Epic Living

Middle school camp. Where we put a cabin of sixth grade girls to sleep three nights out of five with stories from Tell Me the Secrets. Where we take long kayak rides to play in mud and longer ones the next day just to talk. Talk about camp and homesickness and sticking it through. Talk about school and temptation and which leaders they look up to. Talk about how older kids who haven't grown up in the church might not know the things that they do and how they can help them to learn. And, talk about nothing as we simply drift on the quiet of the river.

Where, this year, we designed the games and we built them around teamwork and trust and cooperation - around listening to each other and watching one another's backs. Where no one won - but no one seemed to notice. Where they are active and running and playing from eight in the morning until eleven o'clock at night. Where we talk about Calvary in the lunch line and on the way up from the riverfront. Where their artwork lines the walls of the chow hall and their prayers decorate the activity center.

Where they are old enough to flirt and think about relationships but still young enough to be completely engrossed in the building of a sand castle. Where sensory input is our friend and we pass out gum balls to stave off the Wednesday meltdowns - when exhaustion and emotion finally begin to catch up with them, and they realize that they don't know what to do with any of it. Where it is acceptable to cry during music and they talk about feeling God during chapel.

Where we circle the wagons just a little tighter than last year and pull them a little closer, until there is no way for lives not to rub up against each other, against the reality of God. Where their fears can bubble to the surface and be wrapped in constant layers of truth. Truth that they are protected, seen, loved, safe. Truth that hard is normal and struggle does not make them broken.

"Jesus died on the cross for my sins."

It's the first thing to spill from their lips when I ask them for a truth that they heard in Sunday night's chapel, a thought or a belief from the speaker. Any other time, it could have been trite or shallow, a Sunday school answer to a Sunday school question, but it isn't, because the next answers aren't ones that we've given them at all. If you really believed that truth, that Jesus died on the cross for your sins, how would that make you feel?

"Good," they tell me, "safe, comforted, protected."

If you felt that way, how do think you would act?

"Loved, loving," they list ways of being rather than specific actions, but they are so spot on and so unified in their answers that I don't stop to correct them, "happy, relaxed, comfortable."

We move on to other truths, and the actions gradually get more concrete, but I can't help but think that this is it; this is Truth; this is gospel. This is the answer to their fears. This is the core of the epic living that the speaker is talking about, the core of the worship stations that they go to, the core of everything that is camp.

"I can feel good, safe, comforted, and protected, because I believe that Jesus died on the cross for my sins; and, because I feel that way, I can be loved and loving, happy, relaxed, and comfortable."

Perfect love as that which casts out all fear.

This is camp. Where there is no alter call, but they don't need it, because I can see the knowledge of God in their eyes every time that I look at them. Where nothing is sacred and everything is. Where we come home and it doesn't feel so much like coming off of a high, because this year was different.

Quieter. Deeper. More honest.

We played hard. I had the sore muscles yesterday to prove it. But, there was so much more to it than simply playing.

"This year was different." The kids try to explain, but they don't have the words any more than we do, and I am left drawing comparisons to Haiti or to the high school winter retreat, because there is a pattern and season to this thing. A season for the truth to break down walls and quiet conversations to be the the things that set hearts free. A season with fewer "extras" but somehow still more fruit.

They were honest and they were together, and God came to do the messy, beautiful, broken, complicated, simple thing that is the Holy Spirit in the lives of believers.

This is middle school camp 2013 - a year for epic living.

Haiti: Flexible

F was for flexible.

Flexible enough to leave the country knowing nothing more than that we were doing anywhere from two to five days of VBS and ending with a day on the beach.

Flexible:

- enough for the music team to shrug and stay deep in the crowd, to connect with kids rather than push their way to the front

- enough to come in from the basketball courts early to plan when we realized that Sunday was not only church, but also the first day of our second VBS

- when departure day came and we were still watching a tropical storm

- when we arrived at HCM to find 90 other team members already still there 

- when the boys had to store their suitcases in the office and hunt for unoccupied bathrooms

- when it looked like we would be sleeping scattered all across the campus

- when we were crowded into vans and bouncing along in the bus

- when a two hour trip stretched out into five

- when 94 degrees and massive humidity still meant long pants, button up shirts, and dress shoes (while playing with kids!)

- when leaving the resort meant slipping back into long skirts and high cut necklines

- when they never knew when or where or what they were going to be eating for lunch

- when snacks were a meal and PB&J was made in a parking lot

- when they didn't know why we were waiting, only that we were

- when nothing at VBS ran according to a clock and when one day's timing was completely different from the next

- when a village was not visited and a hike was talked about but never made

- when flights were delayed and gates were crowded

- when they suddenly realized how much of this language they did not know and how very much there was to learn

- when wifi was a few hours a night on the farthest corner of the highest section of the (flat) rooftop

 - when some kids wanted to sit on your lap and others wanted to shoot you with rubber bands

- when "bring basketball shorts and running shoes" counted as a detailed plan of action for post-VBS activities

- when the answer to, "What are we doing next/now/tomorrow?" seemed to always be, "Whatever they tell us to do."

- when a thousand little things came up that I don't remember because they rolled with them so very naturally

And, mainly:

- when we threw them into a culture that was not their own with a team that had never been all together until the day we took off from the airport

Haiti: Relationship Focused

R was for relationship focused.

It meant that tasks were secondary to people, that it didn't matter if we cleaned up the trash or painted the school so long as there were people who felt seen and heard and loved.

In Haiti, it meant that nothing was more important than getting down low with a kid and just playing.

Joss spent two days of VBS in Carrefour being used as a climbing frame, dripping with beaming little girls who remembered this blanc, the one who loved them well last year and who refused to do anything less this year than to love them even more deeply. 

The girls came off of the soccer field in Fonds Cheval to sing and dance and play clapping games, to hold children on their laps and offer sips of their water bottles. Whitney took the baby that she was handed in Maier and led craft for 100+ kids at a time, all with a child firmly on her hip, because neither was more important than the other.

Kids were hoisted onto backs and shoulders, chased and caught and swung around. Hair was braided and little hands wiped sweat off of bigger faces.

Conversations were held in English and Creole, French and Spanish. Grandparents were introduced and siblings pointed out. Ninja was taught. Dance parties were had. Sunday school teachers came in to help with crafts. Moms stuck around to help coral children.

And, many of their favorite moments came without translators or games or any sort of American style order. They came out of short lessons and simple crafts that were occasionally dropped on the ground the moment they were complete. They came out of names learned and faces memorized and hearts connected.

Zandra downloaded old photos to her phone to prove to children that they were remembered and loved and cherished. Kids who hadn't seen us for two years asked for Jimmy by name. Mariah declared that knowing we were going back to Carrefour was "like the night before Christmas!" Lovna asked about Brennen and joined with dozens of kids in asking when we were coming back - how long would we all have to wait this time, before we saw each other again?

Late nights came with honest conversations about fears and spiritual warfare and waiting for God's best. Lightning storms were met with hands on frightened shoulders and quiet words of praise. They called out the good that they saw in one another and spoke a gentle truth that refused to yield to any of the enemies lies.

And we were left with one of the strongest team that we have ever had.

Relationship wasn't something that happened for a few hours at VBS or during basketball games on the compound. Relationship was every moment of every day.

Haiti: Unity

U was for Unity.

Unity that allowed them to stay up late each night, talking about things that most adults would never even think to ask. Unity that allowed them to wake up tired the next morning after four or five hours of sleep and still great their teammates with grace.

Unity that pretty much worked me out of a job.

At VBS they worked seamlessly, every person pulling their own weight. Fully in, and fully in together.

Tuesday and Wednesday, there were dance parties in the back of the bus, music blasting as they let their otter sides shine through, as they did everything possible to hold back the exhaustion that was pounding at their bodies. And, still, they looked out for one another. Songs were changed without comment, and, when the quietest one began to mouth the words, everyone noticed, exchanging bright, triumphant smiles as if they had just conquered the world.

Prayer happened in tight huddles, arms over shoulders and around backs, ever cautious of sunburns, but wanting, needing, to be close together, to come as a team, a family, a small segment of the Body brought together for just these few days.

"A....men!" The sign would start on their own fist and end on a neighbor's, followed by laughter or cheers as this one simple act turned out to be so very complicated to coordinate. Complicated, but somehow important enough that they kept at it, all the way through to the end of the trip. Tangible proof of their ability to work together.

Often messy, hesitant at first. This proof that they could watch and listen, that they could be tuned in and focused, that they were a team that knew each other and that functioned well.

Four hours of unexpected waiting in the Port Au Prince airport, and they simply sat, talked a little, shared snacks for lunch. Peanut butter pretzels, lifesavers, fruit and nut medley, beef jerky. Riddles and Mad Libs on phones. Quiet, effortless existence, circled up between suitcases and around backpacks.

Most teams take this time to pull apart, to begin to separate, create an existence outside of the trip, but this one stayed close.

There was frustration and moments where heads were about to be ripped off. Twenty-two people crammed together for nine days are going to rub on a few raw nerves. But, over and through all of that, there was a genuine desire to love one another selflessly.

Mariah was sick on the first morning of VBS, and in the midst of the craziness, Nathan asked to pray for her twice. He talked about her in the car, and gave an assessment that her best friends could not have topped. After just a few hours together, he had watched carefully enough to gauge her character.

They were unified because they allowed Christ in them to love, and to love enough to never stop paying attention.

"They will know you are Christians by your love."

Haiti: Servant Hearted

Back when the oldest of these kids were in elementary school, my youth pastor gave us an acronym to pray over our ministry trips. We were asked to pray that the teams would SURF. S was for servant hearted.

That first year that we prayed it was powerful, tangible, as if God was reaching down to grab us by the shoulders and make us see that He did, indeed, answer prayers. And, then, I remembered, and prayed it this year for this team...

In the middle of a long day of fundraising and training, when their eyes are flagging and heads are nodding, I mention another task that needs to be completed, my task, something that I didn't have the time to do before, and they jump on it - across the church and finished before a leader can be quick enough to follow.

There is construction work going on at HCM, another team there prepping for a pastors' conference. Every time that I turn around, there are students asking to spend their precious moments of rest over doing work that "isn't theirs," asking to serve with their hands and their time and their energy. Too tired to go to the lake and swim. Too tired to play games or even really talk. But, not too tired to paint and sand and hammer.

Teenaged boys carefully portion out the food that they put on their plates, making sure that there is enough for everyone, and patiently waiting to see if there is enough for seconds. It seems simple, when a fifteen year old boy eats a single pancake for breakfast and then refuses to crowd to the front of the lunch line, but it is huge, and oh se telling of the truth in these young hearts.

We bump and jostle them and slop out in the liquid in their souls, and still service comes out.

"I'd love to."

They answer with a phrase from a youth pastor they have never really known, and there is humility when they say it, but also an honest pride. Pride that this is good, this is right, this is how life is intended to be lived. Because, really, they would love to.

Love to walk back to the bus to get the bags of water before it can be recognized that they are needed. Love to dance with children in a hot, sweaty church until everything is ready for the next step. Love to play and laugh and run until they are wet with the humidity of it. Love to pile hot, sweaty kids onto their hot sweaty selves. Love to stack rice and suitcases and water filters.

Love to smear each other with aloe and Neosporin. Love to share their snacks in the times when there are not meals. Love to pray. Love to sing. Love to watch like hawks and point out the good in one another. Love to wait. Love to go. Love to clean and wash dishes and pick up trash from under seats.

Whatever it is that you could think to ask, they wold love to.

Haiti: Overview

Haiti 2013. Where we have finally found our rhythm. Or the right group of kids. Or, perhaps, where God has simply chosen to lavish on us the gift of his unity and presence.

"How He Loves Us" rings through the night air, arms wrapped around each other in a huddle that ought to have been ridiculous but somehow makes perfect sense. Small groups of kids stay up to watch each night turn into morning, having real talk on the roof or sprawled out on mattresses. The darkness pulls truth from their lips, and I rarely call curfew until after 1:00am.

They wake up in the morning to birds and roosters, the hum of air conditioning, or the pounce of a teammate, and it takes days before the sleepless nights begin to catch up to them, a Tuesday morning wall that we break through by blasting music on the bus, Matisy*hu to Justin B*iber to Hillsong and back again. And, the smiles never stop.

They are all in like we've never seen before, vibrant and full of life, connecting and giving without inhibition.

Logan is blistered and peeling with sunburn but gives piggy back rides until his shoulder is raw and bleeding. Eva asks for the first aid kit and patches him up on the bus, both of them laughing when she signs the bandaids with a sharpie and hands out a Lifesaver for being a good patient. Joel comes to tease her when the Bandaid on his knee starts peeling off, and she slaps it without ceremony, giving the team another story, another layer to the unity that they are allowing to be built within them.

They stretch three or four phrases of Creole to explain games and hang out for hours without translators. "Jessica, how do you say...?" "What is...?" "Do you know what s/he is saying?" fall often from their lips, and they have somehow learned to release the control of the VBS groups. Three groups some days. Two groups others. "Actual" games and times where there is nothing more than hanging out with kids. Which, in the end, is everything.

There are dance parties and soccer games, circle games and clapping rhythms. Drip, Drip, Drop; Ninjas; and Ring Around the Rosie until everyone is breathless and laughing. Old friends found and new one made. Teenagers that are climbed on like jungle gyms and blancs that are claimed as nearly personal property.

Names drip from American lips like a talisman, as if we are sealing this into reality.

We find out that Becca sounds like the Creole word for "devil," and she slips uncomplainingly into using a name from last year's French class. A tarantula crawls out of the ceiling at a crowded VBS, and Woodson kills it with a branch. Figgins jumps out of the bus and starts directing traffic until we are moving again on a two hour ride that stretches out into five. DP and Alfons go out time after time to get more snacks for churches overflowing with children.

There are hard times, moments where we wonder what on earth the next step is to move forwards from here, but, mostly, it is beautiful. Answered prayer in action. The kind of beauty that takes your breath away and whispers the truth of eternity.

"...all of a sudden I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory

and, I realize just how beautiful you are and how great your affections are for me..."

Fire and Rain

Thunder shakes the building where the Haiti team is prepping for VBS, two lightening strikes lighting the mountain behind us on fire while they watch. It is the hot dry of a summer thunderstorm, and the flames are spreading fast. On their own, they huddle up and decide to do something.

They pray for the fire to go out, and it does. Sheets of water pouring from the sky and flooding across the parking lot. Not ten minutes later, the rain has passed and the sun is back. If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes - or ten.

But, if I had the audacity to speak for the Divine, I might begin to say that this was on purpose. On purpose like the way that the dates were changed for our very first VBS trip to Haiti, when, instead of silence, we stepped out of the crowded vans and into a night filled with songs of worship. Because, these dates too, were once different.

The first paperwork we gave them put this back a weekend, seven days ago, with no thunder or lightening or pounding rain. And, I can't help but wonder if this weekend was a gift. A reminder of a God who hears prayer.

We've been praying for this trip for months. My cluster ought to be sick of hearing the word Haiti fall from four sets of lips at every turn, every chance for a prayer request. But, rarely together, rarely as a team. And, this first time, they see an answer so rapid that they can't stop talking about it. 

There is a new confidence in these nervous kids. The God of angel armies has just answered thier call.

If it is a gift, it is one that we will hold to tightly, one that we will continue to weave through their story in the moments when they are anxious or uncertain or afraid. Because, fear is a big deal to these kids, one that we talk about far too infrequently. This is, after, all Eastern Washington, a church full of engineers, doers and fixers and pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps types. But, that makes them no less teenagers growing up in an uncertain world.

Today has spilt some of that wide open, lightening and thunder and fire bringing hidden things straight to the surface, and it is good. Good for them to know that they are not alone. Good for truth to spill out and grace to be given.

TRUTH, for this team, is going to be a powerful tool.

Impulse

"I feel stupid now." The seventh grader pressed against my elbow catches my attention during music, and I have to give him the space to finish the thought, because our last conversation was about Aspergers and brain function, but, thirty seconds later, he could be anywhere.

It's been one of those days, where we're once again drowning in grace.

It's Father's Day and the end of the first week of summer, and their bodies are on edge.

He is always close these days, leaning back just a little, his foot overlapping mine as we stand around the octagon. Today, he leans in, close enough that our arms are connected, and, ever since we got back inside, he hasn't been able to stop talking.

Impulsive. Random. Talking.

He catches himself once or twice, "That was mean. I shouldn't have said that." and verbally acknowledges the nonsense chatter, "I'm just trying to find anything to talk about."

But, the words keep coming.

We talk about Biblical geography and the violence of Bible stories. We go down a list of kids who aren't there and where they might be. We talk about old songs and figures of speech. His voice cracks, and the whisper isn't always. 

The youth pastor calls people out for talking, and he blushes and glances at me guiltily, but it still doesn't stop the questions and observations.

"I just realized," perhaps the most important phrase slips out in the middle of a song as he finishes his thought, "that it doesn't matter if you move up with us or not. Nothing will change for me, because I'm not even in your small group right now."

There is relief in his eyes.

Nothing will change. He is still safe. He is still known. I'm not leaving him.

But, there is also shame. 

Because, that opener of "I feel stupid" wasn't exaggeration. There is something in this kid that whispers that it is true. 

That he is stupid. That he doesn't measure up. That he isn't enough or is too much. That he is the kind of kid that people leave.

Lies.

And, this time, I am the one initiating the talking, making sure that he knows that he isn't the last of the boys to figure it out - in fact, he's been the first of them to verbalize it. 

Ruffling my hand through his hair. Leaning down to listen and talk. Letting him stand as close as he can.

Because I have my own impulsive need to make him understand truth, to let him see grace.

Grace that spins him in circles when he is too paralyzed to do the motions on his own. Grace that will carry his body weight when he leans in the next time and lets me pivot him on one foot like a two-year-old. Grace that returns his smile when he finally settles in for a few moments to worship.

Grace that hands out gum in the hallway as we're leaving and lets him keep my phone in his pocket when he thinks we're being separated for the game.

Grace to prove that the only place safer than the center of God's will is in His presence. Grace for days like today, where fear and shame bubble just a little closer to the surface. 

Grace that says that he is enough.

Because, I don't know where the lies are coming from. I know that it is Father's Day. I know that school is out and he misses his friends. I know that strong emotions happening in the main service have traditionally put his behaviors on edge.

And, I realize how very little I know about this one's family. He is intensely private, even when he is standing in my space. But, I do know that our God is greater than any lie, any fear, any sense of shame.  I do know that, even today, there is grace to cover.

Past and Present

RFKC training. I pick her up early on Saturday morning and feel the whisper as we pass someplace we have already been - a cycle completed.

Last time I was at this camp, she was one of my campers, a tiny little blonde child who still vividly remembers folding to the ground, arms and legs crossed tight, epically pissed off at me for some reason that both of us have forgotten. But, oh so definitely angry.

We stop to pick her up an energy drink, and, on the way to the church, she tells me that they asked her the same question in her interview that they ask everyone, "What would you do if a camper told you that they hated you?"

She said that she didn't know - then laughed as she told them that remembered probably using those exact same words on me.

And, I'm a little bit in awe of a God who ties things off long after we had thought them completed. Because, I never thought that, this many years later, we would be here.

I was eighteen when I was her counselor, just out of high school, ready to leave for college, not really planning to move back, to live here again. She was little, still years from graduating camp, reprimanding me every time that I praised her, jumping on the teen staff like they were climbing frames, and generally doing her best to prove that she was old hat at this - that she really didn't need me much at all.

But, we were well matched, both stubborn as mules, paired with a second child who was sweetly excited over everything. I remember settling onto the grass beside her and just waiting. I never would have guessed that that waiting could have been a  - very small - drop that poured into this.

There's a "Welcome Home Dinner" for the camp staff and families each year, and an open mic time for counselors to tell stories about amazing breakthroughs or cute conversations: like the time that one of my little Sunday school boys was stuck on the rock wall, petrified to move up or down, completely unresponsive to his counselors - until I called his name and he looked down at me... and climbed straight up to the top;

like his sister, who verbally forbade me from being away at college the next summer;

or... like my camper, who angrily sat in the games field refusing to go in to dinner, who probably told me that she hated me.

Except, not so much on the last one. I sat and listened to stories of amazing healing conversations that took place and wondered what families would think if I shared my story of a pissed off little towheaded child who went to my church.

Six years later, we will once again be in the same cabin. She's coming back as a CIT, one of two previous campers to be on this year's staff. She no longer hates me. She still has the pictures from that year. We laugh about the story often, and I was actually able to see her in action on a ministry trip last summer.

Six years later, it could be a welcome home story - all because of a God who, I am pretty sure, gets a kick out of reminding me just how carefully He ties the past together with the present, building seasons and cycles into our lives that we never could have imagined.

On The Edge of Grace

They're the upperclassmen now, the experienced ones, the ones who, last year, seemed so tall and gangly compared to their child-like selves.

This week the eighth graders graduate. Next week they will be gone, replaced by a swarm of wide eyed sixth graders. Next week will be change.

We talk about it coming, and the anxiety rushes to the surface like a tidal wave, compounded by a game that splits boys from girls, separating them without their consent. Music comes, all of us back together, and I don't have enough hands to begin to hold onto all of these ones that need it.

Often, we are disruptive, a squirming mass in the middle of the crowd, but we aren't the only ones, and there is grace in this room. Grace for bodies that won't stay still and minds that won't stop racing. Grace for children growing into adults, who feel alien in their own skins. Grace for boys who shouldn't still be mine but are, working overtime to ensure that no other leader knows their name and hovering millimeters from my elbow to talk.

There is grace, but we are pushing up against the edge of it, teetering on the line.

And, it feels little desperate - because they are. Because school is out in a few days. because summer is coming. And, because I am leaving.

"Why can't you be a seventh grade leader next year?" It's asked a dozen times, as if they can force the answer to change by sheer repetition. "Why can't you tell Chris you want to stay with us?"

And, I'm not going anywhere, not really, staying down with the new class of sixth graders to help them transition in. But, everything in them seems to scream that that isn't the way that things are supposed to go.

We've seen these behaviors before, pressed up against the edges of a much different type of grace in the Children's Wing. And, I glance at the youth pastor who is watching carefully, the warning in his eyes gently insistent. Get them under control. Remind them to be quiet.

"Put it away." One of them finally hisses at the others long after music has faded into an open mic for the graduating eighth graders, long after they are supposed to be listening quietly. "Or, Jessica is going to get in trouble."

It's been long months since I used to coax their fifth grade selves out of trees or in from the parking lot with a laughing reminder that, "If we don't get in for story, Mr. Phil is going to eat me," and I'm not sure what to make of it now to hear it coming from their lips. Except that the phrase most often came out on the edgy days, the days where they most needed to not follow the plan, the days where we turned a simple Sunday school lesson into a dance.

Today, I can hear the reminder in the simple words. There is grace here and trust (and fear and anxiety and confusion). There is the trust that, no matter how old they get, their actions still fall back on me. 

Trust that they are shielded, because they know that they are not the ones teetering on the edge of human grace. 

I am.

Because, we have worked so hard to build this kind of trust. To whisper that they don't have to be perfect. That He is more than enough. That it is okay to be afraid.

And, so, I teeter on the edge of Grace, not at the end of it, but at the beginning.

Grace that is enough.

Enough to reach out for the hundredth time that day to connect with a squirming child. Enough to shake my head no without shaming them for their fear. Enough to sit and listen and pray. Enough that we are drowning in it.

Messy. Beautiful. Grace.

Grace that leaves their faces on my phone screen and echoes through the goodbye that is shouted across the fellowship hall. Grace that begins at the edge, on the line, in the place where human patience wears thin.

They are uncertain, but something deep inside of them knows where we stand. Because we are standing on the edge of grace.

4th Grade

Paper. Markers. A calculator app that one of the boys whips out of his pocket, and a list straight out of a World Vision catalog.

All year we've been marking down points for Bibles brought, verses memorized, and general awesome behavior. They've marked a thermometer, steadily filling it up with red. Because, today, they get to spend their points, each one worth a nickel for someone in need.

They're shopping now, calculating as they go, discussing the merits of rabbits versus goats, saplings versus a warm blanket.

I answer questions but leave the decisions up to them, because these are their points; this is the reward they've been working towards all year. And, because they love this.

We leave four to double check the math, to write me a final shopping list, and set up six of them to complete another project.

They've been filling a book with thank you's for the story presenter, and they need to finish. They settle into a circle with glue sticks and markers to add the final touches; tags that they've cut out of scrapbook paper, notes that are carefully folded into brightly decorated pockets, folded shapes that explode out of the pages.

Next week, they'll give it to her, this mass of artwork and tape and fourth grade gratitude.

Before then, I'll flip through the pages, not to edit but to look. Up till now, this has been completely theirs. Even I don't know everything that is inside.

Today, they finish just in time, as three of the kids work with me to fill out a certificate for each of them, something to show their parents a little of what they've done.

"Certificate of Awesomeness"

They fill in names and the amount that they earned. A few make notes before they leave, marking down what specifically it is that they've purchased. Many of them grab an extra glass stone on the way out the door, a tangible reminder of God's promises for a sibling or parent or friend.

Because, when I have fourth graders who love to serve, this is what we do with our small group time.

We let them serve.