Kept and Keeping

"Save me some pizza." One of my dark haired ones shrugged, lengthening limbs all eight grade swagger and innocence. "You can bring it over tonight. You'll be just across the parking lot."

He was there, tucked into my circle of girls-coming-over-for-pizza, sharing strange laws about lollipops and train crossings and the harassment of Bigfoot, and, I think, half expecting that I'd change my mind and decide to let the boys come over too. The girls uttered the same thing a half dozen times before we finished.

"When are we having the boys over?"
"We should do this with the guys sometime."
"You should do a day where it's just your [private school] kids."

As if it would be the strangest thing in the world to think of doing life separately from the boys.

And, there is something about the asking that is so clearly this group of kids, these ones who scramble up the rocks in my backyard and tell old stories over and over and over again. Who waited patient weeks until the weather promised to be warm enough for an afternoon in the park, because my house is small, and their combined presence is large and loud and overwhelming to unsuspecting roommates.

Who looked at me funny when I offered two dates and told them to choose. Both. Of course. Are you crazy, Jessica? Lunch the Sunday after their already graduation picnic. Dinner three Sundays from now, just before they start their official first night of high school youth group.

Together. Always, together.

Even on this long weekend, when the smallness of the middle school group is loose and uncertain in our suddenly giant space. They pull each other together, slowly; haphazard, loud, goofy, in and out, stretching my ability to keep track of who is where and when and why.

Just like they always have.

Up and down trees and on top of roofs before we even leave the parking lot, the fourteen of us parade through the neighborhood. 12 kids and 2 leaders in a scraggly line that betrays us a little, shows to the world the way that we have pieced together this crew from separate but intersecting groups of friends. Unpracticed unity that laughs, runs, walks, sheds shoes, stops to wish a cousin happy birthday, and manages to talk about everything and nothing in the brief distance between the church and my house.

Grace for climbing rocks, eating popsicles, making popcorn, and eventually getting out of my roommate's hair as we load up waiting arms and make our way back down to the park.

Basketballs, water jugs, pop bottles, bags of chalk and sunscreen and bubbles, a giant bowl of popcorn, and boxes of pizza and otter pops; we must make quite the sight as we wander down the street. And, we wander quite a lot. Back and forth from the house for dry t-shirts and bathroom breaks. Further down the street to another park. To a coffee shop, drinking fountains, basketball court. Along the bike path that leads to the church.

We get a little quicker every time, a little better at gathering things and bodies, a little smoother at anticipating which direction needs to be walked, at pacing ourselves to wander together.

Because, mainly, they are simply together.

Wandering is old habit, long practiced. They talk about trees and bushes and recycling dumpsters. About playing ninja through the building and donut fights in the grass and spying super quiet on the middle school group that they are now about to leave. About not having been meant to be in my group, but ending up there anyways.

And, I am reminded of just how far they have grown up.

These kids who are sitting in this cool grass, under this tree, content with popcorn and popsicles and drinking fountain filled water jugs. Somewhere in the process of mess and beauty, screeches and music sets, long wanders, and laughter mixed with worry, they have grown into this.

Into these humans who can sit and have real conversations about the things that are filling their heads, real conversations with actual words that don't have to be interpreted to be understood.

Into kids who are signing up for ministry trips without me.

We're moving past the eighth grade stuck, that strange phenomena where thirteen robs them of all of the words and expressive emotions of seventh grade and tucks them into the back corners of minds that are whirling with a thousand things that never make it out of their mouths. Small miracles to remind me of larger ones. Of stories that stretch farther than their fourteen years of life. Tie us together with faces that we have never seen and names that we have never heard.

Because, stories tie these kids together, even when they are still learning each others' names.

It is Pentecost. A day to remember roaring winds and tongues of fire and frightened disciples suddenly made bold. To remember the thunder and fire of Mt. Sinai. The completeness of being known and holy before this Knowing and Holy God. The making of a people. Law overtaken by Grace.

It's Pentecost. Gentle breeze and burning sun and bold words falling easily, casually, into the grass of these parks.

We talk about ministry trips that they are going on without me, these once littles who, a few short months ago, balked at the idea of a journey the distance of camp in a separate vehicle, even knowing that we would both be standing together on the other end. About Haiti and why they can't come and, yes, I would have taken you if I could.

Pausing along the road to pour water into thirsty mouths. Soccer in a dark room with an empty popcorn bowl. Tired, sweaty, suncreened-hopefully-not-burnt kids. Fourteen people so busy with this act of being that we collectively forget to take any pictures of the afternoon.

Known and holy. Made a people. Law overtaken by Grace.

The world may be swirling wild around us, but, for today, this is Pentecost in the desert. Another step in the long line of promises that we have kept and are keeping. This is living memory.

This is Grace.

Moving Forward

Sunday morning.

The 5th graders are overwhelmingly full of words and giggles today, barely making it through names and plans for the day in time to play an outside game.

But, we talk about the soon coming move to middle school ministry in the midst of it, these words and stories that fold over top of and around each other like a tangle of Christmas lights. Talk about camp and high school ministry trips and 8th graders moving up and trips to the hospital to have an appendix removed. All in this intertwined world of siblings and families and layers of connection that make a sizable church not so large after all.

"You should be a 6th grade leader!"

We talk about it in the way that 5th grade classes always do, these ones bonus certain that, since 8th grade siblings are moving up, I am the free floating leader, who they might be able to steal if they just wish hard enough.

But, they're also okay with the idea of another leader, in the same way that this crew is rambunctiously casual about just about everything. They want to be together, and they want to be moving - and talking. Anything else is pretty firmly optional.

So we run up and down the hill until they are breathless and sweating. Skid and slip and laugh, and will the sunshine to stay. Just stay.

Transition to middle school, where one of the boys is diligently attentive in making sure that all of the 8th graders are invited to the picnic. Where another one plops down in front of us on the floor in the careful in and out that will be his standard for the day. Close enough for long enough to determine who is going to be present for the next step. And, then, far enough away to keep the emotions coming off of all of them from overwhelming him completely.

Because, it isn't their last week, but it is the start of their goodbye, and these ones have never shared the 5th graders' nonchalance.

"Are you moving up with us?"

A third one stands a hair's breadth from my elbow during music, as if we've momentarily forgotten all of the years of growing up that they've done in between. Falling back on this familiar question with it's echoes of their much smaller selves. They're grown up young today, all swagger and sunglasses, brightly colored leis and elementary school parachute games. Old questions and habits that we've somehow carved deep and wide and certain.

They picnic in the afternoon, create new stories and wrap each other in new ones. Listen as leaders call them out for their compassion, for their differences and their somehow constant unity. These kids love well, passionately, consistently. Stronger together than they could ever be apart.

Wander in the shallows of the river. Skip rocks. Climb trees. Discover thorns.

Play volleyball. Lie in hammocks. Give nicknames. Wrestle with the frozen t-shirts that they are handed for a game.

Eat hamburgers. (There are a lot of hamburgers this weekend.) Unscramble letters. Pile into cars to take pictures and show up for a preview of the high school youth group.

Half the boys are missing by the time we settle onto the red dot carpet to to start, herded back in by their high school accompaniment and a teenaged middle school leader who knew to count heads and go looking. Because, there is a Grace to middle school leaders. An always-know-where-your-kids-are Protection that tracks them, even when they are out of sight, and keeps an accounting of each and every head.

And, they look at us a little sideways when My Redeemer Lives devolves into linked elbows and spinning bodies, as if these larger humans have somehow, inexplicably lost their minds. But, join in - sort of, kind of, mostly - one of the boys finally dropping to the floor in protest the third time through the chorus.

There is a megaphone during music and goofy games that involve shaving cream in the grass and Cheetos thrown at faces. And, when they get into the globs of it leftover afterwards and chase each other through the field, it isn't anything that the already-in-high-schoolers haven't been doing while the game was going on.

So, the bathrooms, and the kitchen, every sink, mirror, towel in the building are being used to wipe shaving cream out of ears and hair and noses. Pulsing with that sort of oddly off kilter life that is our high schoolers trying to make other people feel welcome in a space that they are suddenly less comfortable in themselves.

Noisy. Vibrant. Grace Filled and Uncertain.

They have three weeks left to grow into this place. Three weeks for this place to grow to make itself ready for them.

Neither side of the equation is quite certain of itself yet, but they'll get their feet under them soon enough. And, youth pastor or no youth pastor, it is going to be a powerful year.

Ascension

Feast Day. 

Ascension comes on either Thursday or Sunday, that strange moment with clouds and angels and a levitating Christ. With promises that seem counter intuitive, "I'm leaving, but...I'll be with you always," "Go to all the nations, but...wait here in the city."

And, I wonder what kinds of questions the disciples must have gotten afterwards, "'Ends of the earth,' huh? Are you leaving today? Tomorrow? Do you want help packing your donkey?"

"What's the plan? What do you mean you don't have a plan?"

"You're just going to hang out together? How long are you going to wait for?"

"Shouldn't you have some idea of what you're doing?"

I wonder if they got the same kinds of looks that a presenter gave our kids on day two of their short term trip training, when the 'easy' question was met with silence. 

"What are you going to Haiti to do?"

*crickets*

"Okay..." He glances out over the room to make sure that they are still awake, as if perhaps they are simply being taciturn, "When you're in Haiti, you'll wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, and then...?"

A few of them shrug minutely, and I can see the "Something," that they are trying to formulate into a more coherant response before it comes off their lips. It was a well practiced answer a few weeks ago, when things were even more uncertain than they are now.

"We are going to Haiti sometime, to do something, with some group of people."

Did the disciples get this look? This puzzlement washing over confident faces as the people around them began to realize that they fully intended to continue following the orders of a man who was no longer around. This, "How on earth did you get anybody to sign up for this gig?"

How on earth did they get anybody to sign up for this gig? We're easily six hours into a ten hour training, and I see the truth of the risen Christ in these kids, the desire to heal and to be healed, to reach deep into a messy world, to find the Divine in the faces of teammates who they are just meeting and already-friends in Haiti.

Passion that would put them on a plane right now, and temperance that would sit in this cold room for hour after hour of waiting, learning, and letting information wash over them, light their imaginations.

Because, we gather afterwards for a feast of sorts, hamburgers and playful laughter as a fundraiser to help send Haitian kids to leadership camp, much the way that the church here helps to send these kids to Haiti, John Day, RFKC, middle school camp, retreats. What goes around comes around, and they are more interested in time together than any hoorah over "doing the right thing."

These kids who were drooping and exhausted before we even started jump in to learn new games, play old ones, and create oddly twisted versions for no other reason than that they can. Why not play four-way, blind Connect Four with the pieces all mixed together? Why not try Operation with your eyes shut or have a fight with thrown ping pong balls?

Because, this is Holy.

There is Grace here and Truth, sacraments lived out in that casual, irreverent way that Baptists have for decades. Love Feasts of hamburgers and pop. Water thrown and sprinkled and dumped in a way that is not baptism into the faith, but baptism into the here and now, into the fact that we are alive, together. The confirmation of laughter and teasing and trying again.

Healing, not when they anoint one another with oil, but when they administer the questions on these well used conversation cards and make the space to truly listen to answers given, when they make the simple act of hearing a sort of common prayer. Holy orders, gathered around these small tables to continue to prepare for Haiti in the simple building of relationships, to breathe in the commonality of their sent-ness.

"[T]he truth of Ascension is to be lived out in an earthed spirituality that joyfully embraces the deep pleasures and wonder of our lives and world, that grieves and seeks to heal and mend where disruption and despair are known, that affirms “the natural world of sea, rock and earth as being redolent with divine glory, and recognizes Christ in the faces of friends and strangers." [1]

The movie starts, and they don't move for a long moment, this circle of them gathered in the back of the room, as if there's a spell that might be broken by standing up, a wisp of the Divine, once sensed, that might fail to return. As if we've wrung the last bit of everything right out of them.

The sort of stillness that doesn't move again when the lights come back on, bodies and brains that are as exhausted as if we had yanked them several time zones ahead, made ten o'clock at night hours later than it objectively is.

But, they clean up without question. Ping pong balls gathered before we could think to ask. Volleyball nets that we struggled to put up in the late afternoon wind untied and wheeled back across campus. Garbage bagged. Food put away. Rooms returned to normal. These kids who serve as if Jesus washing the disciples' feet was the most natural sort of leadership in the world.

Play. Serve. Lead.

Heal. Laugh. Learn.

Together.

It's Ascension week, where we celebrate the messiness of humans being left to once again stumble through the holy and the mundane. Looking forward to the fire and the power that was to come. Gathering the way that the disciples might have, had they lived in 21st century, northwestern USA, rather than the 1st century Roman Empire.

Spending time together while we balance the "go" with the "wait."

"Redolent with Divine glory."

Remember

"D won't give me back your phone, and I have a prayer request." One of the fifth grade girls crouches down beside me where I am sorting out their take home papers at the end of the hour.

Both are announced in the same matter of fact tone of voice, as if praying for sick grandparents was just as simple as walking over to the next small group to get my phone from the boy who is more interested in the rubber R2D2 case than in the electronics themselves. Because, in this Kingdom, it is. And, somehow, they know it.

We've been hearing lessons about God's love and faithfulness and sovereignty. Hosea, last week, their faces wrinkling with that 5th grade almost understanding of what the presenter was trying to not quite say in front of a room of elementary schoolers. Joseph, this week, as they confidently retell a story they have heard a dozen times before. A coat of many colors. Wild dreams. Jealous brothers. Fathers who play favorites. Slavery. Freedom. Forgiveness.

A children's story that is anything but.

We transition to small group time and sunshine. "Genesis," they scramble down the hill in search of the marked card, half of them certain that I'm not actually making it up when I say words like 'Obadiah,' the other half still giving me a curious sort of side eye.

We've combined with another group today, and it's the first time in years that I've had these familiar puppy piles of fifth grade boys to add to the mix. They block each other and circle, wrestle on the grass to stop the other one from getting a card that neither of them have actually located yet. But, eventually, we do find all of them, the books of the Old Testament clenched tight in sweaty hands, and I am reminded that Scripture is meant to be a joy and a blessing. Reminded of the way that the Rabbis used to children to the Torah by putting honey over the letters on their slate.

Reminded that the Scriptures are Holy, even the bits that we can't quite wrap our tongues or our minds (or our hearts) around, by the deft little fingers that carefully smooth the papers flat again and tuck them into our folder before we move on to the Gifts game.

Fully bizarre, in the way that only an ancient book can be - the high schooler's lesson includes a flaming pot and a burning torch that move on their own to seal a covenant - but Holy, Joyful, Blessing.

"For with you is the fountain of life; in your light we see light."

The Psalms whisper over us as we create memories with this class of 8th graders, pull them close and laughing, hold them precious in these last weeks before their transition. As they are full of light, as they have always been. Drawn together in fear and joy and celebration, this huddle of minds and hearts that want nothing more than to spend time.

Pizza lunch. Potluck dinner. Why not plan for all of it? Why not make good on these things that we have spent fourteen years teaching them about God and church and community? This mix matched group of them stands around to plan endings and beginnings, certain that they are stronger together, that they are part of a single story, that things that worked before have the potential to work again.

So they stay here, stay close, follow these lights. And, I am reminded of summer camp moments, these same kids plunging headlong into the darkness, guided only by a flicker of light in their hand or a glow stick in the distance. Of light switches, on and off, up and down, revealing anything that might think to hide. Reminded that these kids seek light.

Together.

The way that we are heading back to Haiti, together.

Twenty kids and five leaders preparing for whatever wild ride August has to offer. Standing in this long horseshoe in front of nervous parents and proud staff who do nothing to try to hide the fact that six months without a youth pastor have taught them to fall in love with these kids who they have taken responsibility for.

We are first time together, signatures, paperwork, faces and names. Impatiently eager for something that the calendar says is still so far away.

Because, Haiti touches everything. Changes the way we interact. The way we talk. The way that we navigate through awkward conversations, the kids weaving late night roof talks into gracefully reworded questions that cover for the places where I am stumbling.

The already promise of voices shrouded in starlight and music while we wander through whatever conversations they can think of having, watching for shooting streaks of light and wisps of cloud that seem close enough to touch.

Slow sunrises and hot afternoons with the close and closer bodies of sweaty children. Spice that comes out your pores and words that twist our tongues and minds and ears, even while our hearts are already certain that they understand.

We are made more through the remembering. Through the stories that they tell by eye contact and pantomime. Those windows where the past bleeds through into the present and colors us brave. The steady determination to avoid old mistakes, and the quiet acknowledgement that we will probably make new ones. Time tested confidence in the few constants that we can offer: their leaders, each other, the faces that they are traveling across a continent to reconnect with.

And, the remembering that, when we get quiet, God shows up.