"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.
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.
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