Impulse

"I feel stupid now." The seventh grader pressed against my elbow catches my attention during music, and I have to give him the space to finish the thought, because our last conversation was about Aspergers and brain function, but, thirty seconds later, he could be anywhere.

It's been one of those days, where we're once again drowning in grace.

It's Father's Day and the end of the first week of summer, and their bodies are on edge.

He is always close these days, leaning back just a little, his foot overlapping mine as we stand around the octagon. Today, he leans in, close enough that our arms are connected, and, ever since we got back inside, he hasn't been able to stop talking.

Impulsive. Random. Talking.

He catches himself once or twice, "That was mean. I shouldn't have said that." and verbally acknowledges the nonsense chatter, "I'm just trying to find anything to talk about."

But, the words keep coming.

We talk about Biblical geography and the violence of Bible stories. We go down a list of kids who aren't there and where they might be. We talk about old songs and figures of speech. His voice cracks, and the whisper isn't always. 

The youth pastor calls people out for talking, and he blushes and glances at me guiltily, but it still doesn't stop the questions and observations.

"I just realized," perhaps the most important phrase slips out in the middle of a song as he finishes his thought, "that it doesn't matter if you move up with us or not. Nothing will change for me, because I'm not even in your small group right now."

There is relief in his eyes.

Nothing will change. He is still safe. He is still known. I'm not leaving him.

But, there is also shame. 

Because, that opener of "I feel stupid" wasn't exaggeration. There is something in this kid that whispers that it is true. 

That he is stupid. That he doesn't measure up. That he isn't enough or is too much. That he is the kind of kid that people leave.

Lies.

And, this time, I am the one initiating the talking, making sure that he knows that he isn't the last of the boys to figure it out - in fact, he's been the first of them to verbalize it. 

Ruffling my hand through his hair. Leaning down to listen and talk. Letting him stand as close as he can.

Because I have my own impulsive need to make him understand truth, to let him see grace.

Grace that spins him in circles when he is too paralyzed to do the motions on his own. Grace that will carry his body weight when he leans in the next time and lets me pivot him on one foot like a two-year-old. Grace that returns his smile when he finally settles in for a few moments to worship.

Grace that hands out gum in the hallway as we're leaving and lets him keep my phone in his pocket when he thinks we're being separated for the game.

Grace to prove that the only place safer than the center of God's will is in His presence. Grace for days like today, where fear and shame bubble just a little closer to the surface. 

Grace that says that he is enough.

Because, I don't know where the lies are coming from. I know that it is Father's Day. I know that school is out and he misses his friends. I know that strong emotions happening in the main service have traditionally put his behaviors on edge.

And, I realize how very little I know about this one's family. He is intensely private, even when he is standing in my space. But, I do know that our God is greater than any lie, any fear, any sense of shame.  I do know that, even today, there is grace to cover.