Liturgy

"Genesis," a half dozen fifth grade girls hop through the hallway as we learn these first books of the Bible; one foot for the single author of the Pentateuch. 

Starting with "Genesis," hopping away for "Exodus," pointing to imagined people for "Leviticus," counting fingers for "Numbers," and an outstretched two for "Deuteronomy." Always hopping.

Earlier, the lead teacher came out find us doing sit-ups and squats, breathlessly repeating the verse over and over and over again. "The LORD is good to all; He has compassion on all He has made." Until they can all tell it to me without hesitation. Until we crawl from our space under the arching stairway, leave the blankets on the floor and the pillows lined out against the wall to drop shampoo and conditioner into the donation barrel.

Their reward for memorization.

Not because they need a reward or have asked for one or have expected one, but because why would I not take the chance to build this into them?

Church is a place where you come and you talk about your week; where you sing and you listen and you flip through the pages of well worn Bibles. It is where you kick off your shoes and curl into the soft comfort of community; where names are important and stories matter.

Church is movement and challenge and spoken Truth; a place for service and for delving deep into the unknowns. It is every day, mundane, Holy; filled with Grace that whispers through the strains of Oceans and the hands that fold our blankets and shove our pillows back into their tub, that circle around to pass a phone with the same reverence that a Christmas vigil might pass candles.

This glow of a screen, this spark in their eyes as they hop and flutter kick their way through a Sunday morning, this is the Christ light in this Ordinary Time.

***

And, if they spark with it, new and uncertain, my middle schoolers blaze.

A group of them are back from a private school retreat, alight with stories, memories, moments of a God come down and intersected with their lives. They laugh and pull close with the telling of it, and, when we split by gender for game, the girls take a moment to murmur Holy, to share tears and worship and God as enough.

Their hands slip into the air during music; and my heart sings, squeals, jumps up and down like a little girl, because they wear Grace like a heavy cloak, these kids who can't possibly know how precious they are.

***

The one who broke his collar bone comes over to show me a long scar crossed over with careful lines of surgical tape, comes over to prove that he is healing, stronger, no longer afraid.

J*s**h tells me he is staying this week, answers my constant question before I can think to ask it, lets me see him with D*n**l, and then the three of them disappear, confident enough today to wander out of sight and then back into it, to sit less close, to occupy a space that is theirs and theirs alone.

***

"Jessica!"
"J*n*h!" I mimik the jazz hands that he half throws out, slipping into the rhythm of familiar phrases, "How's life?"
"Meh." He shrugs.
"School 'meh,' or just...?"
He shrugs again, more truth in his eyes than in his words, and I find myself telling a story, filling the space between us with sound. He nods and drifts away but returns minutes later, that stubborn Gryffindor that won't let them stop until they've gotten what they don't even know that they're looking for.

Goads me into the same attention I am giving a sixth grader, a loose arm around the neck, fingers tapping at that echoing place just below their collar bone. Again and then again and again. These simple catches that speak of Trust and Grace and Mercy. This unspoken liturgy of seeing and response.

***

Part of the Haiti team sits in our living room, carefully teasing out the tangle of what comes next, testing the edges of conversations that they've had with each other, tucked into the corners of life in the month we've been home.

We talk about going back, talk a little about what happened, but, mostly, we talk about what will happen. Talk about the plans and the spaces that they are making to go and do, to follow God into the "not here," to listen to the gentle, restless voice of this call.

There could be pride here, but instead there is Truth, an understanding that the answers to our heart cries are not always easy, but that the balance tips heavy towards eternity.

***

I sleep and clean and Sabbath until the sun slips, blinding, to it's place just above the horizon, get in my car and head back towards the church.

Youth group comes and goes, simple, constant, but full of eyes that will haunt my prayers, moments where they are brave enough or tired enough for truth to shimmer through.

We are softly vulnerable this week, all of us. Not anxious. Not afraid. But, open, souls spilling out of the watery barrier between flesh and spirit, resting on the surfaces of our gaze, the tips of our tongues, as we wade through this thin place, this space where heaven touches earth.

Growing into Grace

Stop. Pause. Breathe.

Take a moment to catch these whirling bundles of flying limbs and listen to this one. Just this one. That one will come soon.

Take them one at a time. Take the time. Trust.

Trust that the one who washes us in grace is aware of this morning just as He is aware of every other. Trust that He sees their hearts and intends to satisfy their souls.

Breathe.

They are a whirlwind this morning, and I can practically feel the seconds stretching, expanding to accommodate our space, our noise, the unabashed largeness of our being.

Fifth grade girls who are quite sure how they feel about this new teacher, eyeing me with that wary uncertainty that whispers that, whatever they decide, it is going to be corporate, a group decision of what to do with Jessica. We talk and run and answer questions, settle into a tight circle for a few rounds of Fl*ppy Bird, and, for just a moment, their guard drops.

They can do this.

Sit ups and squats find their way into my Sunday morning as we wait for the last parent pick-up, and I am reminded of how hard it is to plank when the child beside you can't stop giggling; reminded of the physicality of this class and the so much that is communicated without words.

Reminded to breathe, forget the clock, and take a moment.

Because, there is more to this than running just a few minutes late.

There are girls, sixth, seventh, eighth graders, who take advantage of my present-ness to simply talk, to whirl around, to settle into this idea that, somehow, they can all lay claim to my attention without worrying that something is taking away from what is theirs.

Sophomores who pause for long enough for gum and a brief moment's conversation.

Kids who come up with prayer requests for friends or siblings. Boys who use this as a landing pad until they can find their friends.

And, there are words that I don't catch until after their speakers have already whirled away. Eighth graders that I don't connect with until we split out by grade and gender for the game. The off kilter feel of a new year with new roles, new combinations of kids.

A familiar glance from one of the girls as we hover at the edge of the balcony, thirteen and fourteen year old heads tipped up from their place below us. That twinge in her eyes that whispers that we used to do this thing together. Used to keep the boys close.

But, this is an eighth grade dance, not a fifth grade one, with steps as strange as they are familiar, so we play our game, have our discussion. Thunder back down the stairs and meet up with the boys for a tight clump of bodies during the lesson.

For barely enough space.

For the wordless jostling that eventually settles them into that just-the-right-spot where they finally relax. Right. Left. Right and slightly forwards. These old places half remembered. Their guard drops. And, we simply breathe.

Because, they are growing, growing back into and through this Grace into something new, something a little more like Jesus every day.

If only I can remember to stop and look.

Moments

At the end of each week, we tack a Sunday.

Sundays that expose us just a little more for who we really are. 

And, I love it. I love the way that they call each other out, refuse to let things fly. "Come on. You can remember my crush's name, but you can't remember the Bible verse?"

"For God has not given us a spirit of fear but a spirit of power, of love, and of self discipline." 

The first of the girls recites it and sits down in triumph and relief. "For God has not given us a spirit of fear but a spirit of power, of love, and of self discipline."

Over and over again, until each of us can do it. 

One by one we wrap each other in truth, twenty-one repetitions of these careful, ancient words.

I can't make them believe them any more than I can make them grow an extra limb. But, I can let them hear it.

Let them hear that fear never has to rule. That, even now, as we stumble our way through the first few weeks of a new school year, they are marked by power, marked by self discipline, marked by love.

Marked by love.

Not by age or by gender or by grade or nationality, but by Love.

As we play in the grass and on my phone, take pictures and pass out gum, we are marked by Love.

And, it is important for them to remember, for this class that wrestles with fear like it is a tangible thing that can be defeated. As if courage is something to be proven and reckless loyalty the highest of virtues.

Important for them to remember that this enemy, this mark on their souls, is overshadowed by something so much greater. That there is a perfect Love that casts out fear.

They could talk about if we sat down for long enough -- if we threw away the question sheets and the clocks and gave their eyes and fingers something else to do. They're smart enough to pull out truths that would blow us away. But, these aren't words kids.

These are pictures kids. Not so little Gryffindors who wrap their theology around memories, moments where the God they've heard about becomes a God that they can see.

So, I am reminded to create moments.

Moments where we spread out paint and cardboard on the cold concrete floor of the camp rec room. Where we sit together on Sunday morning and where they are given permission to "hack" my inst*gram. Because, when we only have an hour and a half, moments matter.

Gryffindor

These are my lion cubs. 

 Fifth grade, Eighth grade, Juniors. 

 Every third year, there is one of these; an impulsive, loyal, brave, terrified class that is determined to make all of the things better, all at once. 

 They come more raw than the classes on either side of them, like someone skipped a step and left their collective nerves too close to the surface, left their hearts dangling out on their sleeves. 

 We talk about the differences during a noisy Sunday morning transition, their eyes still wide at the burst of Ravenclaw words that have poured over us all like a sudden thunderstorm. "We weren't like that, were we?" 

 “No,” they grin at the sense that stories are coming, stories that make them feel real, make them feel brave, “you guys were more about running around like crazy people.” 

 “They just have a lot of words.” We explain the three classes with the succinct, tumble over each other sort of style that is classically Gryffindor, seventh grade girls tucked in close and listening with the intensity that is uniquely theirs. “The class below you likes to sit around and talk about things.” 

 The Slytherin girls nod approval, and my eighth graders look at me with that familiar anxiety, “But, do you think that we were a good class?” 

 Because these kids are a Gryffindor class layered over the top of standard Bethel Hufflepuff, and loyalty is bred deep into their bones. Because anything that happens to one of them happens to all of them. 

 These are the ones who run, jump, wiggle their way through life, bring boomerangs to church, and pile so close to their friends that they might as well be sharing a skin.

They are rarely contained by whatever space they are "supposed" to occupy, perpetually up trees and on top of roofs and inside locked doors. Telling stories. Making stories. Always together.

Brave in groups. Lost and dazed when you pick them off and send them on their own.

Higher context than my Ravenclaws, they wield words like a paintbrush in the hands of an Impressionist, a dab here, a dash there, just enough of a hint to spark the memory of the visceral thing that they are trying to say.

Communication is seen and felt and moved through, action and sense and the self aware spending of time.

These ones hold responsibility firmly on their shoulders, wary of any adult that might claim to know better, but holding tightly to the few who are allowed to walk alongside them. They are the most likely to get in trouble, the least likely to do something simply because it is expected.

Courageous. Chivalrous. Honest.

They'll grab a friend and go out to do the things that make them most afraid. Jump in front of a ball in the gaga pit. Refuse to raise their hands just because everyone else is doing it.

If there was ever a class that was Gryffindor, this would be it.