Some weekends, I am reminded why we treasure these stories of the Children of Israel, this frightened, anxious, impatient mass of humanity feeling their way forwards in the wilderness. Ten steps forwards. Twenty steps back. Singing as often as they complain and hurting as often as they were healed.
Waiting, each morning, for manna to fall.
We gather the middle schoolers for a gym night, spend the evening running in circles, throwing things at each other, and pulling children off of the bleachers. Jump into the chaos and the emotions and the thousand different things that are going on in their lives right now. Let go of the idea of organized games or planned events, and simply be.
Because, this is manna after a long week. This thing that looks not quite like church, but seems like it might be food anyways. This, "What is it?"
The kids laugh and recognize the strangeness of it, "I would feel bad for anyone new who came tonight."
There are a few new ones here, easy to locate by their focus on actually playing volleyball with a few leaders, while the rest of the gym pulses with movement and this only half verbalized language that they are speaking. The physicality that is Bethel kids on the cusp of things that they don't understand.
We bend hula hoops out of shape and then quietly re-form them. Tie shoelaces together and carefully finesse them back apart. Group and re-group and re-group again. 6th grade, 7th, 8th, boys, girls, the lines between us all summer camp fuzzy, as if, maybe, we can wear family like a second skin, can stay here forever.
Or, at least, until the cloud moves.
They've had a lot of practice at transition, this particular crew of them. Watching as leaders follow that pillar of fire wherever it leads. Well versed in uncertainty, and, hopefully, just as sure of that perfect Love that casts out fear.
One of the 6th grade girls informs me exactly how many miles I will be moving, and we rehearse, over and over again, when I intend on coming back.
Because, we're all a little raw this weekend, the spaces between us fuzzier and filled with echoes of "we" rather than "I."
5th grade girls are indignant, the next morning, at the thought of me leaving, hands on hips and lion cub fierce, as they declare that, "You can't leave. We just got you." as if they can stubborn me into changing my mind.
So, instead, we talk, and decorate covers with wash tape, and scrawl the word "Cherished" onto the next page of their notebooks. Accepted. Beloved. Cherished. If we only have a few weeks together, we're going to fill their heads with the reality of who they are.
This is church. This family. This is mess. This is Grace. This is Love.
These are middle schoolers who are collectively certain that they are my favorite. Royal Family kids who pop forwards when they are given the chance to lay on hands and pray. 6th grade boys who carefully fashion a bracelet out of the toilet paper that is our traditional goodbye.
These are high schoolers who somehow manage to make me cry, who stay late to help with dishes, and who gather on DQ benches until it is later still, leaned in intently as they work together to navigate life.
By morning, the entire nation will be aware of this night with a piercing sort of clarity. But, for now, our griefs and our joys are quieter, more private, more open to this nebulous space in between.
It's hard, sometimes, when you are in the middle, to see the Provision that has come before.
The lectionary reading pulls from Psalm 78. We look back on the Children of Israel, and, with them, we remember.
Remember a God who splits seas and rains manna. Who has spent these years tying us together and building memories. Who forges unlikely kids into family. Who is present in our ever moving mess.
There is ebb and flow here. There is Faithfulness. There is Grace.
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