(different set of kids on a different night of the week)
"Line up in front of the teachers."
"Line up in front of the teachers."
I barely have to give the instruction before little feet are scrambling into place, pushing, jostling, counting each other into equal-ish groups with all the authority of small dictators. It's Monday afternoon Bible club at one of the public elementary schools. We practice the verse over and over again. "He who called you is faithful; He will surely do it."
They fall backwards into our arms on the emphasized word, one after another, a giggling picture of a God who will aways catch them when they fall.
Faithful.
To the dark haired one who came with worried eyes today and leaves his small group to show me how he can rap the fast part of a song by L*crae, intentionally shutting out anything or anyone but this moment, right here, right now, pulling my attention until it is on him like a laser.
Faithful.
To his step brother whose 5th grade fingers will spend the lesson time twisting my hair into whatever shapes his imagination can come up with, over and over and over again, as if his mouth can only be silent when his hands are moving, when that touch is physically tethering him to this place.
Faithful.
To the second grader whose braids click together gently as she falls into the arms of the teacher next to me and the kindergartener who might stay awake and fidgeting with my watch or my bracelet or my wrist for the whole story or might pillow his head on his arms and fall fast asleep instead.
Faithful.
The littlest ones take a faltering step backwards when their brain begins to scream that they are falling, "Falling!" wanting to trust, but not quite certain. And, I am reminded for the thousandth time how much this Jesus thing is all about relationship. Because, some of them fall without question.
The 5th graders who were once tiny 2nd graders, eating their lunch behind trash cans to avoid other people and circling up in the sunshine to beg bracelets and leather and string; 3rd graders with their playground drama and increasingly complex projects; 4th graders who would pull me into their classroom just to eat lunch and listen to their stories. They line up right in front of me and wait for their turn to fall back into waiting arms.
There is trust here. Long, slow, marked by a hundred outside hurts. But, trust.
Because, this is church.
This stretching out long so that there is space for three little bodies each side, tucked up close to the hip to ankle line of my blue jeans. Two or three behind me with whisper touches to my hands or my hair.
These too often hungry bellies that we fill with animal crackers and apple slices.
Music and trinkets to form memories. Tiny toys that are scooped back into their bag when we are waved over to the center of the room. Rhythm.
The liturgy of this thing.
Because, maybe pockets full of animal crackers and apple juice that crunches out between your teeth are communion. Community. God with us. Emmanuel. Resurrection in our blood stream, these words that cling like crumbs to their lips.
"Whether you eat or drink or whatever you do," they lisp it back to me around mouthfuls of crackers, last week's verse that they will into each other, as if this Christianity thing is no good if it doesn't make space for everyone, "do it all to the glory of God!"
We punch tickets and give hugs, and their heads already know these answers.
"Who will always, always catch you when you fall?"
Their hands shoot up into the air, even the dark haired one.
"God!"
Later, when I brush that hair out of just lighter eyes and tip up his chin to get a better look at the truth that hides there, he will tell me that he didn't hear much of the story, because he was distracted by worries from "real life." I won't ask for an explanation, and he won't offer one. But, he will melt a little just the same.
They will circle around before the official start of club for Heads Up on my phone or to sing along to Fix My Eyes in this tight clump of little bodies and voices, and, somehow, they will tell us that they know that God is here. Right here in the midst of our mess and our beauty and the moments where the adults manage to make the Divine sound much more boring than it ever ought to be.
The little first grader who wrinkled her nose last week at the allergen free cookies that were offered for snack will break into a smile at the pile of slender apple slices that they devour before club and the bag of C*rn Nuts that they bring home afterwards.
"I can eat those!" She curls in a little tighter and makes this space just a little more her own.
A kindergartener will cradle my compass in his hands, dutifully spending the story time staring down north, as if he can burn it into his memory for a day when he might ever forget.
They will fall into our arms. We'll catch them. Repeat truth. Live truth.
He who called you is faithful; He will surely do it.
Faithful.
To the dark haired one who came with worried eyes today and leaves his small group to show me how he can rap the fast part of a song by L*crae, intentionally shutting out anything or anyone but this moment, right here, right now, pulling my attention until it is on him like a laser.
Faithful.
To his step brother whose 5th grade fingers will spend the lesson time twisting my hair into whatever shapes his imagination can come up with, over and over and over again, as if his mouth can only be silent when his hands are moving, when that touch is physically tethering him to this place.
Faithful.
To the second grader whose braids click together gently as she falls into the arms of the teacher next to me and the kindergartener who might stay awake and fidgeting with my watch or my bracelet or my wrist for the whole story or might pillow his head on his arms and fall fast asleep instead.
Faithful.
The littlest ones take a faltering step backwards when their brain begins to scream that they are falling, "Falling!" wanting to trust, but not quite certain. And, I am reminded for the thousandth time how much this Jesus thing is all about relationship. Because, some of them fall without question.
The 5th graders who were once tiny 2nd graders, eating their lunch behind trash cans to avoid other people and circling up in the sunshine to beg bracelets and leather and string; 3rd graders with their playground drama and increasingly complex projects; 4th graders who would pull me into their classroom just to eat lunch and listen to their stories. They line up right in front of me and wait for their turn to fall back into waiting arms.
There is trust here. Long, slow, marked by a hundred outside hurts. But, trust.
Because, this is church.
This stretching out long so that there is space for three little bodies each side, tucked up close to the hip to ankle line of my blue jeans. Two or three behind me with whisper touches to my hands or my hair.
These too often hungry bellies that we fill with animal crackers and apple slices.
Music and trinkets to form memories. Tiny toys that are scooped back into their bag when we are waved over to the center of the room. Rhythm.
The liturgy of this thing.
Because, maybe pockets full of animal crackers and apple juice that crunches out between your teeth are communion. Community. God with us. Emmanuel. Resurrection in our blood stream, these words that cling like crumbs to their lips.
"Whether you eat or drink or whatever you do," they lisp it back to me around mouthfuls of crackers, last week's verse that they will into each other, as if this Christianity thing is no good if it doesn't make space for everyone, "do it all to the glory of God!"
We punch tickets and give hugs, and their heads already know these answers.
"Who will always, always catch you when you fall?"
Their hands shoot up into the air, even the dark haired one.
"God!"
Later, when I brush that hair out of just lighter eyes and tip up his chin to get a better look at the truth that hides there, he will tell me that he didn't hear much of the story, because he was distracted by worries from "real life." I won't ask for an explanation, and he won't offer one. But, he will melt a little just the same.
They will circle around before the official start of club for Heads Up on my phone or to sing along to Fix My Eyes in this tight clump of little bodies and voices, and, somehow, they will tell us that they know that God is here. Right here in the midst of our mess and our beauty and the moments where the adults manage to make the Divine sound much more boring than it ever ought to be.
The little first grader who wrinkled her nose last week at the allergen free cookies that were offered for snack will break into a smile at the pile of slender apple slices that they devour before club and the bag of C*rn Nuts that they bring home afterwards.
"I can eat those!" She curls in a little tighter and makes this space just a little more her own.
A kindergartener will cradle my compass in his hands, dutifully spending the story time staring down north, as if he can burn it into his memory for a day when he might ever forget.
They will fall into our arms. We'll catch them. Repeat truth. Live truth.
He who called you is faithful; He will surely do it.
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