Lent. Spring.
For my kids, it is a time for growth. A time for change. A time for words. But, growth is hard work. Change can be frightening. And, there are some things that they still do not have the words for.
So, they come exhausted and wanting comfort. They come with worry in their eyes and fear tight in their shoulders. The words hover on their lips, waiting until we can jar them loose. Behaviors seem like they are regressing, and I find that I have to remind myself that this is only another side effect of massive growth.
Fifth graders go from too cool for anything to suddenly willing to play Simon Says. Third graders switch in milliseconds from bossy yelling to tears over a parent who isn't there yet to pick them up. Freshmen shoot rubber bands during the talk and lose all sense of what is and is not a wise use of paperclips or air freshener or fire or anything else that their hands think to touch. And, sixth graders, sixth graders are a tangled knot of twelve year old that would take weeks to begin to explain.
M*t** is newly affixed to my side, no longer in the stage where we could only talk in the octagon, before most of the other kids showed up.
He runs into my back until I chase him, weaving through clumps of students and past the leader who is his best friend's dad, and back again, until his counselor from winter camp catches him and hands him over to be "tortured."
I release him, and we do it again, and again. Always, eventually, he is back, positioning himself on my right, slightly forwards, where he has stood and sat since kindergarten.
Last week there was blood in the octagon when I wasn't there to see. This week, he asks for the bandaids before I disappear to a leaders' meeting, slipping them back into my pocket during music. Music means bopping between adults and groups of friends, but, by the lesson, he has staked out his place by my side. On the right. Slightly forwards.
K*r*n is close to my left, connected at the kneecap or elbow for most of the first hour of the service. *nn* is sharing M*t**'s spot on my right, curved around so that we form a circle in the midst of lines of students. A circle, because S*rg** is behind me, my "sneaky" little one who lights up like a sunrise when I pass the test and notice him there, proving once again that I pay enough attention for him to relax.
M*tt** is six inches in front of me, ostensibly sitting with his friends and "not with us." His head whips around to share thoughts when he forgets himself, though. My phone makes its way up to his hands. A mischievous smile crawls across his face. And, eventually, he melts back, using my flexed foot as a backrest.
There are seventh graders who catch my attention before small groups, wanting to be heard and seen, as if suddenly remembering that, back in elementary school, they used to sit like this too, gathered in tight and all talking to me at once.
There are high schoolers hovering in and out of proximity and littles who just want to run until they land in sweaty heaps in our arms and on our laps.
We're spinning our wheels a little in the fresh mud of spring. They are tired and afraid and uncomfortable. They are growing. But, every touch, every catch, every smile, and every snippet of conversation throws another stick into the mud, and we are slowly gaining traction.
It might mean holding conversations at a half shout, while running full speed through a room full of people. And, it might mean letting them peg me with playground balls - or having my dad join in on pegging them back, like a multidirectional game of Kati. But, bit by bit, we are moving moving forwards.
Slowly getting to wherever it is that God is taking us.
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