Charis

It's winter now, fully and completely.

There is ice on my car in the morning, and the short drive to church isn't enough time for my defrost to even begin to think of being warm. The heaters in the church building are on full blast and rooms that are usually cold are nearly tropical.

The kids have settled in, and, even with the squirrely energy of a last Sunday before Thanksgiving break, even with a main service that runs long for communion, we are relatively calm.

Transition antsy. Pre holidays stressed. But, in a familiar sort of way. Like we've done this before. Like we know how to get through this.

So, the fifth graders come and tell me all about their weeks. About basketball tryouts they had and funerals that they are leaving for. We work on a project and finish up the week's notebooking. We sing and hear a story and talk about Job.

And, we find grace when their voices are too loud and too forced. When we have to remind them to listen even though they want to be playing. When they explode for a few minutes an it is a little bit wild and a little bit sassy. When it has nothing to do with candy or sugar or hours of sleep and everything to do with big feelings in small bodies.

When they borrow my phone to play a preschool science game about things that sink and things that float.

When they need the space to be a little bit hurt and a little bit broken, a little bit sad or a little bit uncertain, there is grace to cover.

Charis.

A Strong's Concordance entry that starts at 'eucharisteo' and meanders through until we are here. Until we have taken gratitude down, almost to its simplest form. Until we are once again drowning in grace.

Grace for a seventh grade boy who looks at me in confusion when they are told to find their leaders for rotations. As if, somehow, the fact that all of the other seventh grade boys are flocking to these men might not mean that he is meant to follow.

Grace when I point and he nods, and my group stars going one way and his starts going another. When he falls flat to the ground and looks for me to pick him up. When I do and he stands for a moment and then lets himself fall the other direction.

Maybe he honestly doesn't know what to do. Maybe he just doesn't want to do it.

Maybe we are pushing too hard, asking too much, on a week where they just want to be close.

But, there is grace.

Grace to nudge him to his feet and send him off with hands on shoulders and in his hair.

Grace when he tells me that he is going to get "lost" and then hides behind a set of doors until my group goes past. When the seventh grade boys shout my name over a balcony and the seventh grade girls call me over to watch them play duck duck goose.

When we talk about old times and they ask over and over why I am not still their breakout leader.

When we come back together and his friends clear a space so that he can sit right beside me. When sixth graders are on my left and seventh graders on my right. When they do all of the things that they are not supposed to do during music.

Glancing at me every time.

Testing the limits of grace.

Daring me just to reach out and hold on. Daring me not to let go.

Another leaders steps over, and they settle for a minute or two. Taking off for the storage room as soon as we finish. Basking in the familiarity of something old. Knowing that, when it is time, I will come to find them.

I do. I always do. 

And, somehow, in twelve and thirteen year old minds, it is a picture of grace.

Charis.

Not 'just grace,' as if there were any such thing, but the way that we live because of grace. The gratitude that covers everything. The loving kindness and favor that comes, not because we are perfect, but despite our imperfections.

Grace that sees them. That knows where they are and what they are doing. That has the time to watch ridiculous puppet plays and shout goodbyes across emptying rooms.

Grace for kids who notice everything, from the fact that I am wearing shoes today instead of flip flops, to the fact that it is my phone that travels with the 7th grade boys to take pictures. Grace for leaders who are messy in our own ways, tired, or out of our depth.

Grace. Not because any of us deserve it. But, because all of us need it.