Colored Grace

"Colorful."

We're talking about characteristics of God in large group, and one of my fifth graders starts with the suddenness of having an answer. 

"God is colorful because He loves everything and everyone."

"Earthquake" doesn't make much sense, even when I try to whisper explain the story mid song. She knows what jail is like. Dad is in jail for a long time, and it isn't anything like that. Better not be anything like that.

The presenter keeps asking "easy" questions like "Could you trust your father to keep your money for you?" where the expected answer is "yes." Even though, clearly, it should be a "no." Dad is not a man who should be trusted, not like that, anyways.

But, she knows this.

Knows that God is colorful and God is Love.

My mind flashes to the "adventures" I/we've been going on on Tuesday nights with a group of kids, the imaginary trips around the world. Pink lakes in Australia. Rainbow mountains in China. Beautiful places that couldn't be real. Shouldn't be real. But, are.

Yes, God is Colorful. Yes, God is Love.

How could the Creator of color not be?

We go outside and half freeze, half thrill in the sunshine, knowing that this won't be an option much longer. Smile and brush her off when she rolls down the hill and comes up soaked and grass covered. Curl up into our space under the stairs. Donate candy to the community outreach bins. Play with markers and cardboard and take ourselves far less than seriously.

Because, she's only been with my group once before, but she already knows that this is how we do Sundays.

Grace and Love and patterns in the midst of the unpredictable.

Patterns that we fall back onto so easily around here. The pictures that my eighth graders take on my phone, knowing that I will post them later. 

Even though my Inst*gram feed tells me that it's been twenty-three weeks since they've last done this, this particular group of them. Since they've used the camera on my phone as proof of reality, connection.

The way that they scramble into line for a game that we don't actually end up playing. Content to let one of the boys throw away the needed game piece (okay, it was a tissue) so long as we're circled up here, together.

To sit tucked between the gaga pit and the wall before service while they talk about next year, about high school and dances and no longer all going to the same private school.

To rip sticky tags into more pieces than ought to be possible during the talk and fidget like we're making them sit on hot coals during this lesson on suffering, but silently hand them over when I begin to pile the trash on my phone, add to the pile themselves when they find more.

And, Grace washes over us like salt waves.

A hand beside me slips up during music. They remember what we've said about breakouts and take us at our word. Connections are voiced between suffering and what they've learned about mourning at school.

It's not perfect. There are missteps and moments that I would go back to change. Other kids that I would have pulled into our dance if I had enough hands to hold them all. But, there is Grace. There is laughter and there is honest conversation.

Because God is Colorful and God is Love.