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.