It's gorgeous outside this morning, and we do our best to take advantage of it. Bright orange yarn that we pass back and forth between us, each criss cross another recitation of the verse, until the web is strong enough to support a Bible. Three of them, actually.
Build pyramids and run slalom through long rows of trees. Laugh and encourage and pull faces for the camera.
Tuck back into our space under the stairs and talk about Hebrews and James. Practice going through the Bible study sheets, and watch their faces light up at the idea that the book of Hebrews could have been "written by a girl."
For the first time all year, they annotate the front of our books of the Bible posters, making their careful note in silver pen.
Fifth grade has never been a time when I present theories or go into the complications of Biblical cannon, but this is important to them. Important for my little Ravenclaw girls to know that someone who shared their anatomy may have done more than starred in a rare Old Testament story or been a part of the New Testament church. Someone like them may have taught, may have led (did teach, did lead), may have known things, may have written things down.
May have shaped the Church, and, through that, may have shaped history.
The knowledge sends lightening through their bodies, and I can see them, just for this moment, taking a new ownership of this thing that we call Scripture.
Build pyramids and run slalom through long rows of trees. Laugh and encourage and pull faces for the camera.
Tuck back into our space under the stairs and talk about Hebrews and James. Practice going through the Bible study sheets, and watch their faces light up at the idea that the book of Hebrews could have been "written by a girl."
For the first time all year, they annotate the front of our books of the Bible posters, making their careful note in silver pen.
Fifth grade has never been a time when I present theories or go into the complications of Biblical cannon, but this is important to them. Important for my little Ravenclaw girls to know that someone who shared their anatomy may have done more than starred in a rare Old Testament story or been a part of the New Testament church. Someone like them may have taught, may have led (did teach, did lead), may have known things, may have written things down.
May have shaped the Church, and, through that, may have shaped history.
The knowledge sends lightening through their bodies, and I can see them, just for this moment, taking a new ownership of this thing that we call Scripture.
"Hey," M*t** greets me with a gentle foot between my shoulder blades while I am still sitting circled up with the girls and then dances out of reach, "do you have gum?"
Today is a do over, a reset, a once again chance to prove that we understand one another.
"Yes." The cluster of smaller hands that follow his feel like proof that we are doing something right: the remainder of my girls; a ten year old, his face bright with star stickers from my box, who is the fourth sibling in his family to know me as a leader and whose sister leads this same small group second hour; the oldest son of a man who probably taught one of the first lessons on missions that I ever heard.
These stories that twist back around each other, criss crossed and overlapped like the string that we played with earlier, until they are strong enough to hold us up. Strong enough to bear the weight of all our mess and triumph.
These stories that twist back around each other, criss crossed and overlapped like the string that we played with earlier, until they are strong enough to hold us up. Strong enough to bear the weight of all our mess and triumph.
He is light and goofy and close, and I know without asking that we will be going to the storage room today. That we'll be making good on last week's promise.
There are other conversations in between. 6th graders. 7th graders. 8th graders. 9th graders. This mix of boys and girls. High schoolers and middle schoolers. Adults and kids. Leaders' meetings that fluctuate wildly between the serious and the absurd.
"Can you take us now?" He slips into a quiet moment between a sixth grade new/old arrival and seventh grade conversations, and we go. One barefoot. One stocking footed. One still in shoes. Through the building that we know like the familiarity of our own homes.
Go to cover old stories and make new memories.
Skid back into the Gallery just as the leaders are being called up to the stage for breakout groups where he slips off to join a clump of his friends and I am swarmed by half a dozen sixth and seventh grade girls while we talk about the "one anothers."
Play a game, take some selfies on my phone, and head for home.
Made it to the storage room. Didn't quite make it to sitting together. And, I'm sure that he's already plotting for next week and another chance to try again.
I don't have much to offer them in the physical. A stick of gum. A promise that their selfies will end up on Inst*gram before the end of the day. A solid body to act as an anchor for these few minutes on Sunday morning.
But, we can create memories. Memories like the donut fight that still brings a smile to the face of the eighth grader who comes in between services to pick up his fifth grade little sister. Ridiculous moments that, even three years later, still make them feel "claimed." Make them feel like a few short weeks were long enough to belong.
For this hour and a half, I can give them my time. Time that might make it a little easier to believe me when I talk about this Jesus and a massive Love that wants to sweep us away.
Go to cover old stories and make new memories.
Skid back into the Gallery just as the leaders are being called up to the stage for breakout groups where he slips off to join a clump of his friends and I am swarmed by half a dozen sixth and seventh grade girls while we talk about the "one anothers."
Play a game, take some selfies on my phone, and head for home.
Made it to the storage room. Didn't quite make it to sitting together. And, I'm sure that he's already plotting for next week and another chance to try again.
I don't have much to offer them in the physical. A stick of gum. A promise that their selfies will end up on Inst*gram before the end of the day. A solid body to act as an anchor for these few minutes on Sunday morning.
But, we can create memories. Memories like the donut fight that still brings a smile to the face of the eighth grader who comes in between services to pick up his fifth grade little sister. Ridiculous moments that, even three years later, still make them feel "claimed." Make them feel like a few short weeks were long enough to belong.
For this hour and a half, I can give them my time. Time that might make it a little easier to believe me when I talk about this Jesus and a massive Love that wants to sweep us away.
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