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."