There is something about this space, where the work of our hands is worship, where grace smells like fresh cookies and homemade dinner, and where the everyday becomes a space for the miraculous.
In the midst of a crazy world, there are moments where this is Church as it is meant to be. Just as it is whenever God's people come together around a common goal, put in the hours, and simply exist - together.
And, I love, as I have mentioned before, that there are children growing up in this.
Upper middle class American children who are learning what it is to trust for simple provision. To have "stuff" problems that can't, or won't, be solved by their parents' wallets.
When the Build a Box room is sparsely empty and we talk about closing it down, they understand that we pray. That we wait to see what God will do. And, that, sometimes, we come in the next morning to find that someone has been in the building ahead of us and filled it back up.
Provision. Faithfulness. Trust.
A simple picture of what it looks like to give without fanfare.
When a carton goes flying off the back of a truck and it seems like carefully packed boxes are lost to the side of the freeway, they have seen that we extend grace, even if it is given from a hurting heart - and that we pray.
That, sometimes, strangers call the church the next morning to say that they were driving into town and noticed a familiar red and green on the side of the highway. That they stopped to pick them up. That some of the boxes that state patrol said were gone were actually still there, still coming in, still wrapped in rubber bands that never should have held. But, did.
Sometimes, friends go back out and scour through tumbleweeds and dead grasses along the sides of the highway to recover checks and shipping payments.
All the time, God is bigger than our mistakes.
Forgiveness. Mercy. Community.
They clean and bake and pack and sort alongside adults. Probably work harder than we do, because they simply never stop.
But, they do stop, because they have learned the balance of pouring out everything. The inhale and exhale of this. The heartbeat of quiet days and leaving things for others to do. The time in the prayer room and running silly errands. And, the always giddy joy that, "Sunday's coming."
Sunday.
When churches pour in with thousands of boxes and my hands fly in rhythm with an eleven year old's, filling carton after carton. Together. Red and green Go Boxes face this way. This kind of plastic fits that way. That kind goes this way.
The final two boxes drop in together, waiting to use 'the trick' that we have taught them since they were little. "The trick is..." "Do you remember the trick?"
And, I love that 'the trick' we remind each other of daily is simply that two boxes, working together, turned just the right way to complement each other, can fit into a space that they couldn't on their own. Because, as our two sets of hands work together to settle them into their place, what a beautiful picture it is.
Two are better than one. A team, a body, that works together to complement each other. To accomplish together what we could never manage alone.
Sunday.
Monday.
Monday, where we use a different set of gifts. Where I stand in a truck with middle schoolers who joyfully lift and haul and push cartons that just barely fit within their arm span. With adults who take time off of work simply to come to move heavy things.
Where we laugh and tease and call numbers and move with a steady efficiency.
Where paperwork is just as important as muscle, and the littles practice astounding grace when we tell them "no" or "not today."
Rapid movement interrupted by long stretches of waiting. Talking. Praying. Playing. Talking some more. Praying again. Because, somehow, even in the midst of it.
People still come first.
And, they know it. Just like they know that we pray and we trust and we work, they know that we rest and that we enjoy one another and that we talk, over and over and over again, about the things that God has done.
That we let our nine year olds learn about forgiveness and hope and reconciliation in the aftermath of the Rwandan genocide. That we fill their heads with stories of the moments that Love broke through. That you don't have to turn eighteen to do astounding things.
These are our shoebox kids.
Taking a week to practice how you do Church.
(16,814 times.)
And, I love, as I have mentioned before, that there are children growing up in this.
Upper middle class American children who are learning what it is to trust for simple provision. To have "stuff" problems that can't, or won't, be solved by their parents' wallets.
When the Build a Box room is sparsely empty and we talk about closing it down, they understand that we pray. That we wait to see what God will do. And, that, sometimes, we come in the next morning to find that someone has been in the building ahead of us and filled it back up.
Provision. Faithfulness. Trust.
A simple picture of what it looks like to give without fanfare.
When a carton goes flying off the back of a truck and it seems like carefully packed boxes are lost to the side of the freeway, they have seen that we extend grace, even if it is given from a hurting heart - and that we pray.
That, sometimes, strangers call the church the next morning to say that they were driving into town and noticed a familiar red and green on the side of the highway. That they stopped to pick them up. That some of the boxes that state patrol said were gone were actually still there, still coming in, still wrapped in rubber bands that never should have held. But, did.
Sometimes, friends go back out and scour through tumbleweeds and dead grasses along the sides of the highway to recover checks and shipping payments.
All the time, God is bigger than our mistakes.
Forgiveness. Mercy. Community.
They clean and bake and pack and sort alongside adults. Probably work harder than we do, because they simply never stop.
But, they do stop, because they have learned the balance of pouring out everything. The inhale and exhale of this. The heartbeat of quiet days and leaving things for others to do. The time in the prayer room and running silly errands. And, the always giddy joy that, "Sunday's coming."
Sunday.
When churches pour in with thousands of boxes and my hands fly in rhythm with an eleven year old's, filling carton after carton. Together. Red and green Go Boxes face this way. This kind of plastic fits that way. That kind goes this way.
The final two boxes drop in together, waiting to use 'the trick' that we have taught them since they were little. "The trick is..." "Do you remember the trick?"
And, I love that 'the trick' we remind each other of daily is simply that two boxes, working together, turned just the right way to complement each other, can fit into a space that they couldn't on their own. Because, as our two sets of hands work together to settle them into their place, what a beautiful picture it is.
Two are better than one. A team, a body, that works together to complement each other. To accomplish together what we could never manage alone.
Sunday.
Monday.
Monday, where we use a different set of gifts. Where I stand in a truck with middle schoolers who joyfully lift and haul and push cartons that just barely fit within their arm span. With adults who take time off of work simply to come to move heavy things.
Where we laugh and tease and call numbers and move with a steady efficiency.
Where paperwork is just as important as muscle, and the littles practice astounding grace when we tell them "no" or "not today."
Rapid movement interrupted by long stretches of waiting. Talking. Praying. Playing. Talking some more. Praying again. Because, somehow, even in the midst of it.
People still come first.
And, they know it. Just like they know that we pray and we trust and we work, they know that we rest and that we enjoy one another and that we talk, over and over and over again, about the things that God has done.
That we let our nine year olds learn about forgiveness and hope and reconciliation in the aftermath of the Rwandan genocide. That we fill their heads with stories of the moments that Love broke through. That you don't have to turn eighteen to do astounding things.
These are our shoebox kids.
Taking a week to practice how you do Church.
(16,814 times.)
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