Tapestry

Sometimes I wonder if I am doing this right.

There are moments when I let myself listen to the well trained part of my soul that whispers that there is a difference between "serving at church" and "going to church," that church is a thing to be sat through, rather than an identity to be lived out, that there is only one right way of doing this thing.

And, then I look into the eyes of my kids.

And, I remember that the Church is a people.

Church is a people that can serve and play and listen and pray and demonstrate to the world what it means to be a living, breathing, messy, beautiful community. So, it's church when I sit in service with my parents, but it's also church when I listen to that teaching later, because the service time is spent living it with my kids.

If the Church is a tapestry, an incomplete work of art, then this is how we weave together the layers of life.

Several of the middle schoolers work in the children's wing. Two layers. We pass each other in the hallway or on the lawn, trailing trains of little people behind us. Three layers. We sit mixed in with them during story or music, or we work together to help tiny fingers finish a craft. High schoolers work alongside and in between and everywhere that they could possibly serve. Four layers.

To sixth and seventh and eighth grade minds, this is what the Body does. Layers upon layers upon layers. Practicing being mature in their faith, but with older hands waiting there to catch them if they start to fall.

And, it's amazing.

I love when they talk to me about 'their kids' the way that I talk about them as 'mine.'

A new sixth grader acknowledges the upcoming transition by asking whether it was weird to teach Sunday school without *brother* and *brother's girlfriend* who graduated from high school this past spring, and I have to smile, even as we talk about what it's like to have a sibling leave for school.

Not because he misses them or because we have changed the world with ninety seconds of conversation, but because of the absolute muddle of categories that just fell from his lips.

Elementary. Middle school. High school. College. Adult.

Even in this big church, with all of it's classrooms and schedules and (much needed) directors of this and that, he somehow understands what it is to be a part of the Body. Everyone mixed up, tumbling over each other, creating stories faster than we can share them, teaching each other, making messes, and learning together: part of the Body.

Over and over, parents and Sunday school teachers and youth leaders have told them that work is worship, that community and relationship and reality intersect with the Divine, that there is Truth and Glory to doing life together.

That the layers help make this thing beautiful.

So, we get glue on our fingers, water on our shirts, and grass on our feet, and we prove to ourselves that these little people who sing Ten Thousand Reasons in lisping baby voices are the Church.

We run and throw balls and answer questions and remember that these middle schoolers who nudge my hands up during music with a quiet, "You forgot," are the Church.

The tiny group of highschoolers, with the boy who remembers to ask how my sister is doing in South Carolina, they are the church.

The adults mixed in with every age and the hundreds of people who sit in any given service.

These are what our portion of the Church looks like on Sundays.

And, it's okay not to be everywhere at once, okay not to be in service, because this is Church, and it's never had much real formula outside of loving Jesus and honoring one another.

Truth

These kids. They're harder to pin down these days, less the wild children who used to run across the parking lot to their favorite tree or laugh and dance and throw the last bits of their donuts.

Tomorrow, if I came with donuts, I would be hard pressed to bring enough for extras. They're growing, and I don't know how their parents feed them, these cavernous creatures who stretch up each time that they see me, marking growth against some invisible line on my arm, my shoulder, my neck.

I can hip check them now with only the slightest bend of my knees, and their shoulder connects with my bicep when they slam the side of their body into mine. "I'm faster." M*t** shoves into me with all of the confident strut of a twelve year old, knowing that I'll drop my shoes and my conversation to chase him. Faster than last year. Faster than last week. Faster than yesterday.

He is. And, it's harder to tell these days which one of us is going easy on who.

At camp, he holds his force when we play chicken on the log, waiting to really tackle me until the end of the week, when he's confident in my ability to stand my own and fly into the water unharmed. But, he refuses to go kayaking without me, and there is something still young and unhindered in his eyes when he asks me to change buses, to ride home with them, when he reminds me a half dozen times that I promised to try.

They aren't quite my littles any longer. But not quite my "big kids" either.

They're middle schoolers: sixth, seventh, eighth graders.

We're learning new steps to an old dance, and sometimes it feels like the curve is too steep for any of us. But, we're figuring it out in that same messy way that we always do.

They show up for a youth group night at a local water park and ask for just enough time to go home and pack a bag before we go back to camp. They're joking, but there's truth behind it. Truth behind the talks about adoption and race and body image, about what they used to be like when they were little.

Truth to the kid who tells me that he isn't having such a good day. Truth behind the smiles that meet mine and truth behind the tears that still come when they find themselves overwhelmed. Truth behind the constant circles on the lazy river where we don't talk at all. Truth to the girls who chain behind me like a trail of ducklings and truth to the boys who reach for a hand out of the whirlpool.

"Wait right there." One of the boys commands after we miss our grip and he is left still spinning in whatever game they're playing. "I want to talk to somebody when I get out."

If he were a little younger, I would tease him about the lack of a 'please,' force him to use manners in the same gentle joking way that we do everything else. Except that he did. I can see it written in every line of his body, the 'please' when he needs it to be his turn. Sooner or later, he is going to make it happen.

I wait for a few moments, but we've (together) been on the wrong side of lifeguards before, and he hates it, so I let go of the wall when she starts giving that look. We never do talk. And, I'm racking up quite the list of kids who would like a quiet stretch of time all their own.

It feels unfinished. Hard to pin down. Messy. But, there is just enough truth to make it beautiful.

Beautiful when they use my towel and when we can't find the showers before we get in. Beautiful when a 7th grade boy wordlessly comes up and passes me a pack of cookies from the cafe. Beautiful when they wave and grin or shoot me with a water cannon. Beautiful when our small group breakout is as scattered and vehement as their thoughts. Messy but beautiful.

August Rush

their 4th and 5th grade sized selves

It's August, and the transition to Fall is nipping at our heels. They are restless, and rightly so. Loose inside bodies that grew like weeds over the summer. Uncertain of where they fit into a new school year. Squirming under the sense that it is almost here - but still so far away.

It is a season filled with worried eyes. With fears that sit half remembered under the surface.

But, also by their confidence.

Not the proud, heady sort, but the quiet kind that trusts me to chase them, to play, to continue without remark when we turn off the lights and a twelve-year-old becomes my shadow. The quiet kind that knows that they are safe and seen and protected.

Because, I am reminded that kids who still don't know each other's names know mine. And, that they use it. Again and again and again. Almost as often as I use theirs. As if we are making each other real. Giving identity to flesh and bone. Creating stepping stones in the muddle that is this transition.

Toby. Gabe. Jonah. Mateo. Gabby.

We're still cashing in on the trust that was built up at camp, using it to carry us through.

They remember when they were "little" and in my small group. Maybe more so now than they ever used to. Because, it's one of those seasons where we go back and trace old threads, where they count back how long they've known me and start to follow one another on Instagram after years without contact, Snapchatting with other kids who remember the storage room or the tree or the constant foot races.

They're deciding who they are, going back and building their own stories.

They've only had a few months to settle into these new grades that they've been given, haven't had the chance yet to test them out in school, and we're at that stage where they feel the need to shake it all up, to see if they can find a better fit. They are testing their wings, creating their own stories, and it becomes a dance to see how much yield there is in this system that has been created.

Boys this way. Girls that. Sixth grade. Seventh grade. Eighth grade.

Summer has reminded them that not all of life is divided into these categories, and they push a little, wondering how firm they really are.

We let them push a little, test, explore, experiment. And, I marvel at how far we have come, from the wide eyed sixth graders who sat as close as they possibly could; from the fifth graders who sat under bushes and covered themselves with bark, pretending to be Peeta; from the fourth graders who used to flip their chairs upside down and use them as spaceships; and from the kindergarteners who we team taught, simply because no one thought to make us stick to the curriculum.

It's August, and this season won't last for more than another week or two. It's a transition, a last holding on before we jump back into the school year. But, we'll take it while it lasts.

Debrief

"It kind of feels like a dream," the girls admit during debrief, "like maybe it didn't really happen."

"I'm not really sure what I learned."

"I think that I got more out of Bridgetown."

"Coming back was a lot easier than I expected."

They mean it. As much as they can be certain this soon after the trip, they mean it. This isn't our first team who came back with Haiti haunting their sleep and waking them up at 4:00 every morning. It isn't our second team who came back with a village in their eyes. This is our third team, and the new girls have made it very clear that they don't like being compared.

So, they were this team, the team that pushed so far beyond even their own expectations of themselves that it doesn't seem real. The team that went expecting to come back with sad stories of impoverished children but never got them.

Instead, they came back with Haiti as just another country. Full of people. Who like some of the same music. Who serve the same God. Who work on the same team. Who have history and struggle and joy. Who dance and sweat and make life work.

Smiles and laughter and playing with kids makes for good pictures, but it's harder to condense into a story. Harder to explain the quiet voices that want to know when you are coming back, the recognition exploding in shy smiles across faces that you never dreamed of seeing again.

You see, there's a strange thing about ministry trips, where you're supposed to come back with gritty stories about poverty and inequality and courage, a quiet whisper of white man's burden that no amount of training can silence; and something in them tells them that they don't fit that mold.

No one was the rescuer, not from Haiti or Curacao, not from the Pacific Northwest or the deep South, and humans aren't quite sure how to tell stories that don't have an us and a them. So they tell it differently here than they do with other people, a little more raw. Both versions are true, but I wonder if this one isn't a little truer.

Can we tell a different truth here and there and still have both be honest? How do we tell the right story, the way that it really happened?

"I think that this year was more about the team than anything else," they start to vocalize it, this thing that they've been sitting on since we got off of that final plane, "more about what God did between us than about coming back with sad stories."

More about smiles and laughter and tears; more about piggy back rides and bandages on bloody knees and feet and shoulders; more about late nights and quiet mornings; more about The Church in all of its grace and messiness.

More about people.

One Week

They say that, "One week makes a difference."

And, it does. I've seen the trust we build during church camp. I've seen the trust that we build here. There are a thousand little things about this camp that make it unique, that make it "Royal Family," but, really, one week here isn't so different.

I have eleven year olds, Leaders in Training, kids who are going to age out of camp this year. Girls the same age as the sixth graders I had at church camp. There were six girls in that cabin and seven in this one, but four counselors instead of two. Night falls and we don't read a story, but I pass out the same flashlights and lanterns that were worn to the end of their batteries by the last set of ten and eleven year olds.

Because, kids everywhere are afraid of the dark. And, it isn't only Royal Family kids who have a reason to be.

There are seven year olds at this camp, though, and curfew reflects that. They aren't tired enough to go to sleep. Instead, they lay, quiet, in a cabin full of strangers, not sure yet if this many grown ups makes them feel safer or more uncertain. They don't get the benefit of church camp, of knowing us before they come up, and there is a tension in their shoulders that I have seen in my boys - even at church camp - when we send them off for a first night with a counselor that they don't know.

Eventually, they sleep, they wake up, we start off the rhythm that is camp.

It's slower, this camp, easier in a lot of ways. Boundaries are pulled tight, and they don't try to push them. This is safety, and they thrive in it. Always enough for seconds and food lines that never stop moving, never make you wait and wonder. Snacks come always, during free time and right before bed, often with a little trinket to hold on to and remember.

Only the final breakfast is nasty and not enough, and I see that fear jump into their eyes. So, we talk about lunch instead, where they are stopping the buses, the park where they will be eating pizza. Because, this fear, also, is more than simply Royal Family.

This is the look that sends our church kids sneaking up through the snack shack or coming late to meals. Because so much time in such a long line leaves too much space to wonder and worry and be afraid. Afraid that there might not be enough. Afraid that you might go hungry. This is why counselors hide food away in their suitcases especially for the bus ride home, when the promise of a stop for snacks is not quite enough to erase the feeling of not having a meal.

This fear too is familiar, this week not so different.

So much of it is similar. We swim and play games, sing songs and dance during chapel. My LIT girls harbor crushes on the LIT boys and they giggle for hours over one of the boys that I know from school. They come out of their shells during camp and then slip back into them as they step off the bus.

The leaving is slower and more drawn out, with kids who don't know that they will ever see their counselor again. We "graduate" the LITs with a certificate and a gift and words of affirmation. Tears come the final morning rather than the final night. For some kids they come both, and stories finally begin to be told as they process what it is that they are going home to. Stories that aren't so different from the ones that we heard around the campfire the final evening of church camp, from kids the same age or just a little older.

And, it isn't the familiar that makes Royal Family different. It isn't the water fights or goofy moments with eleven year old boys. It isn't putting on my playground duty hat and sorting through the stories to get to the bottom of what really happened. It isn't even the nervous way that they struggle to focus with "new strangers" setting up a Birthday party a hundred yards away.

The difference comes in counselors and staff who come back year after year after year. Come back often enough for these kids to trust them. The difference is in kids who know, after five years or countless siblings and foster siblings through the camp before them, that this is a safe place to be.

The ratio that the eleven year old boys have, one camper to one counselor, would scare the crap out of most of my kids, if for no other reason than that our culture has taught them a vague distrust of adult men. There is a steadiness here, though, a consistency of ten years of service, that makes these grown ups seem safe. And, you can't buy that or bottle it or train it into anyone. It simply takes time.

One week makes a difference. But, it is week after week, year after year, of staying the same even when everything else in the kids' lives is changing that makes Royal Family different.

Epic Living

Middle school camp. Where we put a cabin of sixth grade girls to sleep three nights out of five with stories from Tell Me the Secrets. Where we take long kayak rides to play in mud and longer ones the next day just to talk. Talk about camp and homesickness and sticking it through. Talk about school and temptation and which leaders they look up to. Talk about how older kids who haven't grown up in the church might not know the things that they do and how they can help them to learn. And, talk about nothing as we simply drift on the quiet of the river.

Where, this year, we designed the games and we built them around teamwork and trust and cooperation - around listening to each other and watching one another's backs. Where no one won - but no one seemed to notice. Where they are active and running and playing from eight in the morning until eleven o'clock at night. Where we talk about Calvary in the lunch line and on the way up from the riverfront. Where their artwork lines the walls of the chow hall and their prayers decorate the activity center.

Where they are old enough to flirt and think about relationships but still young enough to be completely engrossed in the building of a sand castle. Where sensory input is our friend and we pass out gum balls to stave off the Wednesday meltdowns - when exhaustion and emotion finally begin to catch up with them, and they realize that they don't know what to do with any of it. Where it is acceptable to cry during music and they talk about feeling God during chapel.

Where we circle the wagons just a little tighter than last year and pull them a little closer, until there is no way for lives not to rub up against each other, against the reality of God. Where their fears can bubble to the surface and be wrapped in constant layers of truth. Truth that they are protected, seen, loved, safe. Truth that hard is normal and struggle does not make them broken.

"Jesus died on the cross for my sins."

It's the first thing to spill from their lips when I ask them for a truth that they heard in Sunday night's chapel, a thought or a belief from the speaker. Any other time, it could have been trite or shallow, a Sunday school answer to a Sunday school question, but it isn't, because the next answers aren't ones that we've given them at all. If you really believed that truth, that Jesus died on the cross for your sins, how would that make you feel?

"Good," they tell me, "safe, comforted, protected."

If you felt that way, how do think you would act?

"Loved, loving," they list ways of being rather than specific actions, but they are so spot on and so unified in their answers that I don't stop to correct them, "happy, relaxed, comfortable."

We move on to other truths, and the actions gradually get more concrete, but I can't help but think that this is it; this is Truth; this is gospel. This is the answer to their fears. This is the core of the epic living that the speaker is talking about, the core of the worship stations that they go to, the core of everything that is camp.

"I can feel good, safe, comforted, and protected, because I believe that Jesus died on the cross for my sins; and, because I feel that way, I can be loved and loving, happy, relaxed, and comfortable."

Perfect love as that which casts out all fear.

This is camp. Where there is no alter call, but they don't need it, because I can see the knowledge of God in their eyes every time that I look at them. Where nothing is sacred and everything is. Where we come home and it doesn't feel so much like coming off of a high, because this year was different.

Quieter. Deeper. More honest.

We played hard. I had the sore muscles yesterday to prove it. But, there was so much more to it than simply playing.

"This year was different." The kids try to explain, but they don't have the words any more than we do, and I am left drawing comparisons to Haiti or to the high school winter retreat, because there is a pattern and season to this thing. A season for the truth to break down walls and quiet conversations to be the the things that set hearts free. A season with fewer "extras" but somehow still more fruit.

They were honest and they were together, and God came to do the messy, beautiful, broken, complicated, simple thing that is the Holy Spirit in the lives of believers.

This is middle school camp 2013 - a year for epic living.

Haiti: Flexible

F was for flexible.

Flexible enough to leave the country knowing nothing more than that we were doing anywhere from two to five days of VBS and ending with a day on the beach.

Flexible:

- enough for the music team to shrug and stay deep in the crowd, to connect with kids rather than push their way to the front

- enough to come in from the basketball courts early to plan when we realized that Sunday was not only church, but also the first day of our second VBS

- when departure day came and we were still watching a tropical storm

- when we arrived at HCM to find 90 other team members already still there 

- when the boys had to store their suitcases in the office and hunt for unoccupied bathrooms

- when it looked like we would be sleeping scattered all across the campus

- when we were crowded into vans and bouncing along in the bus

- when a two hour trip stretched out into five

- when 94 degrees and massive humidity still meant long pants, button up shirts, and dress shoes (while playing with kids!)

- when leaving the resort meant slipping back into long skirts and high cut necklines

- when they never knew when or where or what they were going to be eating for lunch

- when snacks were a meal and PB&J was made in a parking lot

- when they didn't know why we were waiting, only that we were

- when nothing at VBS ran according to a clock and when one day's timing was completely different from the next

- when a village was not visited and a hike was talked about but never made

- when flights were delayed and gates were crowded

- when they suddenly realized how much of this language they did not know and how very much there was to learn

- when wifi was a few hours a night on the farthest corner of the highest section of the (flat) rooftop

 - when some kids wanted to sit on your lap and others wanted to shoot you with rubber bands

- when "bring basketball shorts and running shoes" counted as a detailed plan of action for post-VBS activities

- when the answer to, "What are we doing next/now/tomorrow?" seemed to always be, "Whatever they tell us to do."

- when a thousand little things came up that I don't remember because they rolled with them so very naturally

And, mainly:

- when we threw them into a culture that was not their own with a team that had never been all together until the day we took off from the airport

Haiti: Relationship Focused

R was for relationship focused.

It meant that tasks were secondary to people, that it didn't matter if we cleaned up the trash or painted the school so long as there were people who felt seen and heard and loved.

In Haiti, it meant that nothing was more important than getting down low with a kid and just playing.

Joss spent two days of VBS in Carrefour being used as a climbing frame, dripping with beaming little girls who remembered this blanc, the one who loved them well last year and who refused to do anything less this year than to love them even more deeply. 

The girls came off of the soccer field in Fonds Cheval to sing and dance and play clapping games, to hold children on their laps and offer sips of their water bottles. Whitney took the baby that she was handed in Maier and led craft for 100+ kids at a time, all with a child firmly on her hip, because neither was more important than the other.

Kids were hoisted onto backs and shoulders, chased and caught and swung around. Hair was braided and little hands wiped sweat off of bigger faces.

Conversations were held in English and Creole, French and Spanish. Grandparents were introduced and siblings pointed out. Ninja was taught. Dance parties were had. Sunday school teachers came in to help with crafts. Moms stuck around to help coral children.

And, many of their favorite moments came without translators or games or any sort of American style order. They came out of short lessons and simple crafts that were occasionally dropped on the ground the moment they were complete. They came out of names learned and faces memorized and hearts connected.

Zandra downloaded old photos to her phone to prove to children that they were remembered and loved and cherished. Kids who hadn't seen us for two years asked for Jimmy by name. Mariah declared that knowing we were going back to Carrefour was "like the night before Christmas!" Lovna asked about Brennen and joined with dozens of kids in asking when we were coming back - how long would we all have to wait this time, before we saw each other again?

Late nights came with honest conversations about fears and spiritual warfare and waiting for God's best. Lightning storms were met with hands on frightened shoulders and quiet words of praise. They called out the good that they saw in one another and spoke a gentle truth that refused to yield to any of the enemies lies.

And we were left with one of the strongest team that we have ever had.

Relationship wasn't something that happened for a few hours at VBS or during basketball games on the compound. Relationship was every moment of every day.

Haiti: Unity

U was for Unity.

Unity that allowed them to stay up late each night, talking about things that most adults would never even think to ask. Unity that allowed them to wake up tired the next morning after four or five hours of sleep and still great their teammates with grace.

Unity that pretty much worked me out of a job.

At VBS they worked seamlessly, every person pulling their own weight. Fully in, and fully in together.

Tuesday and Wednesday, there were dance parties in the back of the bus, music blasting as they let their otter sides shine through, as they did everything possible to hold back the exhaustion that was pounding at their bodies. And, still, they looked out for one another. Songs were changed without comment, and, when the quietest one began to mouth the words, everyone noticed, exchanging bright, triumphant smiles as if they had just conquered the world.

Prayer happened in tight huddles, arms over shoulders and around backs, ever cautious of sunburns, but wanting, needing, to be close together, to come as a team, a family, a small segment of the Body brought together for just these few days.

"A....men!" The sign would start on their own fist and end on a neighbor's, followed by laughter or cheers as this one simple act turned out to be so very complicated to coordinate. Complicated, but somehow important enough that they kept at it, all the way through to the end of the trip. Tangible proof of their ability to work together.

Often messy, hesitant at first. This proof that they could watch and listen, that they could be tuned in and focused, that they were a team that knew each other and that functioned well.

Four hours of unexpected waiting in the Port Au Prince airport, and they simply sat, talked a little, shared snacks for lunch. Peanut butter pretzels, lifesavers, fruit and nut medley, beef jerky. Riddles and Mad Libs on phones. Quiet, effortless existence, circled up between suitcases and around backpacks.

Most teams take this time to pull apart, to begin to separate, create an existence outside of the trip, but this one stayed close.

There was frustration and moments where heads were about to be ripped off. Twenty-two people crammed together for nine days are going to rub on a few raw nerves. But, over and through all of that, there was a genuine desire to love one another selflessly.

Mariah was sick on the first morning of VBS, and in the midst of the craziness, Nathan asked to pray for her twice. He talked about her in the car, and gave an assessment that her best friends could not have topped. After just a few hours together, he had watched carefully enough to gauge her character.

They were unified because they allowed Christ in them to love, and to love enough to never stop paying attention.

"They will know you are Christians by your love."

Haiti: Servant Hearted

Back when the oldest of these kids were in elementary school, my youth pastor gave us an acronym to pray over our ministry trips. We were asked to pray that the teams would SURF. S was for servant hearted.

That first year that we prayed it was powerful, tangible, as if God was reaching down to grab us by the shoulders and make us see that He did, indeed, answer prayers. And, then, I remembered, and prayed it this year for this team...

In the middle of a long day of fundraising and training, when their eyes are flagging and heads are nodding, I mention another task that needs to be completed, my task, something that I didn't have the time to do before, and they jump on it - across the church and finished before a leader can be quick enough to follow.

There is construction work going on at HCM, another team there prepping for a pastors' conference. Every time that I turn around, there are students asking to spend their precious moments of rest over doing work that "isn't theirs," asking to serve with their hands and their time and their energy. Too tired to go to the lake and swim. Too tired to play games or even really talk. But, not too tired to paint and sand and hammer.

Teenaged boys carefully portion out the food that they put on their plates, making sure that there is enough for everyone, and patiently waiting to see if there is enough for seconds. It seems simple, when a fifteen year old boy eats a single pancake for breakfast and then refuses to crowd to the front of the lunch line, but it is huge, and oh se telling of the truth in these young hearts.

We bump and jostle them and slop out in the liquid in their souls, and still service comes out.

"I'd love to."

They answer with a phrase from a youth pastor they have never really known, and there is humility when they say it, but also an honest pride. Pride that this is good, this is right, this is how life is intended to be lived. Because, really, they would love to.

Love to walk back to the bus to get the bags of water before it can be recognized that they are needed. Love to dance with children in a hot, sweaty church until everything is ready for the next step. Love to play and laugh and run until they are wet with the humidity of it. Love to pile hot, sweaty kids onto their hot sweaty selves. Love to stack rice and suitcases and water filters.

Love to smear each other with aloe and Neosporin. Love to share their snacks in the times when there are not meals. Love to pray. Love to sing. Love to watch like hawks and point out the good in one another. Love to wait. Love to go. Love to clean and wash dishes and pick up trash from under seats.

Whatever it is that you could think to ask, they wold love to.

Haiti: Overview

Haiti 2013. Where we have finally found our rhythm. Or the right group of kids. Or, perhaps, where God has simply chosen to lavish on us the gift of his unity and presence.

"How He Loves Us" rings through the night air, arms wrapped around each other in a huddle that ought to have been ridiculous but somehow makes perfect sense. Small groups of kids stay up to watch each night turn into morning, having real talk on the roof or sprawled out on mattresses. The darkness pulls truth from their lips, and I rarely call curfew until after 1:00am.

They wake up in the morning to birds and roosters, the hum of air conditioning, or the pounce of a teammate, and it takes days before the sleepless nights begin to catch up to them, a Tuesday morning wall that we break through by blasting music on the bus, Matisy*hu to Justin B*iber to Hillsong and back again. And, the smiles never stop.

They are all in like we've never seen before, vibrant and full of life, connecting and giving without inhibition.

Logan is blistered and peeling with sunburn but gives piggy back rides until his shoulder is raw and bleeding. Eva asks for the first aid kit and patches him up on the bus, both of them laughing when she signs the bandaids with a sharpie and hands out a Lifesaver for being a good patient. Joel comes to tease her when the Bandaid on his knee starts peeling off, and she slaps it without ceremony, giving the team another story, another layer to the unity that they are allowing to be built within them.

They stretch three or four phrases of Creole to explain games and hang out for hours without translators. "Jessica, how do you say...?" "What is...?" "Do you know what s/he is saying?" fall often from their lips, and they have somehow learned to release the control of the VBS groups. Three groups some days. Two groups others. "Actual" games and times where there is nothing more than hanging out with kids. Which, in the end, is everything.

There are dance parties and soccer games, circle games and clapping rhythms. Drip, Drip, Drop; Ninjas; and Ring Around the Rosie until everyone is breathless and laughing. Old friends found and new one made. Teenagers that are climbed on like jungle gyms and blancs that are claimed as nearly personal property.

Names drip from American lips like a talisman, as if we are sealing this into reality.

We find out that Becca sounds like the Creole word for "devil," and she slips uncomplainingly into using a name from last year's French class. A tarantula crawls out of the ceiling at a crowded VBS, and Woodson kills it with a branch. Figgins jumps out of the bus and starts directing traffic until we are moving again on a two hour ride that stretches out into five. DP and Alfons go out time after time to get more snacks for churches overflowing with children.

There are hard times, moments where we wonder what on earth the next step is to move forwards from here, but, mostly, it is beautiful. Answered prayer in action. The kind of beauty that takes your breath away and whispers the truth of eternity.

"...all of a sudden I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory

and, I realize just how beautiful you are and how great your affections are for me..."