Faithful

Out of all of the kids I see on Sunday, I might be the most like the one who is doing his level best not to say goodbye, as if not saying it might save me from the emotions that come with it. 

 I might be most like the little girl at Club who grins for our group picture with a paper plate held confidently in the air, the backside scrawled with the promise from today's game, “God will never leave me!” 

Or, perhaps, a very human combination of the two, some moments her confidence, others his hesitation. Because, there is a new sort of grace waiting for this new adventure, and every interaction this weekend is thrumming with it, with the tension of wanting to hold onto this version of church family and yet of knowing that there are beautiful things coming. 

And, I am challenged to call out the beauty in this moment.

There is beauty and there is Holy here, in this wild mix of emotions. Holy in kids who fall back onto old patterns that I thought we had long forgotten. Holy in the long years that we have spent building this trust and working to speak these languages. Holy in tight hugs that come again and again, and Holy in kids who have to be given specific reason to give any hug at all. 

Because, we have fallen down the rabbit hole tonight, their 6th grade selves walking around in these almost grown forms. And, even if I am no longer tall enough to loop him in a basket hold and swing him back and forth until he settles, I know enough to come to him. Trade a cookie for a hug. Back away before tears are anything but a mist. 

Messy. 

 Holy.

Holy in playing games that I never would have chosen without these kids, and holy in quiet declarations that we are going to stay right here, wherever we are, forever. In dreams of visiting and in maps of Haiti on our palms.

Holy in entire sibling sets who lay claim to parts of this story, overlapping and sharing each other's confidence or quiet trust. Holy in 5th grade girls who scrawl their fears onto notebook pages and then tear them out with a determined pull. “It doesn't have to look perfect,” one of them chides another for being too careful. “You're supposed to be able to tell that they were there.” 

We scribble them out. Rip them into pieces. Throw them away, although more than one girl wants to burn them. Leave our notebooks with the word “Fearless” and the rough edges of these jagged tears. 

Because, torn edges are what we look back on when we fight to prove to ourselves that God is faithful. 

The tears that happen when we pray, when high school voices overlap each other “Haitian style,” hands laid heavy, everyone praying at once. It wasn't what the youth pastor intended. For those who have never heard it before, it sounds distracting, chaotic. But, for so many of our kids, it is the best way that they know of pulling the Holy down to earth. 

It means long talks at cluster and late nights on the roof in Fonds Parisien. It means winter retreat and so many precious things that, when they ask, we can't begin to tell them no. 

 “Draw us into your love, Christ Jesus: and deliver us from fear.” 

(The New Book of Common Prayer, afternoon, October 15th) 

Yes, you can pray. Yes, you can do it all at once, with no one listening in on the words that fall from your lips. Yes, we can hold onto one more tradition, one more pattern. And, yes, when we are done and there are tears in too many eyes, you can have all of the hugs. Your breakout groups will start without you. For now, this is important. 

These torn edges are what we will look back on, hold onto. 

Even tonight, in the moments where we slow down enough to slip into a story, it is the hard things that spill out. The times when their tiny selves weren't doing the things that they knew they “should,” but they were held onto and loved in the midst of it. Times when there were more questions than answers, more hurt than healing. Because, look. We did it then. We can do it now. 

It wasn't easy, but God was faithful. 

“Let nothing disturb you, let nothing dismay: All things are possible. God does not change.” (The New Book of Common Prayer, morning, October 15th) 

And, the reminder is good for my heart too. 

In the seventy four months since moving back, there are thousands of should have's and could have's, tens of thousands of moments that might have gone differently, but, even in the midst of the wild, beautiful mess, we did something right. 

Something to build trust. Something to live Love. Something that looked a little bit like Jesus. 

There is Grace here. There are precious, beautiful kids and dozens of leaders who love the crap out of them. They will continue to weave together this muddled up sort of a church family. Continue to text each other at all hours of the night and snapchat when they should be listening to the message. 

They will gather around tables for dinner, for ice cream. Run circles in the Hub and roll down the hill. Hold space and be family. 

It will be a beautiful, exhausting, messy adventure, but the best kind always are. 

And, even across these two thousand some miles, we will continue to tell each other stories. Look. Look and see what God has done.