Commit Your Way

“Commit your way to the Lord, trust also in Him, and he shall bring it to pass.” 

 There is an underlined note in the center margin of my Bible. In this particular verse, the word for commit could be more literally translated “roll off onto.” 

 Not the careful terms of a well thought out surrender. Not the giving of a gift or the turning over of a tidy folder. 

Absolute, foolish, trust. 

 “Roll off onto the Lord.” 

 Flop out like the eleven year old does when he is having a jealous day, his torso sprawled across my lap, our hands tucked in tightly to his chest, so that there is no chance of having to share. 

 Like the three year old who bounces her feet in the elastic fabric of my skirt, more than pleased to just sit and watch the adults move suitcases. 

The way that you sink into your bed after a long day. 

 Roll off onto the Lord. 

 When life is a rhythm of writing and researching and doing laundry. When we are a hundred different directions at once, and, really, each day becomes a rhythm of its own. 

Absolute, foolish trust. 

 Some days the kids at program make crafts with glitter and glue while three of us sit at the house and work on getting registration ready for school. 

 Some weeks it rains so often that everyone runs out of clean clothes, and some weeks the well is broken so there is no water. And, some days, a visiting team arranges to get the neighbor's generator from the pawn shop, so that we can purchase water from his well instead. 

 Some days are a whirlwind of teams or of people in the house frustrated over this thing or that, and some days are birthday parties and lingering over the Jesus Storybook Bible after advent time. 

 Some days are dance parties in the dining room and soccer in the courtyard, and some days are sitting with my computer or the quiet of the internet cafe. Because, with 30+ people under this roof, things are rarely quiet. 

 Some days American visitors craft thirty different activities to help kids practice counting to ten, or a man from Boise teaches the girls how to ride a bike, a line of little people waiting for these circles around the courtyard. 

Some days the piles grow wild and chaotic, and some days they are cleaned. 

 Some days we have impromptu trainings on TBRI and some days there is team that wants to talk theology and neurology in the back of a tap tap. And, when the conversation somehow winds from PANDAS to the Perseverance of the Saints...of course. Of course, it did. 

 Most days we eat rice or avocados, oatmeal, beans, green vegetables and the younger kids cheer when the power comes back on. The older ones go to school, and the middle set ride out to program to hear Bible stories and play games with their favorite teachers. 

 There are a few weeks without teams or school holidays, and life settles down a little, slows down enough for us to feel the press of time. Because, these weeks are the last time that we have before holiday travel, before January, before school. 

 It is enough, but it feels close. Feels like absolute, foolish trust. 

Commit your way to the LORD. 

 Spread out laminated cards on a classroom bench or under the shade tree and gather data on the kids as they register. Sit for long conversations about cross cultural ministry, about rhythm, about rest. Pile into a rented van for a road trip to get puppies and change clothes in a random stranger's house after the six year old gets carsick all down your front and into your lap. 

 Hold things in an open handed grasp. Wait in the tension of Advent. Already, not yet. Kingdom come, better world coming. Beauty in brokenness. 

 Commit your way to the LORD.

Pray, Then, Like This

The weather is cooling rapidly here. 

 Cool enough that we sleep without fans and wake up cocooned in our sheets. Cool enough to go the day without sweating. Cool enough for the eleven year old to wander around in a sweatshirt on the morning that he stays home sick. 

 It rains often, and someone mentions that we are moving into tarantula season. So long as they stay out of my bed, I can be okay with that. 

 Because, it is also papaya season. Also time for the kids in the house to fall back into the rhythm of school after two weeks of exams and holiday. Time to set aside the sorting and begin to shape the outlines of this curriculum. 

 How fast can we go? Where do we need to start? How much learning can we pack into a hundred odd days of school? Enough to get them ready for the next grade? Enough to do this well?

A visiting team helps me to paint alphabet rocks and counting stones, two high school girls scouring the backyard for the perfect rocks and scrubbing them clean. Odds this color, evens that. Earth tones and brilliant primaries. Making the sorts of beautiful materials that encourage kids' desire to touch, to play, to find the patterns, to learn. 

 And, there are still a hundred miles to go, but it is a glimpse of what I am hoping, what I am dreaming for this school. That it will be a place for little people to play, to learn, to imagine. A place to fill with love and peace and bins and buckets full of books. A place that belongs to the teachers, but more so to the students, because, when you care about a place, you take care of it. 

You learn to be responsible, to belong, to believe that you are loved. 

Because, my prayers for them are so similar to my prayers for my kids in the States. 

That they would know Love. That they would know Peace. That they would know Grace. 

That there would be beauty in the midst of whatever mess might come. That the one who holds the Universe would whisper Truth about their identity, about their strength, about their gifts, would scream it from the rooftops, to combat the lies that try so hard to fill their heads. 

That there would be healing for their hurts and shelter from their fears. That there would be an anchor in the midst of their storms. That there would be peace that passes understanding and a constant reminder that they are loved, that they are valued, that they are important. 

That they would be marked with a prophetic imagination, and that they would believe that they are capable of accomplishing the things set before them. 

That they would fall in love with words and numbers, with science and history and the things that fill our ancient, ever changing world. That their hearts would be captured by the Father of Lights and their spirits would be settled by the One who watches over them like a mother hen. 

The One who Sees, One who Knows, One who Hears, and Remembers, and Acts. The One with more names than we could pretend to grasp. 

That they would know that they are known by the Divine, and that everything else would flow from that knowing. 

Because, kids who feel safe, kids who feel loved, kids who feel at peace? Those are the kids who grasp what is possible. Those are the kids who learn more quickly and retain more. Those are the kids who grow. Those are the kids who find the courage to change their world. 

So, we'll study French and Creole and Art and Maths. We'll read and write and explore. But, when we hire teachers, we'll hire the sorts of adults who Love. 

If you want to pray, pray for those things.

SaveSaveSaveSave

Haraka Haraka Haina Baraka

Settling into a new place is slow, and life flows quickly here, teasing me with the temptation to scramble, to hurry. To forget the many lessons that I have already learned. The things that I have taught, or tried to teach, a half dozen teams of kids. 

 Haraka, haraka, haina baraka. 

(There is no blessing in being rushed – Swahili proverb) 

 Take a deep breath. Slow down. Look back as well as forwards. See the provision. Ask questions. Seek beauty. Hold onto the moments of joy and the moments when transition feels a bit like grief. Because, there is plenty of time for both. 

 Time for the cool of mountain rain to seep through the windows as you work. Time to marvel at tile floors in the house and shops that stock more treasures than you could ever think to use. To rejoice over wifi when it works and unused school supplies jumbled together in tubs that were packed months ago. 

 There is time to unpack these dusty boxes while the kids scatter on the floor to play with alphabet stamps and rubber figures and a viewfinder that keeps them busy for hours. It is enough to download a car racing game on your phone for the boys who always want to borrow it and to stumble your way through teasing conversations. 

 To collect a nine, ten, and eleven year old after church and walk home with the sixteen year old who might just be one of their heroes. Little boy laughter when you are terrible at playing marbles and noisy joy as you run together up the hill to the house. 

 These are familiar patterns. 

 Picking cherries on Sunday afternoon and watching a VBS team devolve into giggles and chase. Walking down quiet, garbage lined streets and the constant sound and movement of market day. Oatmeal for breakfast and cooking over a tiny, two burner stove. 

Games with the toddlers in the courtyard and hours and hours of dreaming and scheming and planning. 

This is new, but this is good. This constant climbing onto motos two or four or five bodies deep. The school bus yard next door that wakes you each morning with a deep rumble. The team that isn't here with HCM but was once at HCM the same time that you were, two or three summers ago. 

Green everywhere you look and tree covered mountains that dip into valleys. Rain and crops that grow and fat cows that laze in fields. Fuzzy colts that refuse to yield the right of way. 

The familiar smell of garbage smoke and neat piles of produce in the market as you duck under too-low tarps. Just different enough from G-town to make your heart ache a little with long forgotten homesickness, for desert sand and herds of shoats meandering down the road. 

And, if, for a moment, there is a lie that says that this place will never be home, you know better than to believe it. Because, tomorrow, things will look different. And, tomorrow, they do. 

Tomorrow, there is a sweet woman who will share her hymn book with you, over exaggerating the words until you can follow along, nudging her daughter she points out the right place in her Bible, the girl falling asleep beside you when the sermon stretches long. There is a neighbor girl to visit on the way home and little boys who jostle and tease for the closest place as we walk. 

There is a conversation to be had in imperfect Creole and new friends who buzz with the stories of a three month YWAM training. A shop to be walked to for the first time without an escort, and a friend to walk part of the way home with anyhow. 

Tomorrow will be Sunday longings for all of the things that were and a hundred different pauses to pray for your kids. You will wish that you could see them, that you could watch the slow but brilliant things that God is doing in their lives, and you will pray a little harder. 

This is Grace. 

It is okay when your heart whispers a little about the things that are missing. When your soul feels like it is fully present in two places at once. There are torn edges in the midst of this Grace. But, the One who Sees universes has never minded the distance when you pray. 

It's been a little over a week. Long enough to begin to see patterns. Short enough to be wrong as often as you are right. And, it is enough to take it one day at a time. Every day a little closer to settled. Every day finding one more thing that you don't yet know. Every day finding one more thing that you do. 

How to get smiles out of sour faced little boys. How to let little girls twist and pull and play with your hair. How to play duck, duck, goose and spin until you are dizzy. How to pray and pray and pray some more. How to trust that there is blessing in holding this space, in taking it slow. 

This is a long obedience in the same direction. It won't be quick. It can't be. It will be messy and exhausting and beautifully Grace drenched. 

And, that will be enough.

Faithful

Out of all of the kids I see on Sunday, I might be the most like the one who is doing his level best not to say goodbye, as if not saying it might save me from the emotions that come with it. 

 I might be most like the little girl at Club who grins for our group picture with a paper plate held confidently in the air, the backside scrawled with the promise from today's game, “God will never leave me!” 

Or, perhaps, a very human combination of the two, some moments her confidence, others his hesitation. Because, there is a new sort of grace waiting for this new adventure, and every interaction this weekend is thrumming with it, with the tension of wanting to hold onto this version of church family and yet of knowing that there are beautiful things coming. 

And, I am challenged to call out the beauty in this moment.

There is beauty and there is Holy here, in this wild mix of emotions. Holy in kids who fall back onto old patterns that I thought we had long forgotten. Holy in the long years that we have spent building this trust and working to speak these languages. Holy in tight hugs that come again and again, and Holy in kids who have to be given specific reason to give any hug at all. 

Because, we have fallen down the rabbit hole tonight, their 6th grade selves walking around in these almost grown forms. And, even if I am no longer tall enough to loop him in a basket hold and swing him back and forth until he settles, I know enough to come to him. Trade a cookie for a hug. Back away before tears are anything but a mist. 

Messy. 

 Holy.

Holy in playing games that I never would have chosen without these kids, and holy in quiet declarations that we are going to stay right here, wherever we are, forever. In dreams of visiting and in maps of Haiti on our palms.

Holy in entire sibling sets who lay claim to parts of this story, overlapping and sharing each other's confidence or quiet trust. Holy in 5th grade girls who scrawl their fears onto notebook pages and then tear them out with a determined pull. “It doesn't have to look perfect,” one of them chides another for being too careful. “You're supposed to be able to tell that they were there.” 

We scribble them out. Rip them into pieces. Throw them away, although more than one girl wants to burn them. Leave our notebooks with the word “Fearless” and the rough edges of these jagged tears. 

Because, torn edges are what we look back on when we fight to prove to ourselves that God is faithful. 

The tears that happen when we pray, when high school voices overlap each other “Haitian style,” hands laid heavy, everyone praying at once. It wasn't what the youth pastor intended. For those who have never heard it before, it sounds distracting, chaotic. But, for so many of our kids, it is the best way that they know of pulling the Holy down to earth. 

It means long talks at cluster and late nights on the roof in Fonds Parisien. It means winter retreat and so many precious things that, when they ask, we can't begin to tell them no. 

 “Draw us into your love, Christ Jesus: and deliver us from fear.” 

(The New Book of Common Prayer, afternoon, October 15th) 

Yes, you can pray. Yes, you can do it all at once, with no one listening in on the words that fall from your lips. Yes, we can hold onto one more tradition, one more pattern. And, yes, when we are done and there are tears in too many eyes, you can have all of the hugs. Your breakout groups will start without you. For now, this is important. 

These torn edges are what we will look back on, hold onto. 

Even tonight, in the moments where we slow down enough to slip into a story, it is the hard things that spill out. The times when their tiny selves weren't doing the things that they knew they “should,” but they were held onto and loved in the midst of it. Times when there were more questions than answers, more hurt than healing. Because, look. We did it then. We can do it now. 

It wasn't easy, but God was faithful. 

“Let nothing disturb you, let nothing dismay: All things are possible. God does not change.” (The New Book of Common Prayer, morning, October 15th) 

And, the reminder is good for my heart too. 

In the seventy four months since moving back, there are thousands of should have's and could have's, tens of thousands of moments that might have gone differently, but, even in the midst of the wild, beautiful mess, we did something right. 

Something to build trust. Something to live Love. Something that looked a little bit like Jesus. 

There is Grace here. There are precious, beautiful kids and dozens of leaders who love the crap out of them. They will continue to weave together this muddled up sort of a church family. Continue to text each other at all hours of the night and snapchat when they should be listening to the message. 

They will gather around tables for dinner, for ice cream. Run circles in the Hub and roll down the hill. Hold space and be family. 

It will be a beautiful, exhausting, messy adventure, but the best kind always are. 

And, even across these two thousand some miles, we will continue to tell each other stories. Look. Look and see what God has done.

Fire By Night, Cloud By Day

Some weekends, I am reminded why we treasure these stories of the Children of Israel, this frightened, anxious, impatient mass of humanity feeling their way forwards in the wilderness. Ten steps forwards. Twenty steps back. Singing as often as they complain and hurting as often as they were healed.

Waiting, each morning, for manna to fall.

We gather the middle schoolers for a gym night, spend the evening running in circles, throwing things at each other, and pulling children off of the bleachers. Jump into the chaos and the emotions and the thousand different things that are going on in their lives right now. Let go of the idea of organized games or planned events, and simply be.

Because, this is manna after a long week. This thing that looks not quite like church, but seems like it might be food anyways. This, "What is it?"

The kids laugh and recognize the strangeness of it, "I would feel bad for anyone new who came tonight."

There are a few new ones here, easy to locate by their focus on actually playing volleyball with a few leaders, while the rest of the gym pulses with movement and this only half verbalized language that they are speaking. The physicality that is Bethel kids on the cusp of things that they don't understand.

We bend hula hoops out of shape and then quietly re-form them. Tie shoelaces together and carefully finesse them back apart. Group and re-group and re-group again. 6th grade, 7th, 8th, boys, girls, the lines between us all summer camp fuzzy, as if, maybe, we can wear family like a second skin, can stay here forever.

Or, at least, until the cloud moves.

They've had a lot of practice at transition, this particular crew of them. Watching as leaders follow that pillar of fire wherever it leads. Well versed in uncertainty, and, hopefully, just as sure of that perfect Love that casts out fear.

One of the 6th grade girls informs me exactly how many miles I will be moving, and we rehearse, over and over again, when I intend on coming back.

Because, we're all a little raw this weekend, the spaces between us fuzzier and filled with echoes of "we" rather than "I."

5th grade girls are indignant, the next morning, at the thought of me leaving, hands on hips and lion cub fierce, as they declare that, "You can't leave. We just got you." as if they can stubborn me into changing my mind.

So, instead, we talk, and decorate covers with wash tape, and scrawl the word "Cherished" onto the next page of their notebooks. Accepted. Beloved. Cherished. If we only have a few weeks together, we're going to fill their heads with the reality of who they are.

This is church. This family. This is mess. This is Grace. This is Love.

These are middle schoolers who are collectively certain that they are my favorite. Royal Family kids who pop forwards when they are given the chance to lay on hands and pray. 6th grade boys who carefully fashion a bracelet out of the toilet paper that is our traditional goodbye.

These are high schoolers who somehow manage to make me cry, who stay late to help with dishes, and who gather on DQ benches until it is later still, leaned in intently as they work together to navigate life.

By morning, the entire nation will be aware of this night with a piercing sort of clarity. But, for now, our griefs and our joys are quieter, more private, more open to this nebulous space in between.

It's hard, sometimes, when you are in the middle, to see the Provision that has come before.

The lectionary reading pulls from Psalm 78. We look back on the Children of Israel, and, with them, we remember.

Remember a God who splits seas and rains manna. Who has spent these years tying us together and building memories. Who forges unlikely kids into family. Who is present in our ever moving mess.

There is ebb and flow here. There is Faithfulness. There is Grace.

Even When

It is the first Sunday of fall Sunday school, the first day of their new small groups, and I have a pack of Gryffindor girls ready to take on the world with all of the fire in their fifth grade selves.

"Just so you know," one of the little blondes turns to me while she is supposed to be singing, "you have the wild group."

Oh, girl child, this is not my first rodeo. I've seen your type before, this loyalty that makes sure you share the treat equally between everyone, this certainty that the boys are just as much a part of this operation as the girls. The whispers during music and the keeping track of everyone.

One of them is standing three feet in front of you, wrangling his own set of wiggly boys, and he could tell you stories about climbing trees and donut fights and ninjas through the church.

Let's take that energy and that passion of yours, let's run until we're breathless, and let's help you to fall wildly and deeply in love with this beautifully messy thing that we call church.

Let's stretch out our line of chairs until we've blocked both of the aisles and half of us are actually sitting in the next section over. Let's curl up under the stairs in this fort created by brand new curtains, and then, let's take our notebooks outside in search of dirt.

"Because of Jesus," they scrawl onto the pages that we have glued together for a little extra strength, "I am accepted, even when life gets messy."

And, then, they watch, eyes sparking, as I pour out some water into the dust and dip my fingers in the mud.

"Even when life gets messy!" They laugh, and I hear the phrase another half dozen times, falling, unprompted, from their lips. Because, it is the first day of fall Sunday school, and, so, we smear mud into their brand new books and let it dry under our fingernails while we roll down the hill.

Come in a little late, because church got out a little early, and send them off bright eyed and full of stories. Because, did you know? It's okay to play in the mud at church!

They scatter to families, to early childhood rooms where they will serve second service, to the middle school room to check in with older brothers when they realize that their grandparents are already gone. Because, this is Bethel, and Bethel kids serve.

Middle schoolers come with me to pick up pieces from the game, and come back to sprawl out on furniture, tripping over the edges of rugs and using beanbag chairs as toboggans. 

"Don't go to the leader meeting," one of the girls uses my hip as a backrest when I perch on the arm of the couch, already confident that she won't have to ask more than once. Because, we're counting down the weeks until I move, and time is precious. Because, it's been a long summer. Because, we have a new senior pastor. Because, this week, there isn't a potential middle school director for them to keep an eagle eye on.

Because, their last few years of church have been far too many transitions, and, in this moment, there is power in simply staying.

And, because, frankly, I am going to miss them.

So, we talk and spend time and pretend like things are normal in between the tellings and the askings and the won't let go hugs that spread teary eyed foundation on the shoulder of my sweatshirt, "But, you've been here since I was a baby!"

Technically, y'all, I've left once before. But, you don't remember the goings, only the staying. Only the running up and down that grassy hill and the bus rides up to camp. Only the borrowing of my phone and the certainty that I know every one of your siblings.

So, we'll talk about getting a shrink ray to pack you all in my suitcase, and you'll volunteer to test it on the boys before we use it on your new puppy, because, of course, the puppy is coming to Haiti with us too. And, the high schoolers will calculate how long before they can come to visit.

And, there will be more hugs and more life, and we will fill this room up once again in the evening, this time with high school bodies. We'll gather around tables for pizza and salad, and we'll slip into rows and circles of chairs to listen to and talk about Gospel. We'll measure our words carefully, glad to have two leaders in the room, and you'll remind each other that, when you disagree, there is room for Grace.

Because, y'all are incredible like that. Loving and Grace filled and in such very different places on your journeys.

Because, "because of Jesus, you are accepted, even when life gets messy."

One of Those Days

It's one of those Sundays with the boys.

One of those where we can have an entire conversation in the act of throwing a bag of pencils at each other in a busy room, in pulling a face from inside of an inflatable orb or being knocked to the ground for the half dozenth time by the same kid.

One of those Sundays where body language and hip bumps are covering entirely different topics than what our words are saying. Where pillows to the face are communication. Where there are a dozen non-verbal languages being spoken at the same time.

And, where the new little sophomore girl manages to look a little appalled by the junior boy who wipes his sweaty head on my arm and then comes back a few minutes later to spray water through his teeth. Because, today, we are all of ten years old.

Today, there is a transition to a new senior pastor and middle school candidate visiting. Today there is a storm just passed the islands that they care about and smoke just cleared from the sky. Today is the start of the explanations and the goodbyes. Today is way too many kids blinking back tears for my mama bear heart to handle.

Today, and always, leaving kids (or getting ready to leave kids) is one of my least favorite things in the universe.

This will be good, but it is also hard.

Because, frankly, I don't know how to youth leader. I only know how to be steadily, unchangingly there, and this is a paradigm shift for more than just the kids.

So, for today, we build rock piles and throw pencils and stand around to talk until my waiting family has mostly given up on ever leaving church.

Today we have "real" conversations in between goofy ones, and I send the email formally agreeing to move to Haiti until these Juniors are walking at graduation.

Today we dive headfirst into the mess and the chaos and the beauty of a new transition. And, if it is a lot a bit of sweat and a little bit of spit and a few more tears, it is only because we have loved deeply and messily. Only because we've let ourselves learn a little of what it means for church to be family.

Only because, some weeks, it is just one of those days.

Island Time

For the first time in seven years, I land in Port au Prince without checking for any other heads or making sure that anyone else has filled out their customs form.

It is certainly quicker, traveling without a pile of checked bags or a fist full of claim tickets. But, I would be lying if I tried to pretend that leader habits aren't hard to break. The winding up familiar roads and biting back a dozen stories that wouldn't make sense without more context than it's worth.

Because, I'm here with new people, a new organization, visiting a friend in a town that is about forty-five minutes past the beloved and the familiar. And, even when it is messier and more frustrating than I could have anticipated, I am already in love.

In love with sassy little ones in a sun drenched school yard. In love with the early morning mist that curls around these mountains and the sun that sets behind the neighbor's roof.

Focused on watching and learning and seeing. Feeling my tongue trip over a language that sometimes comes easily and sometimes completely slips my brain. Hearing rain pour into water barrels and worship music after a tremor sends everyone scurrying from the house.

There's a school here that I have been invited to get back on its feet. Kids who climb up onto my hips as we spin in the classroom and who grab my hand to pull me into the field for a game of tag.

And, Heaven must know my weak spots, because we spend the week finding all of them.

"Come." "Come." "Come."

But, coming means going, going from a place and a people who carry such a massive part of my heart. Coming means breaking some of the rules of expat life that we have spent so many years carefully teaching our kids. Being here means not being somewhere else. And, I fill page after journal page trying to sort it all out.

Read through dozens of pieces of curriculum. Have sword fights in the courtyard. Practice English under the shade tree and pile onto a moto with tired little boys, rather than into a van with tired teenagers.

There is no one to be reminded to eat or drink or take their malaria meds, no mattresses to be carried, and such a private space that they don't even bother with a bathroom door. But, somehow, there are still bandaids to be handed out and water bottles to be kept track of. There are clapping games to be played and a phone to be shared.

And, then, there is a hurricane maybe coming and a flight to be changed, and a late night to be spent killing a tarantula before we say bedtime prayers.

"Are you coming back?" The spider monkey of an eight year old is perched on my hip, and the twelve year old, who has already asked, answers for me.
"She doesn't know."

"You can ask Jesus." I find myself echoing the same sentiment that I texted a college kid who asked about the same decision. "I don't know yet."

Because, there are a thousand reasons not to be here, some of them logical, a couple hundred of them familiar faces. But, I have already met a hundred reasons to stay.

So, I stand in an overcrowded line to board another plane. Speed through customs and easily catch my next flight before the winds and the rain that are threatening to pelt the coast. Spend the night with a few other people on the airport floor, and land into smoke so thick that you can barely see past the edge of the tarmac.

Back "home." Back with these little ones who are as simple as breathing and as complicated as open heart surgery. Back to similar questions and, for now, an echo of the same answer.

"I don't know yet."

Holy

When you are only home for a few days before you take off again, sometimes you let the kids invite whoever happens to be standing closest to join you all for lunch.

Crowd eighteen humans into a tiny living room and pile plates high with chips, and cookies, and the pulled pork sandwiches that someone's dad woke up early to make. 

And, sometimes it takes a far longer than it should to get from the youth room to the parking lot. But, sometimes you make up for it by piling kids into vehicles for the world's most cautious neighborhood half mile. Because, Bethel leaders are just a little protective of our kids.

Climb the giant retaining wall that is the backyard. Eat popsicles in the dining room. Pretend, for a moment, that school doesn't start this week.

Spend time. Talk about Haiti in between trips back to the kitchen to refill plates. Play on phones. Take a few pictures. Let the eighth grade boy lament how much harder it has gotten, in the last few weeks, to simply feel full. Because, it's summer time, and he is growing like a weed.

Taller, I am certain, than he was at camp, when we were first introducing these sixth graders to the wildly Grace filled mess that is this hodge-podge of a church family.

These kids who carry each other in their eyes and their hearts, who barely bother to learn names before pulling people into the circle. These ones who should be split by grade, by gender, but aren't. The seventh graders who boldly shape the world to their liking. The eighth graders who pounce each other with ecstatic hugs. Sixth graders who shrug their shoulders and go along for the ride. High schoolers who toe the line between leader and student.

Tonight, a few of them will cram into a DQ booth and tell me stories about the the Haiti trip.

Tonight, they'll shoo each other out of the church parking lot and carve out every last moment that they can before the last of the seniors leave for college. Tonight, they'll continue to navigate the temporary dramas that test and define their loyalties. Tonight, they'll be wildly human and wildly caught up in the Divine, and it will make all of our heads spin with the mess and beauty of it.

We'll spend our morning talking about Jesus with little ones, and our afternoon with noisy, hurting. courageous kids who fill up and hold space in an absolutely dizzying dance.

And, it will be good.

Because, this is Church and this is Family, and, whether we're playing "Headbands" with 1st graders or mixing up pitchers of cool aid in the kitchen, there is Holy in the midst of all of it.

Holy in the dishes being stacked into the dishwasher and the quiet lulls in conversation where kids catch each other's eyes or someone flops down close. Holy in freshmen who are still figuring out their place in this high school world and in college kids who are caught up in the new and the adventure.

Holy in our hurt and our confidence. Holy in hugs and hip bumps and giant bowls full of watermelon.

Holy in words and in silence.

Holy in little ones who talk a mile a minute and pull us along as we run through the grass. And, Holy in not-so-littles who have a hundred stories to tell, stories of second homes, of late nights and early mornings, of Joy and of Grace that carried them through.

And, it isn't a finish of anything. Isn't even a start. But, it is a middle. A thin place, where Eternity cracks through.

It is food and it is laughter, and it is sometimes looks that speak what we couldn't say in a thousand words.

It is Sunday, and we are ridiculous. And, it is good.

Road Trip

When you have a month of, largely, uncommitted time during the summer for the first time since you were old enough to drive, you rent a minivan and spend that month fan girling over rocks.

And, when your siblings find themselves with a similar, "in between houses," sort of a freedom, you make plans to pick up the whole crew, because your parents raised the sort of family that would rather pay for a little bit of gas (and pee in a lot of bushes) than pay a whole lot more in temporary rent.

From Washington through San Fransisco, I am on my own, winding along the coast and through redwoods, along with a loose collection of sprinter vans and RVs. We leapfrog one another at countless viewpoints and the occasional excellent nap spot, dot the side of the 1 and the 101 as we pull over for the night, and clamber over the same railings, eighteen years old or eighty, when the world is just too beautiful not to take a picture.

Hijabi college students and families full of gangly teenagers crawl over the same log jams and wade up the same emerald green canyons, and, when the trail is unmarked and winding, you simply ask questions of whomever happens to be coming the other way.

Glass beaches and ancient trees that have lived so long I am halfway certain that they can talk. And, eventually, San Francisco and the first of my sisters.

We wind our way through Yosemite, taking a few days to figure out how to best avoid the Disneyland style crowds, finding the best views of giant rocks, chasing sunsets, and leaving our stuff unwatched for longer than is probably wise when we decide that star gazing is more important than sleeping bags.

Eat spring rolls in the tent in Big Sur, and make all of the obligatory sound effects in the Death Valley canyons where parts of "A New Hope" were filmed. And, perhaps, lock ourselves out of the car at Dante's Viewpoint.

Because, this is #vanlife in reality, with all of the hand washing of laundry and constant hunt for toilets and drinking water that goes with it. And, if you are going to be stuck for a few hours, the prettiest viewpoint in Death Valley isn't a shabby place to watch the sun set.

We spend a day living in hammocks on Big Bear Lake and enjoying the fact that the only thing here interested in eating, biting, or stinging us or our food is the tiny chipmunk sniffing for leftovers. Head closer in to LA for a relative's house, take the second "real" showers since the Tri-Cities, and get ready for the other three to join us.

Laundry, a little grocery shopping, and cleaning the van of its accumulated layers of sweat and stink -- on the inside, at least.

Once we have them, it's a race to fit as much exploring into as few calendar days as we possibly can, jumping back into the National Parks loop and the constant stream of foreign languages that goes with it.

Joshua Tree, with its bizarre rock piles that are half movie set and half giant playground. Zion's brilliant red rocks and spectacular views from the top of Angel's landing. A campsite on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon and a hike just down to the Kaibab Tunnel that has us jogging on the way down and huffing and puffing our way back up in order to beat the rain and the sunset.

Bryce's crazy hoodoos and gentle hikes simply for the sake of hiking somewhere that isn't instagram famous. Capitol Reef, because, who knew there was a national park with free apples, and gorgeous slot canyons, and rainbow colored rocks?

And, because, our previous two attempts at slot canyons had led to pushing another family's minivan out of the sand and full on swimming through Zebra, so we needed another shot at twisting rock and crazy golden light. 

(Definitely do swim through a flooded slot canyon if you ever get the chance. Not everything has to be instagram pretty to be a good adventure.)

Goblin Valley for showers and sketchy hammock situations and a pint sized, Mario Cart style playground that still managed to keep us busy for a few hours climbing around on hardened mud blobs that were older than much of human history.

Arches, with it's honey combed trails and confidence that you will find your way in the right direction along these massive slabs of rock.

The Bonneville Salt Flats and a slightly frantic hunt for eclipse glasses when we realize that we are a few hours drive from totality.

The Grand Tetons for not nearly long enough, as our collective desire to not do anything outweighs the desire to cram in another couple of hikes. We are tired, and the lakes are gorgeous, and simply sitting by as many of them as possible becomes the objective for the day.

Because, if we can sit on warm rocks by cool water, while fan girling over massive chunks of stone that are jutting straight into the sky...we are pretty happy.

An eclipse and Yellowstone and a car wash that only begins to touch the caked on mud that covers the rental, and we are home.

Uncounted miles, plenty of Hamilton, and more talking about rocks and landscapes than we might have thought was possible. Van life is waking up to breakfast on the coast and falling asleep to brilliant stars. And, van life is five adults sleeping in a mini van when the weather conspires against us.

It is occasionally sleeping in Walmart parking lots, and often regretting our decision to leave the dishes until the next morning. It is a whole lot of mornings of bad instant coffee, and loosing all sense of where is a normal spot to pull out the camp stove.

Van life is a storm that breaks our tent poles and reinforcing them with sticks until we give in and buy a new one. It is free campsites and incredible views and beings absurdly grateful for phones that carry maps of everything that we could possibly need.

It is falling into patterns of setting up and breaking down camp and of silly things, like buying ice and filling water jugs and how far they are willing to drive for good coffee. When you start to make a habit of finishing the day with a "quick" four to five mile hike, and when anything past sunset begins to feel like the middle of the night.

Because, when MacFarlans say that we are going to road trip, we actually mean that we are going to spend a month camping on BLM land and national forests, hiking until we wear holes in our socks, and climbing up onto everything that gravity and our own coordination will allow.

Because, why wouldn't we?

SaveSave

Unstoppable

This year at camp, the kids prove themselves unstoppable.

Prove themselves, gentle, thoughtful, brave, ridiculous, magnificent. Heroes who understand, instinctively, the sanctity of an open grasp.

And, so, after a week of quests and tears and courage, we knight them.

One by one, under the cover of a brilliant net of stars, their cabins watch as we call them out by name and meaning, read a verse, tap their shoulders with a sword that is longer than many of their growing selves, and quote a benediction.

It's early morning by the time we wake the last cabin, trail them in a single file line behind a silent, sword wielding man, call them forward to kneel before they quite understand what is happening. Read the verses that were picked out especially for them. Send them back to their cabins clutching the cards that will make their way onto the bus with us, the words that they will go over and compare.

Because, this is who they are.

Half asleep, and under the cover of darkness, they are ready to believe the things that our leader hearts would tell them about the truth of their identity. When daylight returns and we fall into the rhythm of packing bags and taking pictures, of stopping for snacks and twisting ponytails into the boys' hair, we can do our best to let our actions match our words, and to pray that they remember.

Remember who they were this week.

Because, this week, they were unstoppable.

When spider bites swell up like golf balls, when they are throwing up or fighting headaches, when anxiety refuses to let them sleep, and when we lock them out of their cabin to deal with bed bugs. Unstoppable.

When we give them a new cabin leader 80% through the week, skip the things that they thought were going to happen, wake them up in the middle of the night, or delay the start of games by forty long wait-in-the-foyer minutes, unflappable, unstoppable.

When they are dealing with emotions and realities that middle schoolers shouldn't have to handle, when the lies in their heads and the fears in their hearts fight against them every step of the way, unstoppable.

My sixth grade girls barely pause to blink when we tell them that we can't go back to the cabin, simply gather up their Bibles and lead the way to the "fairy house" that they helped to build for a night game that didn't actually happen. Change into their swimsuits before games, and then stay in them through lunch, low ropes, free time, dinner, chapel, cabin time. Night hike in flip flops and the clothes that our heroes of staff members have brought back from the laundromat and the store. Curl up into freshly cleaned sleeping bags in a room that still smells like heat but is now free of unwelcome guests.

Let the anxiety and the uncertainty be soothed by a steady stream of instructions, by the knowledge that we are doing this together, by the presence of the One who is bigger than our unexpected adventures, and by the steely determination that runs through their bones.

And, somewhere in the midst of that, they start to ask questions, questions about hearing God and about who this Jesus character actually was. Questions about time and space and the sorts of theology that we boil down into sound effects before they break into ridiculous giggles. Because, the best sorts of theology occur in this middle space between laughter and tears, between joy and sorrow, where we're too busy running to catch up with the Divine to stop and build an idol, enraptured by the one who is pulling us along, "Further up and further in."

This week, they were capable.

Capable of finding leaders in the dark and bringing back "pearls" to earn points for their team, capable of doing things that they thought that they were too afraid to accomplish, jumping from the blob, lifting their hands during music, becoming part of a team filled with virtual strangers, and folding new friends into their existing family clusters.

Water wars take far longer to set up than what we had planned for, but a couple of kids catch the vision and continue to work without me, solving problems and running their tails off while I work with a few leaders on a separate situation, slipping into their swimsuits at the last moment without murmuring a word of complaint.

They give up portions of their free time to carry (and test) a giant catapult, to track points and help me with the endless math that comes with not having a standard scoring system for competitive games. To cluster up and hold space for each other when someone is hurting. To pull out the orbeez and bury their hands, because they are capable of being grown up this week, but also of being little enough to spend an hour on sensory play, tension melting from their shoulders the way that it does when they fish a fidget spinner or koosh ball out of my bag.

Capable of throwing themselves from the zipline tower and completing the high ropes course, so proud of themselves afterwards that they tremble with the excitement of it. And, capable of honoring their own boundaries and keeping both feet firmly on the ground.

Capable of sword fighting with leaders and solving riddles and memorizing Bible verses for the first times in their lives.

We canoe and swim and have dance parties in the cabin, set them loose to run through the darkened woods with pool noodle swords and cardboard shields, and dress up their leaders in goofy costumes, because, really, we're playing just as much as the kids are.

They pour everything that they have into music and prayer, bury each other in hugs and hand holds and the physical sorts of affection that middle schoolers speak like language. Pull leaders aside to talk about their triumphs and their sorrows. Watch each other like hawks. Trust us for hugs and bandaids and remembered promises and practice asking for help when they need it.

Because, these kids, these ones who lick rocks and blast worship music on the bus ride home. These ones who would rather sit and play with glow sticks through a movie that never actually works than try to play a night game when their friends are too sick or tired to join in. These kids are unstoppable.

Unstoppable. Capable. Gentle.

Gentle when the 6th grade girls are still talking on the chapel floor and the 8th grade boys tiptoe past, silently closing the doors so that the littler ones can have the space that they need.

When the same 6th grade girls are so bothered by the boys' lack of door decorations that they plot and scheme and count heads out on the volleyball court until they are sure that the coast is clear to put up lights and a welcome sign -- only to be caught by a leader and have their plans fizzle out on the spot.

Gentle when we split into teams for capture the flag and their greatest excitement is that, this time, we aren't competing. This time, they get to arrange things so that friends are together. This time you can't get out, can't lose, don't have to worry about anything but running through the woods like a goofball. And, if we spend a few minutes the next morning collecting swords and shields that were left scattered in the bushes, no one complains, because, last night, they were Percy Jackson.

Heroes to the younger ones who come to them for hugs and comfort and constant encouragement. Heroes to to the older ones who borrow their leaders and puff up with pride at their accomplishments.

They open up circles to accommodate new bodies and skip their favorite activities in order to be present with friends. Lift each other through low ropes courses like it's the most natural thing in the world. Analyze games based on their accessibility to each of the unique kids that we have brought with us, and somehow manage to be gentle even as they plow each other over in giant inflatable bumper balls. Sassy. Sarcastic. Stubborn. Gentle.

And, unstoppable.

RFKC 2017

This year at Royal Family, we have a farewell ceremony for many dozens of caterpillars, tally our bug bites, turn the floor into lava a hundred times over, and participate in the sort of Zumba that involves creeping up on imaginary squirrels.

And, then we wonder why camp is hard to describe to people who weren't there.

Camp is making an utter fool out of yourself for kids who still remember who their counselor was last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. It is fancy dinner and birthday party, and a dozen kids leaping onto tree roots by the wobbly bridge because, "The floor is lava!"

Camp is running back to the break room for paper cups, because, somehow, we weren't the only cabin that managed to put the caterpillar collecting before the bug barn building, and holding a dozen bugs while trying to help with woodworking is a whole new level of multitasking.

Camp is CITs who learn which colors of face paint wash off with soap and water and which colors...don't.

Camp is polar bear plunges and shivering girls and hurrying back out of the bathrooms afterwards, because they want to see the CITs do the chicken dance. It is braiding wet hair in the middle of a grassy field and counselors who ignore the rest of the schedule when a little one agrees to take her first shower all week.

Camp is celebrating how far some of these kids have come and strategizing to help the new ones feel successful.

Camp is a room full of adults trying to figure out a solution to a caterpillar problem, because, in this moment, it is, in all seriousness, the most important thing on the agenda. And, camp is those same adults standing on the lakeshore with our campers waving goodbye to the caterpillars, while Coach reads a poem and a carefully selected CIT rows them back to their island home.

Camp is eleven year old boys who go on hikes in ninja costumes, because, why would you not?

Camp is letter writing and loom weaving, side hugs and sharpies on t-shirts before we pile into an overheated bus with thirsty children who manage to share eight ounces of water between six of them but still find an extra bottle to pour down a leader's back.

Camp is face paint and magic wands and a fanny pack full of fidgets and granola bars. It is kids who show up afterwards for middle school ministry and a week of crazy, blueberry colored family.

Camp is messy and exhausting and oh-so-very beautiful.

Camp is worth it.