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?

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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.

Adventure Time: Part Two

You learn a lot about people when you are together for unexpected events.

This weekend, I learned that I have the types of confident, resilient, courageous sorts of human beings who take on the weirdest things that the weekend has to throw at us with good humor and grace.

These girls are star dust and magic and all of those overly gushing leader things that are actually 100% true. True on their good days and their bad days and on every sort of day in between, and, this weekend, true in a way that is on display for the entire world to see. Or, at least, for the couple of dozen people who happened to be looking.

We leave for our newest adventure after they get off of work and make a pit stop at an abandoned church just as dusk begins to fall.

They make friends with a little boy while we're hiking in a cave, because, of course they do, and then stand close together to turn off their flashlights, just to see what the world really looks like when it's dark.

They wash dishes and fill water jugs and swim in a reservoir when the temperature outside hits approximately 5,000 degrees, and rearrange the van for the dozenth time as we get ready to bounce down another dusty road.

They wake up to cows and pancakes and tell stories around a campfire after the sun finally sets.

It's simple and it's easy, and we have approximately enough food to feed an army, but we all have real life to get back to, so we break camp before it gets too hot and proceed to do what all sensible humans do on the first triple digit day of the season.

We hike up a cliff.

 Dip our heads and our shirts in the river, check the map a dozen times, and huff and puff our way up switchbacks that, for a few long moments, seem like they are never going to end.

But, we are playing off of that potent mixture of that Bethel kid loyalty that only calls a win when it is a win for everyone and the Tri-Cities stubborn that refuses to be the first one to tap out, and, so, they push each other to the top. Wobbly legged. Breathless. Sweating. And, victorious.

Because, this is what a small group is for. It is for talking about everything and nothing and continually tying together the threads of memory. For standing together when the lights go out and for pushing each other higher, farther, one step closer to our goal.

For being there when we are slipping our way back into the valley, and for making peanut butter sandwiches on the side of the road when we suddenly discover that nothing is going as expected.

When lug nuts break and the tire falls off and not everywhere in Oregon has cell reception, and not every roadside assistance agent is able to find your account.

When there are problems that even this stubborn, self sufficient group of humans can't tackle on our own. There is Grace to cover. Grace in the form of strangers who offer the use of their shop, their landline, their couch. Grace in family members who offer half a dozen different options for getting the two hours back to town. And, grace in sunburnt, tired girls who keep moving forwards, even when, for a few long moments, it seems like the switchbacks will never end.

Because, these kinds of girls, the kind who can handle too hot, too cold, too late, too early; who can laugh when they realize that parts of our car are strewn across this rural road; who can climb down into and up onto things that scare them and come out stronger. These kinds of girls can change the world.

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Inhale

The closer we get to summer, the louder and more rambunctious we get around here. But, also, in some impossible way, the quieter and closer we get, as well. 

 5th grade girls jostle for spots on the cushioned pews that have recently shown up in the first of our many spaces, curling up close and playfully refusing to give way when other people try to squeeze their way in. Instead, they compare fidget spinner tricks and run off to grab my bag for an additional spinner and fidget cube, trading them down the line during story, so that, even if our fingers are distracted, our mouths are finally silent. The little one who can't stand to sit still for this long drops her head onto my shoulder, but only asks once to slip out to the bathroom. And, with the transition jitters nipping at our heals, I'll every win that we can get.

 It’s been an everyone-talking-at-once sort of a morning, more interested in being heard than in the Snapchat filters that so often distract them or even than in rifling through the bag of lifesavers that we give out as rewards for bringing their Bibles. So, we cram the seventy odd minutes with as many of their favorite traditions as we can possibly fit and pour out grace to cover the wiggles and the swirls of anticipation and anxiety. 

One chair added to our row for a late arrival becomes two and three and four, until the row of five has become a line of ten, stretching out across both aisles and butting up against the 3rd and 4th graders space, but they barely blink at the intrusion, and there is Grace in that.

Grace in the number of girls who are here on a holiday weekend, in the careful way that they listen to each other, and in the fine line between encouraging reluctant ones to join in the game and honoring the boundary of a simple "no." Grace for rolling down hills and going over the transition plan for the dozenth time. Grace for taking pictures to remember. For girls who leave early and for the ones who stay late. Grace to take a deep lungful of the chaos and savor it, because we only have two more weeks.

And, because, His Grace always seems to show up when we are at our messiest and most uncertain.

Adventure Time

When you give these girls paintbrushes and an abandoned bus, truth spills off of their fingers.

So, we load a few of these art loving, adventure seeking girls into a borrowed minivan and spend a few hours letting them loose on the world.

Fill the drive up with confession and grace, with theology questions and plans for summer missions trips. Pull up the "highlight verses" and quotes that we would have shared at cluster and mark them onto this giant canvas instead.

And, at first, they don't quite believe me. Really, we can paint it? Won't someone care? But, this is the Pacific Northwest, where we happen to keep abandoned school buses in the middle of the desert until they are covered with layers of words upon words upon words.

So, paint brushes are pulled out and old spray cans are co-opted as pallets, and they fall into a comfortable silence as they work. Words about peace and courage and doing small things with great love. About light and life and the quirky ways that they have been created. Truth that is no less true for the fact that, a month from now, you might never know that we were here.

Because, today, they live it as well as paint it.

On narrow, well worn trails, and steep paths where we pull ourselves, hand over hand, along a rope that someone laid out before us, they are courageous and they are gentle, they are fierce and they are fearless and they are kind.

And, I pray that they are learning to see themselves the way that their leaders see them, the way that their Creator sees them. Because, these precious lives were not by accident.

And, that is the magic of it.

That, when the waters were first carving these rocks, when these rocks were first starting to cool, when the universe was still too small and too hot to measure or grasp, before time began, there was a Creator who put this spark in them.

This spark that we pour out out on bus that is twice as old as any of them, and on a path that has been worn by hundreds and thousands of feet. This spark of Grace and Light and Love, these hearts that want nothing more than for everyone to be invited to the party. This was put into these kids on purpose.

Into these girls who are already talking about who we could invite "next time," who are wishing that the boys were here, who have never quite been able to wrap their heads around the lines that we draw between small groups, between clusters, between genders; who only know that there is time to be spent and adventures to be had, and shouldn't everyone be invited to come along?

Into these girls who do hard things, even when they are scared, and who love deeply, even when they know that it will hurt.

Into these girls who know that the Holy Spirit in them means that they can breathe Grace and Mercy from the very core of their beings.

And, into these girls who can come back with tired legs and hungry stomachs, who have washed theirs hands in the spray of a waterfall and then dirtied them again scrambling up a shale covered slope.

Because, when you give these girls paintbrushes, truth comes spilling out.

Empty

All weekend, the youth pastor makes coffee on stage in front of the kids, good pour over coffee, black or with liquid flavorings, distributed in some of his favorite mugs, and, all weekend, a few of my girls sit on the floor to be able to see.

Listening, watching, thinking things through. Climbing up onto top bunks for conversation and filling the time largely with the sound of crickets. 

Our first cabin time is silent and forced, but, in the few words that come, the other leader notices how quick they are to disagree with one another, how comfortable they are with holding different opinions, how it is done without vitriol or tension. And, it is good to have fresh eyes, because, I might not have even noticed.

This has become so much a part of what we do, of who they are, of how they process. Wrestling through questions and doubts, holding space for never being certain of the answers.

(And, we do figure out how to have cabin times that are a little more natural conversation and a whole lot less silence -- although perhaps no less disagreement.)

"Love God. Love people," one of the girls sums it up afterwards. "The end."

They are loved. Loved enough to think nothing of voicing their frustrations, because they don't have to be perfect. Loved enough to ask wild questions and circle back to familiar conversations, and loved enough to opt out when they feel like they have heard it all before.

Loved enough to sit and talk on these couches until a more conscientious leader reminds us of curfew, and loved enough to gather back here before the sun comes up to watch as the weather cycles through rain and snow, sunshine and fog, all in the long hours before breakfast.

Loved enough to do this thing in a different way than we have ever had cause to in the past.

Middle school ministry is without a full time director, and, so, there are smaller people running around all weekend, holding their own camp alongside and intertwined with the high schoolers', bouncing by for hugs and hip bumps every time that we see each other. Making my older ones smile with off beat singing and dancing on the sidelines of worship.

Trying to carve out their own space, teasing each other, laughing, playing, and a little off kilter, because this new way of being means that not all of "their" leaders who are at camp are actually their leaders for the weekend. Instead, we are there as high school leaders and students, trying to find balance without sacrificing one retreat for the other.

Holding space for different groups at different times, building patterns and rhythms in that compressed sort of family time that camp creates.

Mealtime lines become sacred spaces, my phone travels, as it always does, and a little person tucks herself shamelessly under my arm during worship, ready to curl up on the floor and fall asleep at about the same time that the high schoolers are ramping up for the night.

Little cousins are flipped upside down in the breakfast line, and there is this blurry space where "ladies first" gives way to this mixed gender, mixed age, group that somehow finds itself often together. Sixth grade, twelfth grade, adult; leader, student, all of the above. Family groups overlapping with family groups, overlapping with family groups.

They play their own games, have their own snowball fights and prayer times, but discover that you can crowd surf, when there are high schoolers waiting to catch your tiny, flying self, and that, sometimes, those same high schoolers will let you steal the chips off their plate and squeeze into the tiny space left at an already overcrowded table.

Sunday morning, we forget about the divisions for a little while and fall into easy, middle school leader patterns: fly up, photo sharing, phone stealing, being jumped on, tackled, and dragged from one end of the room to the other. Twenty minutes of every middle school language that we can think of to reassure them that they are loved.

So loved that one of my high schoolers complains early on in the weekend that, "Jessica, I think that you love them more than you love us."

And, I am 99.9% certain that she doesn't actually want me to roughhouse with her after chapel the way that she has just caught me doing with one of the 7th grade boys. But, she does start asking for the hugs that the middle schoolers assume are theirs for the taking, learning from their easy freedom the same way that they learn from the high schoolers steady grace.

Grace for when we cross the line from the slightly ridiculous to the utterly absurd. Grace for when our outdoor game becomes an indoor one. Grace for when the things that they have been talking about for a year don't turn out like they had planned. Grace for moving cabins and loud corn hole games that drown out conversation. And, grace for when our familiar patterns give way a little to make room for everyone at once.

Because, we're more Venn diagram than cohesive whole, this year, overlapping circles of stories and habits that all center on this God thing, this Jesus thing, this business of being poured out and filled to overflowing with Grace.

Haiti kids who ask for a morning wake-up, even as they hold a phone in their hand; recognize my water bottle when I leave it sitting places that it shouldn't be; use the snack bin in our cabin as an illustration for the dozenth Haiti story; and come looking for lotion and EmergenC, cough drops and melatonin, already confident in the contents of my bag.

Haiti kids who can identify the arc of a familiar conversation by a single overheard word or phrase, who know each other's triggers, who talk about team members who aren't here almost as often as they tell stories about the ones who are, and who are only mostly joking when they ask to spend the night on the couches in the cafe, rather than splitting back off to our cabins.

Cluster girls who lay hands on each person in turn, voices falling over each other in a prayer shower, as the leaders take turns washing feet; who revel in this place where Bridgetown and Haiti collide, even if it isn't the way that we are supposed to be doing it at all. Girls who wash our feet in return.

Girls who pack up on Saturday night and spend the extra time on Sunday morning throwing out trash and cleaning up the random bits of this and that that have left our mark on this place; haul things out to the trailer before we tromp through the snow and jump over puddles in order to get a cabin picture; make a point to meet my middle schoolers; claim the longest table for our cabin and then fill in the gaps with every extra person they can find.

Underclassmen with their own history and stories and expectations. Old youtube videos, vines, and random conversations; a crouton given in celebration of a facebook-friendship anniversary; the counting of years that I have been one of their many leaders; memories gone over and over and over again.

Clapping games and card games; boys who come to tell me when they feel like the youth pastor has said something particularly brilliant during cabin time; and a seat for Jessica on the bus ride home, saved by the same child who has been doing so since he was a tiny sixth grader who had yet to decide whether girls or kaleidoscopes were a more interesting thing to talk about.

This time, we talk about slightly more weighty things, God things, life things, draw the youth pastor into yet another theology conversation that is deftly flipped back on them. And, even still, I know that there are things that he is thinking and feeling that we haven't had the time to say.

Bridgetown kids, breakout group kids, college kids who appear on Sunday morning, new ones who somehow still fall into these ever shifting groups. Middle schoolers with their own layers of history and complexity.

We could use at least another six retreats just to begin to sort through the surface layers of it all.

It's a little bit like a giant family reunion, where everyone is mostly certain that they are related, but no one is 100% sure how.

So, instead, we stretch out every moment of every hour for as long as the clock will allow, jump up and down like crazy people, lift our hands in the air, and crowd surf through what might have been cabin time.

"Grace that brought me to the throne of God!"

They've turned the song into an anthem, a party, a celebration, and I'm not sure that they realize how right they are. There is Grace here. Grace that weaves together our complexity and our mess. Grace that walks the balance line between the instinct to wear a leprechaun hat all weekend and the instinct to stay up for "real talk" until all hours of the night.

Grace for kids who gather for quiet times far earlier and longer than what the schedule asks of them, for encounters with the Divine, and for the practical questions of living life like Jesus. Grace for throwing together a wildly disparate group, and Grace for learning to live a little more like family.

Grace for kicking coffee mugs and trying not to slip on the ice. Grace for tromping through knee deep snow by way of a "hike," and Grace for a cabin of strangers who learned to be a cluster.

This is the God who comes in tenderness and love. The master who washes the servants' feet. The one who was filled to be poured out. And, as these overlapping circles join together to take communion, this is Grace that draws us to the throne of God.

Transitions

There are a lot of things happen in the middle school group today.

The only youth pastor that they have known is moving on, and this is both their first chance to process as a group and also their week to say goodbye.

They've been deciding all week how to process this, texting each other, texting leaders, talking, thinking, talking. But, it doesn't ease the tension on a circle of worried sixth grade faces that already know exactly what I am going to tell them. They still don't like it.

For some of them, the reaction comes with greater force than others. The girls who have known Julie as a discipleship group leader are teary eyed, and the questions come quick and quiet. Where are Chris and Julie going next? What are they going to do? Who is going to take Julie's discipleship group? Her job at the school?

This is familiar but also different. So very, very different from what the high schoolers walked through before them. Quicker, cleaner, more certain. A change from one familiar couple leading the ministry to another, perhaps not forever, but for right now. And, for the kids, this nebulous sense of "now" seems to be enough.

Enough to make cards and eat cookies and watch a slide show. Enough to say their thank you's and their goodbye's and to step out into the falling snow.

Because, the transition also means that the change in youth pastors wasn't the only thing that they learned about in their parent letters.

There is a winter camp that I wasn't going to be at, because I have yet to learn the art of being in two places at once. Transition has moved them to the same campus as the high school retreat. They will be joining the older group for meals and chapel.

And, they are a well earned mixture of thrilled and terrified.

By text, they were moans and groans about the change, certain that they didn't want their siblings around, dismissive of the idea that this could be something good.

In person they are close and excited, bouncing off of my hip and standing just within reach, spilling over with half stories, and coming back again just as often as they leave. One moment there because they are nervous, the next grieving, the next there because they are excited.

Falling into camp habits without any appearance of conscious thought.

The girls help me to set up the game, scattering the floor with hula hoops and familiar manila tags.

No one is sure anymore which of the "standing in the middle of the woods" handwriting is theirs, or even which of the dozens of words they would have used to describe God. How, after all, do you begin to contain the Divine onto the space of a single card?

Some of them went with the sorts of words that Christians have been parsing through for centuries, "immutable," "omniscient." Others chose words that were less pretentious but no less powerful, "grace," "love," "faithfulness."

Today, instead, they talk about bus rides and ridiculous games, and who played with which app on my phone when they were too sun kissed and dirty and exhausted to string together another sentence. And, maybe, in this case, it isn't so different. These are the things that we know, not about God, but about each other -- and, through each other, the things that we know about God.

We know that God is present in our joy, present in our hurt, a soft place to fall back on when we have moved past our ability to do anything else.

Grace. Love. Faithfulness. Steady knowing. The things that they see of God are the things that they have seen in human lives.

In the high schoolers who play truth or dare with them and in the leaders and friends who climb aboard these noisy, smelly busses and commit the time to doing life together. Sure, we're a mess. Put a dozen humans together in any sort of a situation, and there will be mess. But, in the midst of the mess, they are learning how to be human.

So, today, when things are just a little messier than normal, they fall back on those patterns. Drop the barriers of grade or gender; pull in a little closer; circle up a little more often, sit a little more in each other's space. Remind each other with stories of the past, present, and future, that our God is present and patient, that, in all of it, we are never alone.

They can say goodbye to two leaders who they love. They can handle changes with grace. They can move forwards even when they don't know what happens next.

For today, they can run a mutant form of a relay race while the leaders throw dodge balls at them from the balcony. They can collect these familiar cards. They can eat gluten free cookies and deliver cards and pray out loud. They can do everything in their power to honor two people who have been serving in this ministry since they were in preschool.

Because, just like at camp, there are patterns of faithfulness in the midst of the chaos.

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