"I get to light the Joy Candle, today!"
The girls come into Sunday school already certain of this one thing. They don't yet remember the word "Advent," but, they know what it means. They know that these flames mean Hope and Peace. That today we are adding Joy.
So, they circle up in our space under the arc of the stairs, and we do.
Sit for a moment around three flickering lights. Explain how we are going to spend the rest of the morning. Blow them out. And, start working on a project.
They draw and film and talk and laugh, and I treasure the casual intensity of these moments, where they are filled with a joyful purpose, and we don't have to separate the relationship building from the "go out and change the world." This is open ended work, unhurried, go however far you happen to get. The story of David and Goliath isn't going to change between now and whenever we happen to finish it.
These stories are written down. Unchanging.
David won. The angels came. The Messiah was made flesh.
Joy.
The Greek suggests "joy because of grace" or "grace recognized," as if our joy is tied, not to the circumstances around us, but to our eyes to see those circumstances. We take the time to look for Grace, and Joy is there waiting for us just around the corner, like a faithful sunrise, alternately bright and gentle in morning tired eyes.
Today, we are looking.
Carving out time. Or, perhaps, simply noticing when time is carved out for us.
For M*t** to run up behind me on our way into the gallery and to take a few stray moments just before he has to leave.
"I hit you [with the playground ball]. That means that you're it."
We pick up another kid along the way, and barely get started before their families are ready to head home, but this is grace recognized. This is conversation in an athletic language that I fumble through with a thick accent and terrible grammar but hopefully communicate in anyways. This is a simple spending of intentional time, which is a language that I speak more fluently. Chara.
Grace.
Grace when another group of them is wild and goofy during music, each of them for their own reasons and in their own way. Acting out until they can get a leader's hands to settle heavily on their shoulders, prove that they are seen and known and understood.
"Get[ting my] kids under control" would easily take hours of real talk that they aren't yet ready to have, so we do our messy best instead, one of the boys physically skittering away from me when I ask a seemingly simple question that pushes too far. Hands on shoulders. Eye rolls. Laughter. Intentionality about letting them use behaviors to draw closer.
Even, occasionally, letting things play out when they manage to attract not-quite-the-kind-of-attention-they-were-looking-for from other leaders.
They glance at me, and I know that it isn't what they intended. Didn't mean to get in in trouble. Didn't have the words to simply ask for the things that they needed. They're eighth graders this year. Sometimes grown up. Sometimes still little.
Always honest with their behaviors, even when they are not always truthful with their words. Because, today, a lie during the game communicates more openly than anything else that they could think to do.
Today, we need to run full tilt into this Charis. Body slam to see if it will hold us.
And, we make it through, standing on the edge of Grace. Recognizing it. Rejoicing in the moments where it rushes over us.
I bite down on the questions that are burning on my tongue and simply let them be. Shoot hoops with M*tt** when he hangs back after Ignite. With K*r*n and J*s**h and D*n**l before we get started. Pour in before holiday travel pulls them across oceans and state lines, as if we can somehow build up a stockpile for the moments when they are going to need it.
Joy in the fact that they are asking, making needs known in the best way that they know how. In the odd sense of trust and community to this mess. In the fact that God is bigger. Great. Gracious. Glorious. Good.
Old lessons remembered. Grace found in these ever changing eyes and restless bodies.
Grace in the stance of the high schoolers as they crowd around a table to read through question cards with joking seriousness, and it becomes clear that they really did miss each other last week when part of the crew was gone for a performance. Missed being together in a way that, really, has very little to do with us as leaders.
There is a balance of personalities and peer groups that they thrive off of, and I think how lucky the next youth pastor is going to be, to inherit these kids.
Sit in a circle as we fiddle with the rug and talk about anxiety and the ways that we combat it. Tell the truth that is also a promise, "I pray for you guys at 8:45 and 2:45 every day [as I drive past a local high school]." Help a stray phone find it's owner, and pray for them for easily the dozenth time today.
Prayer like breathing as they catch on my thoughts or tug at my heart.
Because, somehow, in the midst of all this, in the ups and downs of everyday moments, this is where we find Grace. This is where we find Joy, waiting, close, just around the corner.
"Get[ting my] kids under control" would easily take hours of real talk that they aren't yet ready to have, so we do our messy best instead, one of the boys physically skittering away from me when I ask a seemingly simple question that pushes too far. Hands on shoulders. Eye rolls. Laughter. Intentionality about letting them use behaviors to draw closer.
Even, occasionally, letting things play out when they manage to attract not-quite-the-kind-of-attention-they-were-looking-for from other leaders.
They glance at me, and I know that it isn't what they intended. Didn't mean to get in in trouble. Didn't have the words to simply ask for the things that they needed. They're eighth graders this year. Sometimes grown up. Sometimes still little.
Always honest with their behaviors, even when they are not always truthful with their words. Because, today, a lie during the game communicates more openly than anything else that they could think to do.
Today, we need to run full tilt into this Charis. Body slam to see if it will hold us.
And, we make it through, standing on the edge of Grace. Recognizing it. Rejoicing in the moments where it rushes over us.
I bite down on the questions that are burning on my tongue and simply let them be. Shoot hoops with M*tt** when he hangs back after Ignite. With K*r*n and J*s**h and D*n**l before we get started. Pour in before holiday travel pulls them across oceans and state lines, as if we can somehow build up a stockpile for the moments when they are going to need it.
Joy in the fact that they are asking, making needs known in the best way that they know how. In the odd sense of trust and community to this mess. In the fact that God is bigger. Great. Gracious. Glorious. Good.
Old lessons remembered. Grace found in these ever changing eyes and restless bodies.
Grace in the stance of the high schoolers as they crowd around a table to read through question cards with joking seriousness, and it becomes clear that they really did miss each other last week when part of the crew was gone for a performance. Missed being together in a way that, really, has very little to do with us as leaders.
There is a balance of personalities and peer groups that they thrive off of, and I think how lucky the next youth pastor is going to be, to inherit these kids.
Sit in a circle as we fiddle with the rug and talk about anxiety and the ways that we combat it. Tell the truth that is also a promise, "I pray for you guys at 8:45 and 2:45 every day [as I drive past a local high school]." Help a stray phone find it's owner, and pray for them for easily the dozenth time today.
Prayer like breathing as they catch on my thoughts or tug at my heart.
Because, somehow, in the midst of all this, in the ups and downs of everyday moments, this is where we find Grace. This is where we find Joy, waiting, close, just around the corner.
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