Upside Down Grace

No matter how many times I remind them otherwise, the fifth graders collage from their own frame of reference. Whatever side of the cardboard that they are sitting on is "down," and the side opposite from them is "up."

Things are sideways and topsy turvy, cartwheeling across the space in layers of paper and marker and quotes. These are nature kids and words kids and kids who are fascinated by the thought of a world that is bigger than just themselves. There is an astronaut head floating sideways, at least one landscape flipped completely upside down, and a cow smiling at us with a set of human lips.

And, I kind of love it.

I love the long string of question marks that fill in an empty space and the silent reminder that, whatever we see of God, we see from our own point of view. That things are wild and messy whichever way you look at it. That there is truth written in the upside down bits. And, that, sometimes, when gravity seems to have let loose and sent rolling hills floating on top of a pale blue sky, it is an invitation to see God from a different angle.

Because, it hasn't been an easy week for our kids, and, yet, I watch Grace tumble over us, in wave after stinging, healing wave.

Church lets out early, slowly, gently, and my fifth graders continue their quiet work in the hallway, barely speaking past the music that we are playing, unperturbed by the steady stream of adults who circumvent them without comment. It's a 'feed treats to a couple thousand people' week, and they dig their teeth into whole apples as we finally start to clean up and move our things back into the space where we are "supposed" to be.

They've learned to kick their shoes off under the stairs, to bring their paper Bibles, and to underline verses while we talk about Justice and Power. Learned to weave quiet prayers into the frame and form a long, snaking line of seats during story.

And, when their little hearts fight for attention, for any attention, when something inside of them whispers that they need to have more of whatever thing they're looking at, that they need to be in control in order to feel safe. When it takes some extra time to settle. When the power point doesn't quite work right. When we go over Bridgetown verses in elementary Sunday school. When church lets out early.

There is Grace to cover.

For when I have completely forgotten that I was supposed to come up with a game for middle school, even though it's been on my to do list since Monday. For when I ask some kids who have come over for hugs, and we come up with something anyways. And, it works.

Grace for playing in the octagon and singing loud to camp songs and sending a hip bump down a long line of girls who simply need the contact to remember that they are loved. Because, I give out more hugs than usual this Sunday, stand around and talk for a little bit longer, pull in a little closer and a little tighter, because, this is Grace when there is hurt in the air.

Littles who drink from my water bottle and pull gum from my backpack and carry my phone around without actually using it for anything. And, the crickets at the end of breakout groups, because no one is in a particular hurry to leave and no one particularly wants to offer to pray. Because, they are feeling vulnerable enough already without putting it on display, thank you very much.

But, finally, someone does, and there is Grace.

Pushing us. Sheltering us. Present with us.

Grace.

Kingdom Come

The fifth graders are a mess of glue and scissors, sharpies and paper scraps, sprawled out across the hallway with a piece of cardboard that is nearly bigger than they are.

"Make a collage of things that show God's heart."

They quickly overflow the tiny space that I gave them to fill, and I spend part of my morning rummaging through a recycling dumpster for something large enough to contain the truth that is spilling off of their scissors. Favorite Bible verses, quotes, images of children and animals, adults, and nature. They create a pile of sunrises and question marks and decorate the top of the piece in metallic marker.

It isn't finished yet, but we tuck it away into a corner for next week, give them a chance to weave their prayers into the loom, circle up on the floor for a speed version of our Books of the Bible game, gather up the pillows and highlighting pencils and Kenyan scarves that make up our space, and send them off with their parents.

We're practicing abundance here. Practicing what it looks like not to worry about someone else getting your favorite color of pen or finding the Bible verse before you. Practicing putting socks in the donation bin and celebrating those few who managed to get their brains, and their paper Bibles,  together despite this rainy morning, without worrying when we will be celebrated in return.

Because, when our world is bigger than ourselves, when we can trust that there is "enough," the justice that we are studying comes like breathing, prayer comes naturally, and there is space to ask the questions that bubble at the lips of these little Ravenclaw girls with their brains that are constantly spinning, trying to "figure it out."

Space for my 6th graders to begin to shift their loyalty to people over process. To decide that they don't really care about collecting name tags as much as they care about having the leaders who belong with these pieces of fabric and nylon. To become, for a few minutes each Sunday, the things that a strong, healthy Slytherin class should be.

Loyal. Ambitious. Digging up details that no one else knew existed. Passionate. Bold. Stubbornly self reliant, but fiercely protective of anyone they consider their own. They are constantly playing the angles, moving the pieces, discarding the things that they deem to be extraneous, and trying on new ones for size. And, it's just about as much of a whirlwind as it sounds like.

This crew is constant movement and words and physical contact, always trying to "do it right," sorting through unspoken rules and relationships and unconsciously forcing us to put words to them. Slytherins guard our traditions, Gryffindors our stories, and Ravenclaws our ideas.

These three classes that twine together in a dizzying web of social media contacts and real life friendships don't have scissors or glue on hand this morning, but they are making their own sort of a collage, their own sort of a living picture of the heart of the Creator.

Unique. Gifted. Imperfect. With abundant space at the table for anyone who wants to come.

It doesn't solve the problems of the world, but it may just bring the Kingdom a little closer.

When high schoolers share their testimonies at athletic events, I am reminded of how far we have come in one year, in two years. Of the hurt and healing and honest conversations, of the questions that they are asking and the questions that they will continue to ask.

Of worries over friends and family in Haiti and the constant prayers that form as I spend my weekend driving and hiking through the Olympic National Forest, where, predictably, there is rain. But, rain that is so much gentler than that which has flooded churches and houses and fields.

Here, I hike for a few minutes alongside a woman who is well into her seventies, umbrella held confidently in one hand and trekking pole in the other, tisking over her "young" friends who have sped on ahead of her and in awe of a waterfall that surges with brown flood water, the bridge that we stand on swimming with fallen rain.

Here I am reminded by the Makah permit that hangs in my window that I am a guest on someone else's land. Here, I am reminded of the constant, unrelenting power of the ocean and the faithfulness of a God who sees. Who sees the twisting tangled mess of human history and chooses to enter in. Chooses to walk alongside us. Chooses to Love.

"Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing."
- Arundhati Roy

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