that somehow allow for dog piles of 7th and 8th grade boys. Time and space to just relax, to be young, to trust that their leaders have their backs.

That we'll spend our early mornings plotting and planning and moving pieces of stage and furniture so that they have a place to come up front during music, and an angle to see the screen. That we'll block off entire sections of chairs so that they have a place to sit before they've even thought about crawling out of a warm sleeping bag. That our instinct is defense rather than reprimand. That we'll warn them ahead of time of the things that might throw them off and call out the good whenever we happen to see it. Because, we see so much good in these kids.

They've grown up so much, these 8th grade girls who quote back to me the things that I told their 6th grade selves, who find a Saturday night space to ask questions and listen to me answer in my raspy voice. Still young enough to let us explain the world, but old enough that I can watch the gears turning in their heads as they weigh our words and the testimony of our lives.

They're brave and quirky, and they know that we think they are marvelous because of it. But, we spend the time to go back over what they are, to talk about what's coming, to give them tools and hope and salve for these anxious hearts.

Our 8th graders fight with fear, and it makes them brave.

Our 7th graders fight inadequacy, and it makes them strong.

Our 6th graders fight ignorance, and it makes them wise.

Brave enough to pull close to leaders and let us help to sort out the messy and the beautiful. Strong enough to laugh and mourn and create safety like a bubble around them. Wise enough to watch and learn, to mimic the Christ-likeness that they see, encourage it by their careful attention.

Yes, we see good in these kids.

In the midst of the ups and downs, we see kids who are allowing the Spirit of God to shape and mold and change them. And, I love it. I love that I have spent five years watching these 8th graders learn to trust. Trust God. Trust us. Trust each other. Five year watching them learn to recognize peace.

I don't have to carefully introduce the boys to their counselors anymore. Don't have to give those constant reassurances that, yes, this man is safe, and, yes, that one is too. They roughhouse with their leaders without stopping to read my reaction at every catch. And, I am slowly learning the art of being available anyways.

The one who has always been so sensitive to worship music no longer surges with discomfort when hands in the room begin to raise. They stay up until 4:00 in the morning talking about anything and everything. Or, some of them do, even while mine fall into an early sleep, exhausted with this business of growing up and learning Love.

The girls shrug when they don't have an answer or tell us they don't know, rather than fighting us off with nonsense statements or desperately grasped at distractions. They pull each other into doing things. Separate for long hours and then come back with a confident ease, no longer the littles who told us every time that they were going to use the bathroom - in our cabin.

Instead, for this short weekend, at least, they simply are. In the midst of the missteps and the new counts of getting older, they prove themselves valiantly up for the task. Things that would have thrown them for hours take minutes, and I watch, again and again, as they rely on the strengths of their classmates, the strengths of the classes that surround them, to fill in the places where they are uncertain.

Because, growing up so often means growing into the idea of interdependent community. (And, learning to give grace for adults who are still trying to learn what it looks like to do community.)

Together. Washed in Grace.

When we've barely gotten started and my name tag is already around a 7th grade neck.

When I make a comment about having "lost my children," and 7th and 8th grader of the not-in-my-cabin variety both look at me with a mostly mocking, "Umm. We're right here."

Be careful with your tongue. They are paying attention. They remember.

Kid from school who follows like a shadow during free time.

The ones who come to stand close during music, this one still, those ones squirming, that one watching carefully. Always watching. Slowly putting words to the way that we do this thing.

Dodge ball games that drive the staff camp nuts with their constant questions and burning drive to prove themselves. Not winning. Disappointed. But, better able to handle it than last year.

Girls jumping in to help the boys in dodge ball. Boys jumping in to help the girls in volleyball. Teamwork encouraged by fiercely protective leaders. "We'll talk to them. But, there was no purple."

Cookies frosted and eaten. Wanders taken through muddy fields and slippery paths. Long stretches sat by an almost unnecessary fire. A kid who comes silently close after our final breakfast, testing my resolve to push us towards this "packing up and going home" phenomena that is supposed to happen next.

Another bus ride. Eking out final moments while we wait for parents.

Missteps and missed connections but also old habits and familiar patterns.

It was an interesting year. A raw 'just under the surface' kind of a year. A 'not what we were expecting' year. A year to run headlong into Grace and prove that it is still strong enough to hold us. That, even when the whole world is topsy turvy around us, there is reason to do this messy thing together.

Reason to spend time looking for beauty.

Reason to learn to trust.

"Identity Theft"

 

We settle with 98 students into an echoing gym, and they are bright with an energy that is ridiculous, hilarious, over the top absurd. Goofy, happy, and so excited to be here.

The boys have made a tradition of hand delivering luggage to the girls' cabins. Camp has made a tradition of nachos and hot chocolate waiting for us. And, even the freshmen settle quickly into these routines.

We are suckers for these kids, falling into ministry trip style habits of spoiling them even while we push them. Trading hats with boys who want a pom pom rather than a plain black beanie. Eye rolls and laughter at behaviors that are so much younger than what they are often allowed to be. So many moments where we follow their lead and let them call the shots.

They are known. And, they are loved.

We tell them, as often as we have cause to, that they are loved. Call them by name. Remember stories. Engage as deeply as we can. As if being without a youth pastor is constant excuse to remind them of value and worth.

Somehow, beyond our planning or our control, the most important thing is that they are together, in the presence of a powerful God.

They are young and light - and occasionally lacking in the prefrontal cortex - but there is Grace here to cover.

Grace for late night talks and midnight adventures in a half frozen lake. Leaders who carry responsibility when there is a chance to lay blame. And, kids who love each other through the ups and downs and sideways of it all.

We don't have a youth pastor. But, we have a team. 122 of us who are here for a common purpose. Fearfully and wonderfully made. Powerfully loved. Uniquely gifted.

Kids who stand on stage and lead worship with amazing confidence and skill. Who play instruments and provide glow sticks for throwing during during the final song. Stack chairs and reset chairs and stack chairs and reset them again.

Throw toilet paper until the air is thick with the taste of floating fiber and sweat. Wander through the woods until our feet are soaking wet and then come back to dry out with s'mores by the fire. Crowd surf and share honestly and laugh until our sides ache.

 

 Pray and allow themselves to be prayed for. Make space for the goofy and the absurd and the constant cogs in motion that is the reality of a team led retreat.

When 75% of the kids are there within ten minutes of the arrival time and we suddenly have almost an hour - because, what, Bethel people are never this early?! -  the Student Owners jump in and come up with something to do.

When the schedule shifts like puzzle pieces, they shrug and move on to whatever we tell them comes next. Where they need to be. When they need to be there. With the things that they need in order to be successful. These kids are quietly, honestly incredible.

They listen to two different speakers and still make the brain space for a 45 minute session on spiritual gifts.

 

My sweet cluster girls come early to stake out a place in the front row during my breakout-that-turned-out-to-be-a-large-group-session-instead. They listen carefully and respond authentically and do everything that we could think to ask them to do. When I run out of words during prayer, one of the boys speaks into the silence and prays for me instead.

Freshmen boys throw their arms around each other in this tight huddle as I pray for one of them and they each pray for him in turn. The girls tuck their heads in just as close. And, no one blinks twice when the toilet paper from the game is reused to care for snot and tears from all ages and genders.

We are together. Early morning, pre coffee time for quiet conversation and clumsy messes. Meals and free time, sessions and games. Bus rides and late nights. Mistakes and Grace.

Mainly, we are running headlong into Grace. Middle school style. Finding the limits. Testing to see if it will still hold us. Praying that they find its endlessness. And, bouncing back to find the hands that formed the universe still reaching out, secure.

Because, of course they are.

But, sometimes we need this reminder. Sometimes we need to play at what it might look like to live a little more like Acts chapter 2. To start conversations that we hope to continue long after camp has finished. Sometimes we need to wash ourselves in charis and eucharisteo.

There is a space at camp for being both a little bit younger and a little bit more mature. A space for imaginary adventures and wandering wild child through the woods after a pack of deer. For trusting each other to be the holders of stories that are shared with a supernatural ease. For photo bombing and play fights in front of the bathroom doors. For songs that echo in my head as I wake up in the middle of the night to pray for these kids.

   

 "Here in you, I find shelter, wrapped within the arms of wonder, Lord of all, so beautiful."

"I'm wide awake, drawing close, stirred by grace."

Over and over and over again I wake up to the words running through my head, to these insistent reminders to pray and pray and pray some more. Pray on the ride up as we follow the buses and the director of children's ministries comments on the strangeness of not knowing what is going on inside. Pray when I watch some of them fight back the way that Bethel kids have always fought back, proving themselves "responsible" and "mature" and "able to carry the world."

Even though the missteps have already been forgiven.

When I wish that Grace was a tangible thing I could throw over them like a blanket. Let them feel the strength of it with their fingers, see it, test it, know that it is real. Wrap them tightly enough to drive out the fear that ties their hearts in knots. That tries to whisper "not enough."

Pray during chapel. During free time. During games. Cabin time. Early mornings. Late nights. I am reminded that the most important thing that I can do is pray.

I've taken my 45 minutes to speak truth about spiritual gifts. Asked for their ears and their hearts and left the rest up to the Spirit. I bounce around, spending nights in different cabins, riding up different than back, but always separate from our girls. And, through it all, I pray.

Because, whether it is an ocean that separates us, or a few hundred yards, prayer is still the lens through which we see Grace. Still the tugging reminder that there is a someday coming. An already, not yet. Eternity to wash our mess in steams of living water, to join in with our hands and our hearts as healing comes.

"And, the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations."

I think of these kids: fearfully and wonderfully made, powerfully loved, and uniquely gifted. And, I can't help but imagine what could be, what will be.

"All fear removed, I breathe you in, I lean into your love."

98 kids. 98 living, breathing reminders of Love and Grace. And, I can only hope, that in our few short hours of weekend, they also have caught a glimpse of that. Have seen their strengths. Seen their giftings. Seen the way that the Body is meant to function together.

Not always smoothly. Far from perfectly. But, together.

Washed in Grace.

I can pray that they will let this be their identity.