Mid January, I get to spend the weekend hanging out in the snow with some of my favorite humans.
Or, more accurately, I get to spend the weekend hanging out near the fire with some of my favorite humans, while occasionally venturing out into the cold -- because, Winter and Snow and No-Longer-Living-in-the-Tropics and Jessica-is-a-Wimp.
But, God is gracious and these high schoolers are gracious, and, even from my semi permanent spot by the fire, I got to be consistently blown away by the way that these kids Love.
No longer the tinies who ran around climbing trees and jumping into recycling bins during Sunday School or the middle schoolers who we drug out of their cabins for a sleep fogged knighting ceremony, they have held onto that fierce, gentle love that has always driven them and surrounded them.
It has been molded and changed by time, by shifting realities, by the individual battles that they fight in their own hearts and heads, but these kids love each other uniquely and they love each other well. There are stories that I have missed in the past year and a half, victories and hurts that I am only beginning to make sense of. And, yet, when we are conscious enough to let it -- when I am conscious enough to let it -- their gentleness spills over onto us old people as well.
When we are fiercely protective, when we hold careful space, when we chase after God and let God chase after us, it is enough.
Enough to spend an hour in silence and solitude, followed by a half eaten lunch...and then a forty-five minute snowball fight that leaves them dripping and breathless just in time for chapel. Enough to sit quietly on the couches and talk about the future or the past or what it is that is happening right now, this weekend, this moment.
Enough to spend what totals up to a couple of hours in corporate prayer and a few additional hours of private time with Jesus, rather than going for stage theatrics or noisy, messy, destructive types of games. Not because those things are bad, but, because, this year, we might just need a quieter, gentler sort of space to heal.
A space where the kids can tell us when they are going to opt out of a moment or an activity that makes them uncomfortable, and where games of screaming ninja and fooseball can still send shrieks echoing through the space that we occupy. Where dance parties and odd traditions and the watching of The Little Mermaid mingle with watching the stars and taking goofy pictures around the fire pit. Where we curl close together to pray and they flop over the tops of each other on the couches.
Where we ground each other in stories, and where God is present. Maybe not always in the spectacular kinds of ways that we like to ask for, but present, nonetheless. Present in just the right kind of snow that is too wet for snowballs but perfect for being dropped over another person in chunks, so that the playing field for their snow battle is leveled, and they come back laughing and uninjured.
Present in arranging vehicles for the ride up and back, and in the quiet space that couches create in the midst of the hubbub of meals. In brilliant stars and in the whir of a kitchen dishwasher. In endless cups of coco and in cabin snacks for kids who skip meals but find themselves still hungry. In quiet, honest conversations, and in The One Who Hears every broken, hopeful word that we pray. Love that wraps around us in the places where we are wounded.
Here we celebrate when they are brave, sometimes with a glance and sometimes by loud applause. Because, in so many more ways than I could count, and in a thousand stories that are not mine to share, these kids are brave. Brave enough to come. Brave enough to keep trying. Brave enough to want to forgive.
For now, these ones aren't endless theology questions or wild energy. Instead, we have kids who scurry off to find paper towels for a spill without being asked; who show up in the kitchen as if it were the most natural place to be. Who watch each other so carefully that I can learn paragraphs simply by following their gaze. We have the ones who shield with church answers but let the truth slip out when they think that we might not be looking. The types of kids who are talking about boot camp one minute and their favorite poets the next.
Freshmen and Seniors who show us what it is to love without condition or expectation. Sophomores who who carry quiet wisdom and a stubborn refusal to be seen as anything but what they are. Juniors who hold our systems and our traditions, curate them for us so that we have proof, proof that we were here when God showed up.
Fiercely protective, holding careful space, chasing after God and letting God chase after us.
In some wild, messy, beautiful way, while we were all sleep deprived and tumbling all over each other like a pack of lion cubs let loose in a park, something Holy washed over our weekend with a gentle, subtle sort of Grace.
And, like all things Holy, it might not have been easy, but it was Good.
Or, more accurately, I get to spend the weekend hanging out near the fire with some of my favorite humans, while occasionally venturing out into the cold -- because, Winter and Snow and No-Longer-Living-in-the-Tropics and Jessica-is-a-Wimp.
But, God is gracious and these high schoolers are gracious, and, even from my semi permanent spot by the fire, I got to be consistently blown away by the way that these kids Love.
No longer the tinies who ran around climbing trees and jumping into recycling bins during Sunday School or the middle schoolers who we drug out of their cabins for a sleep fogged knighting ceremony, they have held onto that fierce, gentle love that has always driven them and surrounded them.
It has been molded and changed by time, by shifting realities, by the individual battles that they fight in their own hearts and heads, but these kids love each other uniquely and they love each other well. There are stories that I have missed in the past year and a half, victories and hurts that I am only beginning to make sense of. And, yet, when we are conscious enough to let it -- when I am conscious enough to let it -- their gentleness spills over onto us old people as well.
When we are fiercely protective, when we hold careful space, when we chase after God and let God chase after us, it is enough.
Enough to spend an hour in silence and solitude, followed by a half eaten lunch...and then a forty-five minute snowball fight that leaves them dripping and breathless just in time for chapel. Enough to sit quietly on the couches and talk about the future or the past or what it is that is happening right now, this weekend, this moment.
Enough to spend what totals up to a couple of hours in corporate prayer and a few additional hours of private time with Jesus, rather than going for stage theatrics or noisy, messy, destructive types of games. Not because those things are bad, but, because, this year, we might just need a quieter, gentler sort of space to heal.
A space where the kids can tell us when they are going to opt out of a moment or an activity that makes them uncomfortable, and where games of screaming ninja and fooseball can still send shrieks echoing through the space that we occupy. Where dance parties and odd traditions and the watching of The Little Mermaid mingle with watching the stars and taking goofy pictures around the fire pit. Where we curl close together to pray and they flop over the tops of each other on the couches.
Where we ground each other in stories, and where God is present. Maybe not always in the spectacular kinds of ways that we like to ask for, but present, nonetheless. Present in just the right kind of snow that is too wet for snowballs but perfect for being dropped over another person in chunks, so that the playing field for their snow battle is leveled, and they come back laughing and uninjured.
Present in arranging vehicles for the ride up and back, and in the quiet space that couches create in the midst of the hubbub of meals. In brilliant stars and in the whir of a kitchen dishwasher. In endless cups of coco and in cabin snacks for kids who skip meals but find themselves still hungry. In quiet, honest conversations, and in The One Who Hears every broken, hopeful word that we pray. Love that wraps around us in the places where we are wounded.
Here we celebrate when they are brave, sometimes with a glance and sometimes by loud applause. Because, in so many more ways than I could count, and in a thousand stories that are not mine to share, these kids are brave. Brave enough to come. Brave enough to keep trying. Brave enough to want to forgive.
For now, these ones aren't endless theology questions or wild energy. Instead, we have kids who scurry off to find paper towels for a spill without being asked; who show up in the kitchen as if it were the most natural place to be. Who watch each other so carefully that I can learn paragraphs simply by following their gaze. We have the ones who shield with church answers but let the truth slip out when they think that we might not be looking. The types of kids who are talking about boot camp one minute and their favorite poets the next.
Freshmen and Seniors who show us what it is to love without condition or expectation. Sophomores who who carry quiet wisdom and a stubborn refusal to be seen as anything but what they are. Juniors who hold our systems and our traditions, curate them for us so that we have proof, proof that we were here when God showed up.
Fiercely protective, holding careful space, chasing after God and letting God chase after us.
In some wild, messy, beautiful way, while we were all sleep deprived and tumbling all over each other like a pack of lion cubs let loose in a park, something Holy washed over our weekend with a gentle, subtle sort of Grace.
And, like all things Holy, it might not have been easy, but it was Good.
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