We sit on the floor at church for both 4th grade and middle school Sunday school, scattered in clumps, some weeks curled closer than others. Each week my phone comes out of my pocket, and, every week, in middle school, we close our eyes to pray and I open them to find a small hand just hovering, waiting for an inconspicuous moment in the lesson to reach out and borrow it.
They pass it down the line, back and forth, until it has been disabled for an hour, and their eyes spark with silent laughter, as pleased as if they had just invented the first joke.
It's simple, silly, one of those pointless things that happens purely because I can see no reason to make it not happen. It happens once, and then twice, and then folds into the rhythm of our dance. And, we add another layer to the feeling that they belong here. We add another line to their histories.
And, slowly, they start to open up, to talk about the things that I know, but that the other leaders have never heard before. We ask about broken promises and their hands shoot up, because, yes, we actually raise our hands this year, instead of all talking at once. The words spill from their lips for just a few short minutes: words about moms who were supposed to be better after a brain surgery but aren't, not the way that they thought, at least; words about moves that were supposed to be to Tennessee but ended up here instead; words that I know to be truer than most of what we hear from them in these quick little break out groups.
Because, growing up, like so many other facets of human life, seems to come in seasons for them, cycles that we repeat year after year, with the changes that are so subtle that I have to look back in order to see them. Lent is a season for words.
M*dd** and *nn* are more likely, in this season, to share stories. M*dd** is more willing to pray out loud. K*r*n vocalizes connections she's making and J*d*n leans over to ask me questions during the lesson.
It is also the season where they are most likely to be found just standing, quietly, beside me. *nn* sits closer. M*t** fights with himself, bouncing in and out of my range, testing the boundaries of how far he can go and how close he can come. M*tt** hones in each week like I have a beacon on my forehead, and, at each transition, he does something to get "caught," my hands redirecting on his shoulders or my arm looped around him in a head lock.
We've done this before, this season of Lent, these behaviors, this growing. But, the stories come clearer this year, with fewer tangents and a better sense of their audience. The questions and connections have a greater sense of knowledge behind them, a deeper understanding of the world, and the prayers come out stronger and more confident.
The standing is more settled, less anxious, the testing less extreme, more willing to yield. The actions are toned down and the "catches" are quicker, more aware, although more frequent to make up for the difference.
And, they're not going backwards, no matter how familiar it feels, because growing up doesn't happen along a straight line. It's around and around, season following season, a spiral that climbs a little higher each year.
So, it is Lent, and they have words and proximity. Soon it will be Easter, and they will be anxious. And, then. And, then. And, then.
They will continue to grow and to change, to move a little closer to "someday" and whatever it holds. They'll get taller and stronger and faster and more confident, and, for however long God has me here, I am going to thoroughly enjoy being a part of helping it to happen.
Even when it means that they lock my phone.
And, slowly, they start to open up, to talk about the things that I know, but that the other leaders have never heard before. We ask about broken promises and their hands shoot up, because, yes, we actually raise our hands this year, instead of all talking at once. The words spill from their lips for just a few short minutes: words about moms who were supposed to be better after a brain surgery but aren't, not the way that they thought, at least; words about moves that were supposed to be to Tennessee but ended up here instead; words that I know to be truer than most of what we hear from them in these quick little break out groups.
Because, growing up, like so many other facets of human life, seems to come in seasons for them, cycles that we repeat year after year, with the changes that are so subtle that I have to look back in order to see them. Lent is a season for words.
M*dd** and *nn* are more likely, in this season, to share stories. M*dd** is more willing to pray out loud. K*r*n vocalizes connections she's making and J*d*n leans over to ask me questions during the lesson.
It is also the season where they are most likely to be found just standing, quietly, beside me. *nn* sits closer. M*t** fights with himself, bouncing in and out of my range, testing the boundaries of how far he can go and how close he can come. M*tt** hones in each week like I have a beacon on my forehead, and, at each transition, he does something to get "caught," my hands redirecting on his shoulders or my arm looped around him in a head lock.
We've done this before, this season of Lent, these behaviors, this growing. But, the stories come clearer this year, with fewer tangents and a better sense of their audience. The questions and connections have a greater sense of knowledge behind them, a deeper understanding of the world, and the prayers come out stronger and more confident.
The standing is more settled, less anxious, the testing less extreme, more willing to yield. The actions are toned down and the "catches" are quicker, more aware, although more frequent to make up for the difference.
And, they're not going backwards, no matter how familiar it feels, because growing up doesn't happen along a straight line. It's around and around, season following season, a spiral that climbs a little higher each year.
So, it is Lent, and they have words and proximity. Soon it will be Easter, and they will be anxious. And, then. And, then. And, then.
They will continue to grow and to change, to move a little closer to "someday" and whatever it holds. They'll get taller and stronger and faster and more confident, and, for however long God has me here, I am going to thoroughly enjoy being a part of helping it to happen.
Even when it means that they lock my phone.
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