Fall 7:11.
It takes a few extra minutes to get my station set up, because, well, it's hard to use an inflatable that has deflated while you weren't looking.
But, none of the kids seem to mind, brother and sister who slipped out of the holding room with me gladly flipping switches and running circles to help get things up and running again.
It takes a few extra minutes to get my station set up, because, well, it's hard to use an inflatable that has deflated while you weren't looking.
But, none of the kids seem to mind, brother and sister who slipped out of the holding room with me gladly flipping switches and running circles to help get things up and running again.
And, it takes a little longer because this is the kind of mess that I operate in most frequently. This, "Yes, I really do sort of know what I'm doing -- if by 'know what I'm doing' you mean 'know the names and faces of these kids,'" where I open my eyes wide and find beauty in the chaos of the moment.
And, oh, are they ever beautiful.
Running, jumping, racing, bouncing, yelling, chasing, hiding, flirting, more active than a pack of puppies on Red B*ll, beautiful.
Beautiful and here to connect.
I stand in the check in sea before we get fully started. Talking with kids while my inflatable slowly deflates on the other side of the church.
With the one who caws my name like a bird call. The one who's waiting for her friends to show up. The one who goes to my school and will use Monday afternoon to talk about church in the cafeteria line. Right now he's uncertain, a little off kilter in the absence of my one with the broken collar bone. But, come Monday, we'll be talking about church at school.
They don't have to be talking to a leader right now. Just in this room, there are a dozen different games that they could play.
But, these are middle schoolers, and they are built for connection.
So, we stand here behind the check in tables and create an island, a safe place to land in the midst of a sea of moving bodies.
G*b* and his bird call almost come with me to set up. That confident assurance that, if I need to be with Jessica, Jessica will let me come.
I almost let him. Make sure he knows where I am going to be. But, don't tell him he can come. Because, it might be good for G*b*. But, it would break the carefully set parameters that S*th holds in his mind. Which, in turn, would be bad for G*b*.
While S*th would be willing to do that for a friend, he shouldn't have to.
So, the boys stay, and brother and sister leave with me instead.
But, it doesn't take long for these community wired kids to find where I'm camped outside with an inflatable obstacle course.
Doesn't take too long before we've agreed upon a new set of rules and expectations. Before we're using the inflatable as so much more than a race track.
The tag playing ones are inside and on top and back behind, squeezing down the center to disappear into dim lighting and a constantly moving swarm of bodies.
The conversationalists are perched at the top of the slide and along the many edges, talking and jostling and happy as littles in a blanket fort.
And, the in betweens are being raced through, jumped on, flipped over. As if the entire thing were there purely to be their kingdom.
"Don't sit at the bottom of the slide" and "If you are causing a problem for anyone, you have to move." We keep the rules simple, and, somehow, even with middle schoolers swarming like ants, they manage to follow them. Manage to be respectful of dozens of different needs all at once.
Manage to make this a safe, wild, ridiculous sort of a space.
"Jessica!"
"Jessica, watch!"
"Did you see me?"
They preen and show off and pop back out to check in with me. To earn an arm over a shoulder or looped gently around in a hold that only keeps them still because they want it to.
By the time the next leaders rotate through this spot, things will look completely different. Cleared out. Orderly. Calm.
Unique set of kids.
Because, the way that we run our stations are a microcosm of how we do ministry. Accidentally but intentionally designed to have the flavor of individual leaders. Individual groups of students.
And, this is how I do.
Dozens of kids at once. Extended time. Moving. Talking. Building stories.
Watching. Encourage. Correcting. Connecting.
Flurries of kids and conversations so constant that I can't begin to trap them down in type without the words lapping over each other in dizzying jitters.
But, somehow drowning in Love and Mercy and Grace. Honest and unassuming in our mess and wildness.
Because, there is stillness in the midst of this. Staying put. Carving out a space near a leader and remaining seen and heard. Creating safety and rest in the midst of movement.
Precious seconds where the clocks stop and everything that we are in Christ is enough.
So, I'll watch M*tt** and J*sh flip and fly and body slam into the inflatable. Laugh with G*b* and S*th. Let the 6th grade girls be brave enough to race through the crazy. Lend J*n*h my name tag and pull K*d*n from places that he isn't supposed to be.
Because, this is presence and this is grace and this is faithful consistency from a specific leader to a specific group of kids.
It would drive anyone else nuts. But, for tonight, this is my mess and this is my ministry.
Beautiful and here to connect.
I stand in the check in sea before we get fully started. Talking with kids while my inflatable slowly deflates on the other side of the church.
With the one who caws my name like a bird call. The one who's waiting for her friends to show up. The one who goes to my school and will use Monday afternoon to talk about church in the cafeteria line. Right now he's uncertain, a little off kilter in the absence of my one with the broken collar bone. But, come Monday, we'll be talking about church at school.
They don't have to be talking to a leader right now. Just in this room, there are a dozen different games that they could play.
But, these are middle schoolers, and they are built for connection.
So, we stand here behind the check in tables and create an island, a safe place to land in the midst of a sea of moving bodies.
G*b* and his bird call almost come with me to set up. That confident assurance that, if I need to be with Jessica, Jessica will let me come.
I almost let him. Make sure he knows where I am going to be. But, don't tell him he can come. Because, it might be good for G*b*. But, it would break the carefully set parameters that S*th holds in his mind. Which, in turn, would be bad for G*b*.
While S*th would be willing to do that for a friend, he shouldn't have to.
So, the boys stay, and brother and sister leave with me instead.
But, it doesn't take long for these community wired kids to find where I'm camped outside with an inflatable obstacle course.
Doesn't take too long before we've agreed upon a new set of rules and expectations. Before we're using the inflatable as so much more than a race track.
The tag playing ones are inside and on top and back behind, squeezing down the center to disappear into dim lighting and a constantly moving swarm of bodies.
The conversationalists are perched at the top of the slide and along the many edges, talking and jostling and happy as littles in a blanket fort.
And, the in betweens are being raced through, jumped on, flipped over. As if the entire thing were there purely to be their kingdom.
"Don't sit at the bottom of the slide" and "If you are causing a problem for anyone, you have to move." We keep the rules simple, and, somehow, even with middle schoolers swarming like ants, they manage to follow them. Manage to be respectful of dozens of different needs all at once.
Manage to make this a safe, wild, ridiculous sort of a space.
"Jessica!"
"Jessica, watch!"
"Did you see me?"
They preen and show off and pop back out to check in with me. To earn an arm over a shoulder or looped gently around in a hold that only keeps them still because they want it to.
By the time the next leaders rotate through this spot, things will look completely different. Cleared out. Orderly. Calm.
Unique set of kids.
Because, the way that we run our stations are a microcosm of how we do ministry. Accidentally but intentionally designed to have the flavor of individual leaders. Individual groups of students.
And, this is how I do.
Dozens of kids at once. Extended time. Moving. Talking. Building stories.
Watching. Encourage. Correcting. Connecting.
Flurries of kids and conversations so constant that I can't begin to trap them down in type without the words lapping over each other in dizzying jitters.
But, somehow drowning in Love and Mercy and Grace. Honest and unassuming in our mess and wildness.
Because, there is stillness in the midst of this. Staying put. Carving out a space near a leader and remaining seen and heard. Creating safety and rest in the midst of movement.
Precious seconds where the clocks stop and everything that we are in Christ is enough.
So, I'll watch M*tt** and J*sh flip and fly and body slam into the inflatable. Laugh with G*b* and S*th. Let the 6th grade girls be brave enough to race through the crazy. Lend J*n*h my name tag and pull K*d*n from places that he isn't supposed to be.
Because, this is presence and this is grace and this is faithful consistency from a specific leader to a specific group of kids.
It would drive anyone else nuts. But, for tonight, this is my mess and this is my ministry.
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