Telling Visual Stories

Photography is a big thing. If I can't find it on your Tw*tter or your Inst*gram feed, I can pretty safely assume that the trip to the top of Mount Everest that you're telling me about didn't really happen.

But, there is a massive difference between taking a photo of our latest cup of coffee and trying to be the one* to document a short term trip.

*Yes. This should be one person, two if your team is huge or split up, who is in charge of taking all of the "nice" pictures. The rest of you, hand off your cameras. Let someone at your destination show you their world.

One Simple Rule:

Focus on the stories you have permission to tell.

If you are that person, take respectful, honoring photos of willing subjects by focusing on the story of your team. 

Feel free to take pictures of your team eating meals, having devos, hanging out, or riding in a private vehicle. Document beautiful sunrises and incredible night skies. Point the camera at vast stretches of open road and the details of vegetation that make this place uniquely here.

Keep it pointed away from other people.

That kid on the corner may be cute, but, if none of you have gotten to know him, you don't need the picture.

Take pictures with and of people who know that you are taking their picture and have given you the go ahead. If you don't know the names of anyone not-on-your-team in the shot and neither do they, you probably shouldn't be taking it.

This especially applies to babies and small children. A two year old smiling at you is not permission. Getting a candid of one of your teammates chatting with mom and baby when mom knows that you have the camera out and pointed at her is.

Taking the time to talk to mom yourself, getting to know her, and then asking to take a picture to remember to pray, definitely is, so long as you actually mean it.

People are not props.

People's homes and belongings are not props.

Things that you don't understand are not automatically fair game. You're not here for People of WalM*rt or some sort of Fail Blog.

Take pictures of the things that you have been given permission to take pictures of.

Don't be the creepy foreign paparazzi with their cameras stuck out the window as they drive by. You would be sketched out to see someone doing it in your neighborhood. Don't do it in theirs.

A lackluster picture taken with integrity is a thousand times better than a beautiful photograph that treats people like animals in a zoo.

Use your camera to tell stories well.

Telling Stories Well

You've checked your leader, your heart, your camera, and your language skills, and you're ready to head off into the great unknown to bear witness, but how do you do that well?

A few rules that I apply just as imperfectly as anyone...

No one is voiceless:

By our very nature, humans communicate. All of us. All the time. There has never been a person on the planet who was voiceless. 

There may have been no one to hear, no one who cared to listen closely enough to hear or see or feel what they were trying to communicate. But, they have always had a voice.

Your job is to be ears and eyes first, and a megaphone if requested.

You may be in a power position because of your age, gender, ethnicity, economic standing, or country of birth. Go Spiderman on the situation, and use your power well.

Be an amplifier, a megaphone, a platform, proof that at least one person in our big, beautiful, messy world is listening to the things that they have to say. Listen. Watch. Ask questions. And, then, listen some more.

How awesome does it feel when someone lets you blow steam about that frustrating thing that happened or gets excited with you about some random thing from your favorite book? It feels just as awesome to people all around the world when you take interest in the details of their lives.

You're not a "voice for the voiceless" or a superhero or a white savior.

You are witness and servant, the inn keeper on the other end of the Jericho road.

Stories are not yours to take:

It can be tempting to search for the most tragic story, the bitterest despair, the brightest hope.

Don't.

Don't show up in Haiti and start questioning everyone you meet about the earthquake or deplane in Cambodia and ask people about Pol Pot and the killing fields.

Those stories form a deep and intimate part of a person's identity, and they have just as much right to them as they do to their personal possessions. Their stories are theirs. If they chose to share them with you, treat them gently, record them properly, write down the details before you forget them, and check to see how much you have permission to share.

The most precious ones might never leave your heart and your mind. That's okay.

Store them there and let them shape a quiet, intimate part of who you are.

Respect the stories that are never told. People make decisions all the time not to hand strangers the key to the safety deposit box where they keep their diamonds. Someone you have known for less than a week is likely to make the same decision about you.

Unless you are a journalist or working with an organization that has specifically asked you to come in and search out these particular stories, err on the side of moderation in all things.

It is perfectly acceptable to come home with a story about a little girl named Fatima who loves the color blue and draws impeccably symmetrical stars. 

Echo the truth that you are told. It is enough.

Don't make your story their story:

Check the details. Over and over and over again. Check the details.

What you see as a mud hut may be the house that they just finished saving for and constructing for their family.

The rebar sticking out of the roof might be a clever way to avoid paying higher taxes, and the languishing ruins may be new construction being put together brick by brick when there is cash in hand.

What looks like chaos might be carefully orchestrated order, and what seems like order may actually be an office mired down in paperwork.

Ask questions, and, when you think you know, ask more questions. Find out more than what the people and the places look like. Discover what they are thinking, how the feel, what it is that they want you to know.

Use caution not to project felt poverty into places where it isn't or melancholy into places where there is joy.

Your story, the things that you feel and experience while you are in their spaces, the thoughts that go through your head or the prayers that want to spring from your lips, those are yours. They are valid. But, take care that they don't spill out over the edges of where they belong.

Your story is not necessarily theirs.

Don't make their story your story:

Conversely, their story is not yours.

You have not walked through the things that they have walked through or thought the things that they have thought precisely in the way that they have thought them.

There will be moments where you feel your shared humanity so deeply that it seems as if you share a soul.

Hold on to those, but don't let them overtake you.

You don't have to let yourself be overwhelmed by the overwhelming.

Grieve when you need to grieve. Laugh when you need to laugh. Take your process. But, remember that God is writing a story that is uniquely yours.

You may not spend the rest of your life marked by the things that have marked the people you meet, and that is okay.

You have permission to move on, to remember without thinking about it every moment, to make it a part of you without letting it consume the whole.

God is the only one big enough to carry someone else's story, and He already bore that burden on the cross. You can let it go and search instead for the beauty that is present in the midst of any pain. His is the only story worth letting into every portion of your life.

Remember the big picture:

There is always more than what you see in a week or two. More than what you see in a month or a year.

If you feel like there is a problem that isn't being addressed or a story that is being swept under the rug, ask about it, but be willing to accept that the answer might include things that you haven't been able to see or experience.

Trust that not everything has to change before you leave.

Just because this isn't your home doesn't mean that it isn't someone else's.

They were here working long before you heard of this trip, and they will continue to be here long after you've unpacked your suitcase.

Remember that life will continue in its big ball of wobbly wobbly timey wimey stuff, even in the moments where you are not here to bear witness. (Really, remember it; it takes a lot of pressure off!)

Go. Listen. Watch. 

Learn. Love. Serve. Be served.

Tell stories well.

Before You Go On That Ministry Trip

Before you get on the plane for that short term missions/ministry trip...

Check your leader:

Can you follow the person who is going to be leading your trip? What about any other leaders who are serving under them?

There needs to be at least one leader on the trip who you are able to listen to without question.

This isn't because short term missions trips are a dictatorship, but because there will be moments when leading a team cross culturally (or anywhere) where there simply will not be time to explain.

Explanations and questions can come later. Most trip leaders will welcome even your most probing thoughts, but the middle of church service/the market/public transportation might not be the most appropriate time to ask.

Can you be as responsive to the seemingly inane requests of your leader to cross your legs, uncross your legs, change clothes, put on different shoes, lower your voice, look somewhere else, use the other hand, etc as you are to the "big" requests that are simple to understand?

If you can't, what choices do you need to make? Do you need to meet with one of the leaders? Get to know them better? Wait for a later trip or go with a different group?

The way that your group interacts will likely communicate more about Christianity than any words you could say or any service you could perform. Make sure that you are able to follow well.

Check your heart:

Are you going to bear witness to someone else's story? Or, are you going because you want to add a cool new chapter to your own?

There is an entire industry and global economy built around giving people new experiences in new places. It's called tourism, and it can be a soul stretching, eye opening, heart stopping way to expand your horizons, but tourism isn't missions, and missions isn't tourism.

You should be going to bear witness to other people's stories and primarily to bear witness to other people's stories.

It doesn't matter if you have an incredible skill that fills a felt need of the local community in a developmentally appropriate partnership. If you are a terrible listener, someone will probably want to strangle you within twenty-four hours.

They won't. But, why spend hundreds or thousands of dollars just to be a pain in someone's neck? You have friends and family at home that you can provide that service to for just a fraction of the cost.

Instead, be ready to listen, look, learn, and then serve (or be served) as asked.

Stories are powerful. Powerful enough to take the time to hear them - and occasionally tell them - well.

And, yes, of course I have opinions on what that looks like.

Check your camera:

Is it a real camera? Like a not-a-phone, old school piece of equipment with a slightly dusty screen that you had to dig out of your parents' sock drawer?

That's what you want to bring.

Because, no one wants to sit there worrying that the kid running around with your camera is going to accidentally switch on the data plan and earn you a cell bill the size of Texas when you could be playing clapping games or engaging in conversation or doing whatever else your hosts have asked of you.

Unless you are the one or two people that your team has designated to take respectful, honoring photos of willing subjects, your camera isn't a tool to make yourself look more awesome or capture the perfect selfie.

It's another way to bear witness, a chance to let another person show you a glimpse of the world through their eyes.

Your language skills may not be the sharpest, but a picture speaks a thousand words. Put your camera in someone else's hands, and let them show you what is important about the day, the event, the moment. The answers can teach you a lot.

This means building relationships to the point where you know who it is appropriate to hand a camera to and where to find them if they wander out of eyesight. It means learning names and personalities and who that one kid is who you shouldn't hand the camera to, because they will get distracted and drop it into the nearest puddle of liquid.

You might not get the perfect profile pic, but you will get a new perspective.

And, finally...

Check your language skills:

Are they up to par for what you plan to be doing on the trip?

If you're going to be working with kids, learn to ask about ages and siblings and favorite colors. Learn to ask adults about family and life and spirituality.

Learn the names of common objects that you'll be interacting with - and the all important skill of asking what something is called.

You would be confused if someone came on a ministry trip to the United States without learning any English. Expect the same reaction from your hosts and then be grateful when they choose not to show it.

Language is communication is relationship.

Learn as much as you can before you go, and learn more when you're there.

It will probably feel like your brain is about to explode and your tongue is tying itself up in knots, but that's okay. You (hopefully) didn't sign up for this trip because they promised you that it would be easy.

This is important enough to put some effort and sweat and tears into. The God who understands every language on the planet thinks that this one is just as rich and beautiful as the one that you grew up with. Worship through the work of learning new sounds.

Check your leader. Check your heart. 

Check your camera. Check your language skills.

Pack your bag.

Go, and love like Jesus there the same way that you love like Jesus here.

A 'Sheepfold' Full of Awesome Kids

"Say hi to S*th!" My camper twines behind me, all little girl giggles and a face that is almost but not quite buried into my side as she gives the instruction.

"Hi, ***." He acknowledges her, and she lights up like she has just been given the world.

One of "the teenagers" knows her name.

Because, my girls are pretty convinced, along with forty other campers, that the CITs are the best thing to ever grace the face of this campground.

The CITs swim with them; help them activities; stay while they fall asleep at night; join us for meals; serve at specials; run the puppets; lead the music; and act in the all important drama as sheep, shepherds, and the big bad wolf. Essentially, every single CIT is a super hero.

A green clad, goofy, loving, tender picture of the Jesus that we've been telling them about all week.

The fastest my cabin moves is when I offer to let them put stickers on the letters to some "teenagers." And, believe me, fast is not a common pace around cabin three. Fast means that they think that the CITs hung the moon.

And, you should never try to argue with forty-one kids.

So, I won't.

Half of the CITs are my cluster girls. Several of them are kids that I have known since birth. Every single one of them is incredible.

Responsible. Flexible. Loving.

Jesus shines through them in a thousand little moments, and I find myself wishing that I could bring their other leaders here to see this, teleport in a room full of adults just to share my pride in these kids. Because, they are rocking it.

Not in the flashy way that they could be, but just quietly, calmly doing every single thing that is asked of them, whether it's learning a new song for chapel or staying in the bathroom to supervise teeth brushing while one of us runs back to the cabin to get some forgotten item.

Taking kids out on the lake in a canoe - and then doing it again the next day, even when it was less than their favorite thing the first time.

Cramming so many tasks into a single day that it makes my head spin.

Consistently amazing.

These are our kids, my girls, these no longer littles but not quite grown ups who seem to serve as naturally as breathing.

And, I struggle to find the words to adequately explain myself. Because, they are incredible when they serve, but not only incredible because they serve. Awesome at what they do, but also awesome by default, as there is a Christ in them that defies description.

Because their hearts are gorgeous and their minds are brilliant, and I am pretty sure that scripture becomes a little more real every time that I am around them.

Because my leader's eyes see the promise and the presence of Jesus in their faces and their actions, hear it in their voices, and feel it as my girls walk a little faster to get to the line of high fives waiting in front of the dining room door.

Our CITs really are some of the best in the world.

One Week - RFKC

One week makes a difference.

It's scrawled over everything we do like a promise, a pledge.

One week of braiding hair and letting hair be braided; brushing teeth in the bathroom and outside the cabin; wrapping warm towels around cold girls and celebrating the sunshine when it comes.

One week to go canoeing, take apart old electronics, build things with Grandpa, and play on the wobbly bridge.

One week to cram in two polar bear swims, a birthday party, tea party, hike, bonfire, and fancy dinner; sing Fr*zen, run, laugh, hear the same rap a thousand times, and pass out dozens of stickers as we try to coax perpetually distracted girls into some semblance of being on time.

One week to watch as God is faithful in the little things that are not so little. Like the last minute phone call that got me here in the first place; the Haiti training that doubled as make up training for RFKC; the $250 fee that was waived so that camp cost me $30 in snacks and sunscreen and a couple of hours of crafting decorations.

And, the fact that, out of 41 campers, one of mine was a little girl that I know from school. An eight year old who I loaded onto the bus for a final time expecting never to see again.

Until I got the call for camp and realized that she might be there. Until I sat down with the social worker on Sunday morning and heard the names of my campers. Until she stepped off of the bus and that quiet face slipped into a grin and started pointing out the heights of the trees around us.

Two little eight year olds paired up with two ten year olds to form the Royal Cabin Three.

Imperfect and messy. Last ones in the dining hall. Last ones in the pool. Last ones out of the bathroom. Late to so many things that being "not last" was cause for celebration. Just getting there an event in and of itself.

Pockets that were often emptied of sticky fingered treasures. Apples from the dining hall. Sheep figurines from the table. Scarves and necklaces from dress up.

Worried little eyes always checking on the next meal, eyeing the dishes, mentally calculating to decide if there is going to be enough.

Nightlight on the wall and a flashlight or lantern in bed with each girl to hold back the dark.

But also Royal Family side hugs and arms over shoulders as we walk. Hands in mine and little girls who lean in close during chapel.

Girls who whisper read Bible verses to each other before bed and teach the new one the hand motions to well loved music until she can do them herself, and shy giggles that hide behind me as they ask for more of something in the dining hall or greet one of the teen staff or counselors.

Singing songs as we walk and racing through inflatables. Quiet times in a canoe and carefully building robots out of junk with grandpa as they repeat my hammering instructions back to me. "Gentle at first, and then be a beast."

Smiles and laughter and forgiveness when we explain why we gave that instruction that didn't make any sense. Shoes slipped on feet and hair brushed back from faces.

"I am looking for girls who..."

"I see..."

"Did you hear so and so's words?"

"Can you use your big voice?"

"Use your listening ears."

"Let's honor so and so by..."

"You guys are awesome!"

"Good for you!"

"Way to rock it at...!"

We wrap them in words and careful touch and a dozen notes in their mailboxes the same way that we draped the cabin in green and blue before they came. Coffee filter sheep and verses about the Good Shepherd on paint chip bunting. Fabric streamers and tissue paper flowers.

Relationships that flow as naturally as breathing.

Simple because we've already learned these lessons. Because the one who guides us has already led us beside these waters, into this place where the only thing that we can offer is the consistency of five day camp full of too many new things to count.

Because we may not know the end game, but we do know this week. 

And, when the little one who is moving cities a few hours after we get "home" uses being closer to this place as a comforting point of reference, It's easy to believe that this one week - year after year of this one week - is enough to make a difference.

Easy to believe that our Good Shepherd really loves them just as much as He says He does.

Lessons Already Learned

Back from R*yal Family in awe.

In awe of the one who works all things together for good, who folds lessons over and on top and around each other again until these thin ropes form a net thick enough to hold my weight. The weight of all my imperfections and uncertainties. Of all my hesitations and the moments where the words simply will not come.

Because, my kids can tell you that I'm really good at spontaneity - so long as I've had enough time to plan it all out beforehand.

Throw me into a situation that I don't have a contingency for and just watch me start to sweat.

It's part of the reason that I read and learn ALL. THE. TIME. You just never know when that piece of information might come in useful. If you know better, you can do better, so I sure as heck better know better.

Because, let's be honest. This.

I'm going to try to figure it out. Quietly. In my own head. At my own time.

But, the one who created me also knows me. Knows that I needed to learn these lessons someplace that is not Royal Family and its constant inundation of humanity. Beautiful. Messy. Smashed together. Trying our best, humanity. But, nonetheless, people - everywhere, constantly.

So, He gives the grace to walk through familiar lessons already learned. Because, in His perfect timing, I have already had these teachers.

D*n**l taught me as his third grade Sunday school teacher what it means to communicate an expectation without shaming.

Another D*n**l teaches me weekly what it looks like to step back and allow a kid the time for their own process, give them the space to chose the awesomeness that Christ in them is capable of.

D*sh**n taught me the cool calm to deal with sticky fingers, the gentle taking back and the quiet promise to return it for them to its place.

He also taught me about the subtlety of triggers; the speed with which a child can fly from smiles and hard work to (literally) screaming fear; and the desperate need for a narrative, no matter how fabricated, that will let you fit in.

S*th taught me what it feels like to have someone smaller pit their will against my own and how to choose which battles aren't worth fighting.

M*tt** taught me to never stop paying attention.

And, J*sh and S*rg** taught me what it looks like when a child is afraid of not having enough food.

M*r*nd* taught me how to keep things low key.

J*nny the subtle difference between attention seeking and a desperate need to be seen.

*pr*l taught me when to step back.

M*t** the physical importance of making myself visible.

Skyl*r and J*c*b the importance of a name.

Ch*s* taught me the power of consistency and the magic of lending out a sweatshirt or a bracelet.

Tys*n taught me that just being present can sometimes be enough.

R*b*cc* that a silly song can be repeated so often that it becomes a memory.

Tr*sty*n and S*r*n* the clapping games that the girls in my cabin already knew.

And, more kids than I can name have worked together to teach me the power of touch. (If you are older than middle school, please be patient, I am still working on that one.)

Dozens of kids over fourteen years of this teacher/leader/counselor gig. Dozens of teachers. Hundreds of lessons. Because, heaven knows that patience is not my natural state of being. That gentleness and mindfulness needed to be taught.

And so, I come back in awe of the one who would surround me with so many messy, smiley, sweet, and sassy little opportunities to learn.

Anniversary Showing

Two years ago we were rolling out plastic flooring in a church gym for the first showing of SOLD, not sure if it would ever go any farther or even if people would show up.

Today we can pull into the local community college with almost a dozen seasoned volunteers on our "travel team" list, people who can come together to lead this thing in any city where we could think to send them.

We can laugh at the quirks of it all, the memories of where that green bubble wrap came from or why we do it this way now instead of that way. Go slow and deliberate and still set it up or tear it down in two and a half hours instead of the once upon a three or four. Tease each other and laugh about the days when we used to walk on egg shells, uncertain of what we were getting ourselves into.

And, it's good.

Good to be able to step back far enough to see which site volunteers can take on more responsibility. Good to be able to hand them a procedure notebook and a pile of bins and set them loose on the decorating. Because, yes, we have procedure notebooks now. Careful lists and pictures to document every step of the process.

Good to stand around in the trailer and talk about the future that is coming faster than any of us could have ever anticipated.

An East Coast/ Mid West college tour with the Live Love Movement that will take us farther than we we've ever been before. A month of sending teams back and forth across the country to set this thing up and tear it down as many times as we can get away with.

A partnership with Hope Outfitters and their brand new t-shirt design for the months of May and June.

A constant stream of emails and cost estimates and purchase orders.

Because, it's not just my baby anymore. Not just a random collection of sketches in the back of a notebook. Not just an innocent question to my dad of, "Can we build this? Will it stand up?"

And, it seems so strange to think of the post-Haiti conversations that led us here. The quiet moments on a back porch with the youth pastor's wife, sipping from glasses of kombucha while she processed through a response to the things that we had seen and heard. The offhand challenge just before a meeting with the outreach pastor of, "We should see if there is some kind of an anti-trafficking exhibit we could bring in."

The long internet searches and the impossibly small budget that we set to build one ourselves. Piles of lumber in a borrowed barn and friends and family huddled around to examine donated blueprints in the biting cold.

The moving walls and moving walls and moving walls again. Countless volunteer hours and vacation days. Until somehow we have gotten here. Here where it isn't mine anymore and hasn't been for a long time. Here where this thing has taken on a life of its own.

Challenge, Comfort, and Trying Again

Third time's the charm for my seventh graders.

Third week of trying to get back into the storage room. Third week of trying to sit together in this loose clump of familiar bodies.

They cluster together even before I sit down, and it feels like I might have done something right back in their 4th and 5th grade years, when getting to know each other was first priority of every giant small group. Scatter for a game and then form back up.

Whisper questions and comments and stray thoughts as the eighth grade leaders farewell a class of kids. Sit with toilet paper rolls over their ears and my phone in their hands. Play with rubber bracelets that have the church focus inscribed in bold, red lettering.

LOVE: as I have loved you

And, this is love. Not that we loved Him, but that He first loved us.

Loved us when we were a mess. Taught us to heal and comfort and challenge. To sit in both the presence of our own brokenness and His glory. To love small and to love extravagantly. To live in the tension of the Kingdom.

"I get down." The lyrics to the song burst from 4th and 5th grade lips around me, light in their eyes as we squat to the ground like frogs, just waiting to spring up as high as we possibly can, to take flight for just a millisecond. "He lifts me up. I get down. He lifts me up."

They burst in the doors this morning with a cry of, "Jessica!" Only four of them, but five for now, because we've picked up a little 4th grade tag along.

"Can I sit with you?" He eyes the name tags that the girls have stuck to the front of my shirt, the flip flops that have come off my feet, the name badge that they pass between each other, and the yellow lightsaber that dangles from it. A rainbow loom creation that one of the girls presented me with this morning.

"Sure." I nod and we make space for a squirmy boy in amongst my squirmy girls. This kiddo who sits on my flip flops like a wiggle disk and presses his own name tag onto my knee as we both sit cross legged in this tight little mass of humanity.

We break out to our space under the stairs to talk about 1st and 2nd Peter and watch goofy YouT*be videos. Pass out Bible study pages and silver star stickers. Color and draw and just generally enjoy one another as we talk about next year and the transitions that are coming.

Switch over into second hour and the middle schoolers who are ready to try again.

"Can you take us? Just for five minutes?"

He pops into a lull in conversation, already poised to take off, as if I couldn't help but answer him yes. Yes, I'll go with you. Yes, you can have five minutes of my time. Yes, you still have the right to ask. Yes, I see you. Yes, you matter.

"Yes." I glance at the clock and take off after his lengthening legs, marveling a little at this growing up that he has done, these new words and new actions. No longer quite the little boy who used to come in with wild eyed looks and dance through chaos until I wrapped my arms around him and held on tight. Steady in the trust that there is always next week, always another chance.

We go up and come back, and he almost walks past me when it is time to sit for the lesson. Almost, but not quite.

Instead, I reach out a hand to grab his foot as he walks past, this growing one who still speaks in the bumps and collisions of middle school boys, and he nudges my arm in response, trying to jump back before I can tag him. Trying, but not too hard. Because this dozen times back and forth is talking. Because the words not spoken could fill a book. Because this is invitation given and accepted, and he settles into the clump of bodies without appearing to give it a second thought.

"Yahweh, Yahweh," voices echo across the polished concrete floors at the end of the hour, "we love to shout your name, oh Lord!" and M*dd** laughs when I mention that the song always makes me think of one of the missing boys, smiling as she nods and gestures to the place in front of me, as if she can picture my hands settling on his shoulders as he throws back his head and yells.

Because, three weeks missing is made smaller against four years of presence. And, this might just be the smallness and the consistency of extravagant, Jesus style love.

For these hours, on this day, in this place, this is a tiny part of what it means to be the Church. A Church that shows up and messes up and come back to try again. A Church that trusts that, in Him, we have the power to do this right.

Log Removal

We jog through the nearly empty sanctuary between services, and an older gentleman I've never met stops them just in front of me with a chiding glance.
"This is a church. Be respectful."

Walk. He means. Don't run. Don't jog. Don't disturb the peace.

And, I bite back the theological snark that wants to spring to my lips.

'No, sir.' I want to pull the boys beside me and quietly explain. 'This is a building. These are the church. You are the church.'

'Seven days a week, the church that is in these boys runs and jumps and shouts, the way that you did when you were ten and thirteen. These are the church. Honor them the way that they are trying too honor you.'

Because, I know these boys. See them differently than a stranger ever would. I know the speed that they could be moving and the screams that could be coming from their throats. I hear their silence and see the smooth jog through empty spaces where there is no one to be disturbed. And, I see the way that they are making decisions right now. Decisions about you and the Jesus that you represent.

Because, I am hoping and praying that, even as we slow to a walk, they understand.

Understand that these halls are theirs as much as they are yours. That they have a place here and a right to be seen. A right to be honored just as they have a right to honor.

Hoping for an understanding and a response that is beyond their years.

That they will be humble and responsive, and all of the things that children are meant to be to adults, but that their hearts will whisper truth despite it. That they have seen church done, been a part of community enough times, to know what to do.

Hoping that I will know what to do.

"But wisdom that comes from above is first of all peaceable, gentle, willing to yield."

One of the verses that I sent home with my fifth graders echoes through my head as we slip through a shortcut, grab what we came for, and head back.

And, I can't judge him too much, this gentleman who probably came to church this morning planning to love Jesus Style but didn't quite get it right.

Didn't get it quite right, like my boys who walk halfway through the sanctuary on the way back and then burst into a jog that is part respect for my time and part defiant snark.

Like me, when the boys leave something out of place, and, rather than pick it up for them or with them, I call them out and back up the request with a threat that I never intend to keep. Or, when one of them complies, and I respond to the other with biting sarcasm.

Because, there is this log in my own eye that I need to clear before I can begin to complain about the speck in his. This lie that says that I can will them into acting "right." Bully them into being less afraid. Shame them into living like they know they are loved.

"If you can't be responsible," my words press down on all of the vulnerable spots of this kid who is only trying to use me as a safety net, "then we won't be able to do this again."

And, it sounds like a natural consequence, but it isn't. I'm not retracting a privilege. I'm retracting my presence.

Doing this so not like Jesus that it is nonsense. Absolute nonsense.

They are thirteen. Not thirty. Learning. Not perfect. Messy. Anxious. Swamped in the uncertainty of middle school. Fighting to trust.

We're here because something feels off kilter in their worlds. Because, since they were tiny little kindergarteners, we have operated under the assumption that their behaviors meant something. That they didn't just wake up this morning with a devious plan to drag me along as they gave a random stranger conniption fits.

We're here because they woke up this morning needing five extra minutes of my time.

Here because I needed Light to shine into my own soul and expose the dark, messy spaces. Needed to walk down these quiet steps, reach into my own eye, and yank.

 "The eye is the lamp of the body. You draw light into your body through your eyes, and light shines out to the world through your eyes. So if your eye is well and shows you what is true, then your whole body will be filled with light."
Matthew 6:22

Second Chances and Precious Time

It's gorgeous outside this morning, and we do our best to take advantage of it. Bright orange yarn that we pass back and forth between us, each criss cross another recitation of the verse, until the web is strong enough to support a Bible. Three of them, actually.

Build pyramids and run slalom through long rows of trees. Laugh and encourage and pull faces for the camera.

Tuck back into our space under the stairs and talk about Hebrews and James. Practice going through the Bible study sheets, and watch their faces light up at the idea that the book of Hebrews could have been "written by a girl."

For the first time all year, they annotate the front of our books of the Bible posters, making their careful note in silver pen.

Fifth grade has never been a time when I present theories or go into the complications of Biblical cannon, but this is important to them. Important for my little Ravenclaw girls to know that someone who shared their anatomy may have done more than starred in a rare Old Testament story or been a part of the New Testament church. Someone like them may have taught, may have led (did teach, did lead), may have known things, may have written things down.

May have shaped the Church, and, through that, may have shaped history.

The knowledge sends lightening through their bodies, and I can see them, just for this moment, taking a new ownership of this thing that we call Scripture.

"Hey," M*t** greets me with a gentle foot between my shoulder blades while I am still sitting circled up with the girls and then dances out of reach, "do you have gum?"

Today is a do over, a reset, a once again chance to prove that we understand one another.

"Yes." The cluster of smaller hands that follow his feel like proof that we are doing something right: the remainder of my girls; a ten year old, his face bright with star stickers from my box, who is the fourth sibling in his family to know me as a leader and whose sister leads this same small group second hour; the oldest son of a man who probably taught one of the first lessons on missions that I ever heard.

These stories that twist back around each other, criss crossed and overlapped like the string that we played with earlier, until they are strong enough to hold us up. Strong enough to bear the weight of all our mess and triumph.

He is light and goofy and close, and I know without asking that we will be going to the storage room today. That we'll be making good on last week's promise.

There are other conversations in between. 6th graders. 7th graders. 8th graders. 9th graders. This mix of boys and girls. High schoolers and middle schoolers. Adults and kids. Leaders' meetings that fluctuate wildly between the serious and the absurd.

"Can you take us now?" He slips into a quiet moment between a sixth grade new/old arrival and seventh grade conversations, and we go. One barefoot. One stocking footed. One still in shoes. Through the building that we know like the familiarity of our own homes.

Go to cover old stories and make new memories.

Skid back into the Gallery just as the leaders are being called up to the stage for breakout groups where he slips off to join a clump of his friends and I am swarmed by half a dozen sixth and seventh grade girls while we talk about the "one anothers."

Play a game, take some selfies on my phone, and head for home.

Made it to the storage room. Didn't quite make it to sitting together. And, I'm sure that he's already plotting for next week and another chance to try again.

I don't have much to offer them in the physical. A stick of gum. A promise that their selfies will end up on Inst*gram before the end of the day. A solid body to act as an anchor for these few minutes on Sunday morning.

But, we can create memories. Memories like the donut fight that still brings a smile to the face of the eighth grader who comes in between services to pick up his fifth grade little sister. Ridiculous moments that, even three years later, still make them feel "claimed." Make them feel like a few short weeks were long enough to belong.

For this hour and a half, I can give them my time. Time that might make it a little easier to believe me when I talk about this Jesus and a massive Love that wants to sweep us away.

May the 4th Be With You

It's May the 4th,  and we do Star Wars all day just because we can. Because the sun is out in fits and starts. Because summer is almost here but not quite, and the kids aren't really sure if they want to speed up the clock or slow it down. Because there are lightsabers, and why would we not?

My fifth graders are a squiggling mass of energy that bursts in the doors to tackle me with hugs and words and noise and wild energy. The cut outs on their notebooking pages are all jagged edges and hasty streaks of glue, a crooked pile of papers that I'll sort out another day - some time when there aren't children to hold on to.

When my hands don't need to be constantly busy, landing on shoulders, curling over fingers that want to poke their friends, gesturing to turn front or keep their eyes on the speaker. When this one isn't leaned against my knee and that one isn't drawing a flower onto my skin. When I'm not sliding one across the floor so that he's sitting with our group or looking at the half dozen things that they have found in their Bibles.

When my lips don't need to whisper quiet explanations during story or murmur "later" when they ask for stickers or gum or whether or not we're going to play a game.

Because, these kids are more important than the papers will ever be. These ones who slip into our spot under the stairs to talk about two new-to-us books of the Bible and try to beat my score at Flappy Bird. Who want to know "where we're going today." Who are almost in sixth grade but not quite.

Today. Today we're going out to the grass with a bag full of lightsabers, K*d*n hopping along on one foot as he tries to preserve his good socks while still finishing the decorations on the bottom of his shoe. Today, K*yl* will scrape her foot on the sidewalk but jump back into the game anyways. J*yd*h will prove herself fierce with a lightsaber, and they will have a giant battle until they are breathless.

Five lightsabers and seven kids means that they drop their weapon anytime that they are hit and read me off the memory verse before they are allowed back into the rotation. "A new command I give you," H**l*y and H*yl** race each other to finish first, to get to the blue and silver plastic that was just thrown onto the grass, "love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another." 

*n*k*'s voice layers over theirs as they finish, and, when we finally go inside, K*r*ss* beelines for the memory booth, suddenly confident enough to recite.

"By this, everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another."

"LOVE:" the band from middle school is wide and obvious around my wrist, red letters dark against the gray, "As I Have Loved You," and I have to wonder at the half way sassy response from one of the kids, "But, I like being alive."

If Jesus loved us enough to die for us, the simple logic turns behind their eyes, then does #JesusStyle love mean dying too? Or does it mean this? Does it mean carefully placing stars on a waiting forehead, blue, gold, and green bright above sparkling fourth grade eyes? Or, passing out the gum that one of my seventh graders has taught them to ask for?

"Will you take me and D*n**l to the storage room today?" He steps into place beside me, this thirteen year old man/boy who carries around a piece of my heart with the same easy confidence of so many of my kids.

He knows that I'll say yes. Just as clearly as he knows that he could get there without me. Because we both know that he's done it on his own a dozen dozens of times. That the question and the answer aren't about a place but about a state of being. About a chance to simply be.

And, here is where the narrative falls apart a little, where we're still trying to sort out this ever changing dance that is middle school: D*n**l doesn't come this week. The trip doesn't happen. Instead, we talk a little in the precious quiet before a leaders' meeting, and then, he glues himself to one of the high school guys, always just within eye sight as they roll on the floor like puppies - if puppies were to put each other in head locks.

He loves it, loves being roughhoused with and held onto, but I can also watch him, see him still trapped inside his own head. This is good, but it isn't quite what he thought he wanted, so we sort of muddle our way through making the pieces fit. Dance a little bit off beat, off step, and syncopated, the way that the boys like to clap on the in between of the rhythm during music.

Lightsabers and spagetti noodles in the grass. Selfies on my phone and kiddos who are tucked in so tight that we're nearly sitting on the same piece of floor.

My hands are busy again, flicking shoulders and curling over fingers that want to poke at their friends, tapping my temples and pointing forwards in a years old reminder to focus on the music. There are lightsaber battles after Sunday school and whispered explanations during the lesson. Conversations and laughter and never enough time. Slowly growing up, but still a thousand times my kids. 

It might be messy, rough around the edges and held together with jagged streaks of glue, but this is how we love. This is how we try to prove that grace is enough.

This is #JesusStyle.