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.
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.
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.
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