Children in Worship

Source

Children remaining in the sanctuary. I have long respected, even preferred, that way of involving children in worship.

Once upon the 1980s, I was one of those church babies passed around between churchgoers. I'm told infant-me spent many a hymn entertained by shiny keys.

As I grew in everything but attention span, I brought crayons and dolls and figurines and God knows what else to play with in the pews. I knelt there on the floor and poked my head up to sing and, only with time and curiosity did I learn, prayer by prayer, sermon by sermon, what else people "do" at church.

For children's sermons, all the kids were called up to the front where we learned that the answer was almost always "Jesus" except when it definitely wasn't. As I recall, we didn't leave the sanctuary. We returned to our families in the pews, to dolls and figurines, to crayons and markers that were not modern-magical and could have made marks on non-paper surfaces like nineteenth century wood.

How did you learn church? That's how I learned church.

I marveled at the operatic voice of the woman who sat in the pew in front of us. I grew to have a favorite hymn to request when requests were requested (even though the deciding powers ruled that Go Tell It on the Mountain was not a hymn meant for summer, which is true but dumb).

I learned to say prayers I didn't write and to say prayers no one else would ever know but God. I came to enjoy the fellowship of the people around me without the company of miniature figurines and homemade paper dolls.

Having said all that, this is not the style I've adopted in leadership. I've found something that works for me and the community I've been serving as a lay staff member as of August.

My approach is what First Pres has done before my time here, adapted slightly to suit my current understanding of children's ministry. We have what we (they) call Children in Worship -- yep, a designated gathering of a child horde. So here's how it goes.

No children's sermon in the sanctuary. Just a mid-service invitation (read: exuberant parade) for kids to come together in the next room, where we can still hear the murmur of laughter and music but also each other's quietest voices, a place where we have direct access to the outdoors if we want fresh air and sunlight as well as a wide-open warmth inside if that's all we need.

One of the co-pastors (a husband and wife team who alternate their preaching and other responsibilities) joins us to get to know the kids better and share the gospel. Sometimes we hear the same illustrations that the adults are hearing at that very moment, just in a different way, like that one Sunday that multigenerational families went home and discovered they'd all heard a biblical application of Finding Nemo.

Here in our own little un-pewed space, the adult worshippers are not spectating, so the kids have just as much time as the adults' sermon experience to ask as many questions as their hearts desire (without a roomful of grownups' unabashed giggling, because hey, some kids do fully intend to be funny, but some of them just want to know, you know?). They voice their own prayers, sharing joys and concerns that range from announcements to profound expressions of sorrow and excitement. We listen to as many as we can.

We pray with our mouths and our bodies. We invite bowed heads and clasped hands and raised heads and hands open to receiving and meditative poses and peeking eyes and closed eyes and lying on our backs with our eyes focused on origami birds. We say the Lord's Prayer by rote, letting the rhythm of the words soak into our bones, but even this same prayer looks different in each body's language.

And we stretch our bodies often to remind us that it's good and right to move around, that there is a time to "be still and know" and there's a time for dancing and wiggling, and they're both sacred.

On Communion Sundays, the kids teach each other about Communion (!) -- what it means, what it looks like, and how we'll celebrate it when we return to the sanctuary.

Then we help the kids to develop something to share with the congregation during a later worship service, encouraging them to be inter-generational teachers. The children experience the sanctuary as a place where they not only sing and listen but also lead on a regular basis.

I have, at this stage in my ministry, no use for in-sanctuary children's sermons where the adult speaks to the children and the rest of the adults spectate or participate peripherally. If adult parishioners "get more out of" the in-sanctuary children's sermons (as some universal parishioners say, fairly enough), maybe the adult sermons aren't doing quite what they're supposed to do.

If the messages aren't just for the children, why are the children so often the only ones called up front and quizzed (yes, okay, even in a friendly sort of way)? Why not let everyone stay where they are and let the leader say something so interesting and clear that it makes little heads pop up from the pews or wander forward on their own to get a better look? And if the messages are just for the children, why isn't there nearly enough time to let them ask questions and share more insights and responses than those that are prompted directly?

I've known some excellent pastors who speak beautifully with the children, who manage their limited resource of time with both wisdom and grace. But I've also seen a lot of shy kids who'd rather fall through a hole in the floor than be put on the spot in front of strangers and friends, a lot of good questions shut down too soon, a lot of potentially serious answers drawing ripples of laughter from mentors and role models, a lot of lost opportunities for meaningful conversations that were right there within reach.

No, I like this sacred space, away from grown spectators. I like this sacred time when a worship agenda doesn't get priority over curiosity and necessary time for processing and application. I like worshipping God in the spontaneous, childlike movements of the Holy Spirit.

And, when they feel good and ready, after they've had some time to ponder and practice, I like to hear the children speaking in the sanctuary, teaching their elders like the little boy Jesus in the temple.

If they are truly respected as people, not trained like circus animals or even just constantly called on for answers like grade school students, I think many children will grow -- in knowledge, in confidence, and in faith -- more from teaching others and being heard and known than they ever will from being talked at.

Even if we're good at it.

Breaking Ground

I had a realization of my own after the goodbye-themed inter-generational Bible study I led at church the other night.

In a time of lifting up loved ones who have passed on or moved away, I named my grandfather (my eulogy for him is posted here), and I explained that I called him Grandsprout because he called me Sprout.

What I've realized since Sunday night is that no one else in the world calls me Sprout and what that means. When my grandfather's dementia deepened to the point of no longer recognizing his loved ones, we ourselves struggled to hold on to who we were to him. When he died, the me who was Sprout died, too.

It was not only the loss of a beloved person but also the end of a relationship, of all the relationships he had with his family and friends.

And at the heart of our relationship, his and mine, was growth. A love of greenery and soil and earthy things. A wisdom of seasons and perseverance and devoted care. My grandfather watched me grow up, and I watched my grandfather grow his garden. These were the joys we basked in together.

So it's only fitting that, when I finally found the language to heal myself almost two years later, it came to me in the form of plant life. Specifically, it came to me in an image that my professor, Angella Son, included in her new book, Spirituality of Joy. Although it took on a different meaning for me than it did for her, the image of the moso bamboo tree inspired me to compose a song.

The lyrics are a conversation between a soul and God, throughout the sort of experience that is often known in spiritual circles as the dark night of the soul. But in this case, the process is likened to the growth pattern of the moso bamboo tree, which grows roots for five years before it even breaks ground (and then it hits some kind of plant puberty and grows about 90 feet in six months, but who's counting?). To the unsuspecting gardener, those first five years look to be a failure, like nothing good is happening and any hope of vegetation is gone.

But the God I've come to know through my grief is a God with dirty fingernails and all the time in the world. A God who knows the strength of roots and the goodness of brokenness when a seed is breaking open, breaking ground.

It's through writing this song that I began to live again, and it's only now that I realize that the person I came to be, in some way, is still and always will be my Grandsprout's Sprout.

Growing Underground
Music and lyrics by Kimberley Fais, 2013

You plant. You feed. You water. I sleep.
Then I stretch, and I breathe, and take root in the deep.
Even though I can't see, You promise me
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
And I will grow out before I grow up.
It's a long way out.

You've got time in Your hands and dirt in Your nails.
You see what succeeds when everything fails.
It's hard to believe what You promised me.
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
And I will grow out before I grow up.
It's a long way up.

Deep and dark down here, where I weep with joy,
I'm not drowning out Your still small voice.
Little do I know I'm right where I should be.
I'm where You're tending me.

You planted. You fed. You watered. I woke.
Then I stretched, and I breathed, and through the ground I broke.
And I rose, and I grew. You said: "I promised you--
You were never going under. You were just growing underground.
You were never going under. You were just growing underground.
And I watched you grow the roots that would let you grow up.
Look at you now. . . ."

The Last Day Lament

I led this prayer on the last day of our worship course (the day that we sang all the hymns that the students had written, hence the thematic transition at the end).

Source

A Seminary Psalm: The Last Day Lament

O God of Time, infinitely and intimately ours,
We are students and faculty facing the end of another semester;
Some of us the end of our journey at Drew.

We are buried beneath literal and digital stacks of paperwork,
Crunching out reports, and recuperating from computer crashes.
We are following guidelines and looking toward deadlines
And yet, despite so many straightforward lines,
We lose ourselves in a whirlwind of expectations.

O God of Grace, whose Book of Life has no column for grades,
We are students and faculty facing constant measurement:
Our mistakes and retakes, our credits and diplomas.
Our publish-or-perish publications, our tenure and evaluations.
We see A's and B's and C's and I's, NR's, and Z's,
And we wonder what they say about us;
About our learning and about our teaching.
We absorb letters on transcripts
As though they spell who we are and what we do.
But our identity is in You, O God:
You call us Beloved.
And our purpose is in You, O God:
You call us to Live, to Learn, and to Love.

Deliver us, O God!
Deliver us from the finality of our finals,
The pressure of our presentations,
The stress of our tests,
And the insidious voice inside us
Insisting that we've come to Drew
For any other reward or reason
Than the one for which You've led us here.

And thank You, God of Song,
That in the midst of our reading and writing,
We can claim this sacred time and space
To give You glory and praise.
Let all that we are and do be a song to You!

Amen.

Breathe Me Home Across The Sea

Tune: "Here I Am, Lord" by Dan Schutte, 1981 (The United Methodist Hymnal #593)

Lyrics: Kimberley Fais, 2014

Dedicated to the community of Drew Theological School

and the nautical adventurers of Chatham United Methodist Church

Source

Breathe me home across the sea

Let me know You go with me

Fill my sails with gales of faith

Please guide my way

I am Yours from stern to bow

Charted course, a sacred vow

Winds of change, adventure bring

My soul will sing

Sailing onward

In Your wind, Lord

Spirit, breathe me where You will me be

New beginnings, journeys ending

On I’ll sail until You breathe me home

Raise the mast of ministry

A cross to claim Your people free

Fill my sails with gales of grace

To give away

I am joyful and amazed

Miracles abound in waves

Winds of change, fulfillment bring

My soul will sing

Sailing onward

In Your wind, Lord

Spirit, breathe me where You will me be

New beginnings, journeys ending

On I’ll sail until You breathe me home

Draw my keel along life’s breadth

Let me fathom mercy’s depth

Fill my sails with gales of hope

Hold me afloat

I am tired and tempest-tossed

Yet Your love won’t leave me lost

Winds of change, my solace bring

My soul will sing

Sailing onward

In Your wind, Lord

Spirit, breathe me where You will me be

New beginnings, journeys ending

On I’ll sail until You breathe me home

Your Mistake Is Not the Last Word on You

Before I preached this narrative sermon to my classmates, I read aloud from John 21:1-19 (NRSV), projected the image below, and lit one candle to bring into the chapel the faint but unmistakable scent of fire.

Your name is Peter.  You remember that night—the night that Jesus was arrested.  It was the night that you did that thing you said you would never do, became what you said you would never be.  How could you forget that?  You never will.

Over and over again the people asked, “Are you not Jesus’ disciple?” and over and over again you said, “I am not.”  Three times.  Three times, just like he said it would be.  And you didn’t just deny Jesus or that you knew who he was.  You denied who he said you were and what he called you to do.

Are you not Jesus’ disciple?

No. No, I am not.

When it happened, you were warming yourself by a charcoal fire.  The air is still thick with the smell of it, even when you aren’t by a fire, because you will never forget that scent.  It’s always been unmistakable, but now it’s the smell of the most humiliating moment of your life.  Every time you warm your hands you relive that shame a little bit more.

And where do you find yourself now but right here at another charcoal fire?  It’s the first time Jesus is sitting with you by a fire since the night you wrapped yourself in the protection of lies.

But that’s not what Jesus talks about.  “Come and have breakfast,” he says, and as he cooks the fish you breathe in the smell of sustenance and wonder if things between you will ever be what they once were, what they should have been.

Here you are sitting down to a feast like nothing has even changed between you.  You became what you swore you would never be and you two have never even talked about it and this silence is actually starting to weigh on you as much as the shame ever has and God—Are you ever going to talk about it?

Jesus breaks bread and gives it to you, and as you reach out to take it, you can still see the wounds in his wrists where they nailed him to the wood.  But the fish are hot and the bread is fresh and you are hungry.  So you let the whole meal go by in friendly conversation, and you don’t ask Jesus about the awful thing burned into your memory to this day.

But he knows, doesn’t he?

And after you’ve eaten together, he speaks.

Your name is Peter.  At least, it is to Jesus.  Isn’t it?

“Simon, Son of John,” he says.  It’s a little like when your mother used to scold you for teasing Andrew when you were kids.  Except there’s a look on Jesus’ face now, and even though all you can think about is the burning coals and the heat of shame, there’s this look on his face and you can’t describe it, but whatever it is means you’re not in trouble.

“Simon, Son of John,” he says, “do you love me more than these?”

You do.  You cherish him.  He tells you to feed his lambs.

Maybe some time passes. You can’t be sure how much, because all that matters is that Jesus turns to you again.

“Do you love me?” he says.

You do.  You cherish him.  He tells you to tend his sheep.

The next time he says it like he knows what hearing a question three times will mean to you.  He says, “Do you love me?”

Someday the story of this conversation is going to be written down in Greek, and many well-meaning preachers are going to focus on the use of different words for love—agape love, phileo love—and what they think those words mean.  Some will preach how this goes to show that, even now, you can’t get where Jesus is or where he wants you to be.

Poor Simon Peter, they’ll say, because they too will never forget the night you denied Jesus and everything you were supposed to be for him.  It will be easy for them to interpret the words to reflect what they already know about you: That you fall short and Jesus needs to meet you in your weakness.  They will shame you even in your redemption.

Maybe they wouldn’t preach it like that if they could hear what you hear.

You and Jesus don’t speak Greek.  You speak Aramaic, and what you hear is the very same question spoken three times.  What you hear is three opportunities to affirm your love and three instructions to cherish Jesus’ people the way you cherish him.  What you hear is Jesus calling you to be the disciple you were always meant to be.  What you hear is the emotion in his voice when his third question both breaks you open and restores you.  What you hear is the voice drowning out the crackle of fire.  What you hear is love.

Jesus calls you Simon, but you both know that you are and forever will be Peter.  You are the rock on which your beloved Jesus will build his church.  You are the one who will shepherd his flock.  You are the one who will speak to the Jews and the Gentiles.  You are the one who will die for them all—for Jesus, for his people.  You are the one who cherishes your friend no matter how ashamed you feel of your failure.

Peter, someday a Christian named C.S. Lewis will write about this kind of love between people who know each other the way you and Jesus do—that between friends, the question Do you love me? means, Do you see the same truth?  Do you care about the same truth?  Lewis won’t mention you or this conversation with your Lord, but if you could know what he would write, you might say, “Yes!  That’s what Jesus is asking of me.  Do we see the same truth?  Am I ready to care for his people as much as I care for him?  Am I ready to lay down my life?  Am I able to bear the name Disciple, to be the person Jesus made me and do what he called me to do?”

And Jesus thinks you are.  At Passover, you told him you wanted to follow him wherever he was going, but back then you weren’t ready.  Now, Jesus says, “Follow me.”  And you will.  The last word on you in this story is not your mistake.

And you don’t know this yet, Peter, but someday millions of Jesus’ people will put the ashes of burnt palms on their foreheads. Those sooty dark smudges will remind them that they are mortal and that they have fallen short of what Jesus has called them to be.  But there but for the grace of God, those ashes will mean so much more.  Through the ashes, anointed on each forehead in the form of a cross, Jesus will speak to their hearts: “My friend, do you love me?”

And if they can hear those words above the crackle of fire, and each and every reminder of fall and failure, then like you, Peter, the people you nourish and lead and all of their spiritual descendants—they too will know who they are and what they are meant to do . . .

If only they will hear love over the persistent whisper of shame.

The Psalm of Margaret Wise Brown

Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit?

    to be out of your sight?

Illustrator: Clement Hurd, The Runaway Bunny

If I climb to the sky, you’re there!
    If I go underground, you’re there!

Illustrator: Clement Hurd, The Runaway Bunny

If I flew on morning’s wings
    to the far western horizon,

Illustrator: Clement Hurd, The Runaway Bunny

You’d find me in a minute—
    you’re already there waiting!

(Text from Psalm 139:7-10, The Message)

Drink the Cup (A Buttercup Communion Parody)

We started our Church at Worship hymn project in class last night. This will not be the song I share with the class, for reasons which will be abundantly clear in a minute, but I will always remember it as the song I wrote fresh off our hymnody lesson. Nothing can take that away from me.



Drink the Cup
To the tune of "Build Me Up Buttercup" by the Foundations

Why don't you drink the cup? (drink the cup)
Drink it up, baby
When you eat the bread (eat the bread) 'cause Jesus ain't dead
It's the bread of life (bread of life) and blood of Christ, baby
Does that freak you out? (freak you out)
No reason to shout
It's just juice (it's just juice) and some pita bread pieces
The wafers are all gluten-free
So drink the cup (drink the cup), drink it up
But save some for me

Staff went to the store, couldn't get any more
Of that juice I used to like to drink (bah-dah-dah)
But it's not so bad, it'll be just a dab
Don't taste much whenever I intinct

(Hey, hey, hey!) Baby, baby, you try to find
(Hey, hey, hey!) A little wine, the fruit of the vine
(Hey, hey, hey!) Wanna sip
But, oh, instead you dip bread into juice
Ooo-oo-ooh, ooo-oo-ooh

Why don't you drink the cup? (drink the cup)
Drink it up, baby
When you eat the bread (eat the bread) 'cause Jesus ain't dead
It's the bread of life (bread of life) and blood of Christ, baby
Does that freak you out? (freak you out)
No reason to shout
It's just juice (it's just juice) and some pita bread pieces
The wafers are all gluten-free
So drink the cup (drink the cup), drink it up
Save some for me

Poor thing, had to sneeze. That made you drop your piece on the floor
And you were blushing then (bah-dah-dah)
"God bless you," I said. "You can take some new bread. There's still more"
Now let's try that again

(Hey, hey, hey!) Baby, baby, you try to find
(Hey, hey, hey!) A little wine, the fruit of the vine
(Hey, hey, hey!) Wanna sip
But, oh, instead you dip bread into juice
Ooo-oo-ooh, ooo-oo-ooh

Why don't you drink the cup? (drink the cup)
Drink it up, baby
When you eat the bread (eat the bread) 'cause Jesus ain't dead
It's the bread of life (bread of life) and blood of Christ, baby
Does that freak you out? (freak you out)
No reason to shout
It's just juice (it's just juice) and some pita bread pieces
The wafers are all gluten-free
So drink the cup (drink the cup), drink it up
Save some for me

I-I-I drink ju-u-u-uice with my pita bread pieces
The wafers are all gluten-free
So drink the cup (drink the cup), drink it up
Save some for me

I Am The Very Model Of An MDiv Seminarian

I started this early on in my time at Drew, but got only so far with so much to do.

Having just seen Wicked, with all its wit, I was inspired to come back and finish it.

(If that bothered you you're not going to like what comes next. Get out while you still can.)




I Am The Very Model Of An MDiv Seminarian
(to the tune of the Major General's Song by Gilbert & Sullivan)

I am the very model of an MDiv seminarian
I've information Methodist, Catholic, Unitarian
I know the popes of Rome who have significance historical
From Gregory to Paul the Sixth, in order categorical

I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters homiletical
I preach the Word in such a way that's modern-day prophetical
Of Hebrew texts like Exodus I'm teeming with a lot of news
With many cheerful facts about the freedom of a lot of Jews

(With many cheerful facts about the freedom of a lot of Jews
With many cheerful facts about the freedom of a lot of Jews
With many cheerful facts about the freedom of a-lot-a-lot of Jews)

I'm very good at doctrine, creeds, and intricate theologies
I know locations, dates, and names of missionaries overseas
In short, in matters Methodist, Catholic, Unitarian
I am the very model of an MDiv seminarian

(In short, in matters Methodist, Catholic, Unitarian
She is the very model of an MDiv seminarian)

I know our bold traditions include flaws and mediocrities
I welcome hard dilemmas, I've a pretty taste for Socrates
I can quote from rote the ancients' known theophanies
With God-speak, I can floor the folks with charismatic tendencies

I can tell evangelistic work from imperialistic ways
I know the justice issues that are relevant to present day
Then I can stand and protest just as well as any Protestant
And say whatever reeks of bigotry and hate has not assent

(And say whatever reeks of bigotry and hate has not assent
And say whatever reeks of bigotry and hate has not assent
And say whatever reeks of bigotry and hate has-not-has-not a scent.)

Snifffff.

Then I can write proposals for inventive outreach ministries
And tell you ev'ry detail of our local churches' histories
In short, in matters Methodist, Catholic, Unitarian
I am the very model of an MDiv seminarian

(In short, in matters Methodist, Catholic, Unitarian
She is the very model of an MDiv seminarian)

In fact, when I know what is meant by "exegete" and "Pharisee"
When I can tell at sight a not-for-profit from a charity
When stained glass art I analyze becomes that much more beautiful
And when I know precisely what is meant by "hermeneutical"

When I've developed techniques in deciphering Hebrew punnery
When I know more novenas than a novice in a nunnery
In short, when I've a smattering of Armageddon strategy
You'll say a better seminarian had never sniped zombies.

(You'll say a better seminarian had never sniped zombies
You'll say a better seminarian had never sniped zombies
You'll say a better seminarian had never wiped out sniped zombies)

For my ecclesiastic knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century
But still, in matters Methodist, Catholic, Unitarian
I am the very model of an MDiv seminarian

(But still, in matters Methodist, Catholic, Unitarian
She is the very model of an MDiv seminarian!)

Denomina! (A Parody of Muppet Proportions)

Didn't know there could be actual lyrics to this song? Neither did I until I wrote them.

Along with the occasional nonsense word, of course, because no Muppet parody should be devoid of nonsense words.

So this one goes out to anyone who's baffled by how many Christian denominations there are. Use this handy song to remember just a few of them and what makes them special. Just like you. Awww.





Denomina!
(to the tune of Mahna-Mahna as performed by the Muppets)

Denominations!

(Denomina.)

We're Friends, or Quakers, (Denomina!) with quiet hope. (Denomina!)
We're Roman Catholics. We've got Mass, and missals, and as of '13 Francis is our Pope.

Denomina na-na na-na... Ba da da, ba ba-da ba... eh?
Denomina.

Episcopalians, (Denomina!) like "Catholic Lite." (Denomina!)
And we're the Baptists. We're called to the altar to pray and practice our baptismal rite.

Denom ba ba da bom... Denom ba da, ba ba da bom... Ba ba bada... ba da ba! Na... Na?
Denomina.

We're Anabaptists. (Denomina!) We'll dunk you twice. (Denomina!)
You might have heard of the Amish, the Shakers, or even Menno Simons' Mennonites.

Denom-anama-nama-nama... Na ma na... Neh.
Denomina.

Remember Luther? (Denomina!) We're Lutheran. (Denomina!)
He wanted Scripture in German, his language, so common folks could hear the truth therein.

Denom ba ba da bom... Denom ba ba da bom... Ba da bom...
Denomina.

We're Presbyterians. (Denomina!) Calvin's our guy. (Denomina!)
Predestination? That just means that God chose where everyone will end up when we die.

Denomina!

We're Pentecostals. (Denomina!) Our Spirit's strong. (Denomina!)
And we're the Methodists. Our founder's John Wesley. We like to sing; that's why we wrote this song.

Hello?  Okay. Just a second. It's for you.

Denomina!

Kermit and the Snowths

1 Way to Focus a Reluctant Student

Sometimes you need to improvise.

One day, during a stint as a tutor in an afterschool program, I worked primarily with one fifth-grade girl who was at first very reluctant to open her New York State history book, explaining in no uncertain terms that she did not want to study New York.

At the time, I was studying American Sign Language, and what otherwise may have been a verbal battle of convincing the kid that she did want to crack the book and get to work took a turn for the lighthearted and stress-free.

"New York?" I asked, signing it into my palm. "I'm from New York. Are you?" As I signed the rest, her eyes lit up in a way that I hadn't seen before. She mimicked my gestures. I broke down the signs for her to repeat.

"What language is that?" she finally asked, and when I told her it was American Sign Language she simply smiled and opened her book.

I'm fascinated that teaching a distracted or reluctant student something new and somewhat unrelated can potentially help her focus. Why did it work? Was she simply ready in her own time, or was it just enough of a break in tension to ease her back into her studies?  Whatever it was then, I stand by the idea now that learning is best when we engage our senses of curiosity and play.

---

A revision of an entry in my service-learning journal, October 2009.

Puzzle Wars

"You're blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight.

That's when you discover who you really are, and your place in God's family."

-Matthew 5:9 (The Message)

---

Today the kids of our Children's Church enlisted in the Puzzle Wars.

First they divided themselves into two groups.  Actually, I divided them into two groups which slowly shifted on their own--and I let them.  The genuine alliances formed in unspoken rebellion made the fight all the more fierce and the activity all the more meaningful in the end.

I found this collection of 24-piece children's puzzles and used two with similar color schemes for our two groups.

Available for purchase here.

Each group received an array of double-sided puzzle pieces. They inferred very quickly that this was a race to see which group would solve their puzzle first.

Partway through the activity, the kids in one team questioned one of the pieces in their assortment. It didn't seem to fit into their puzzle. They asked me about it, but I was nonchalant and they pressed on, grappling not only with the strange surplus but an underlying feeling that they were also missing something.

The other group soon reached the same critical moment.

And the same solution.

And the same results.

Finally, in the midst of their questions and petitions, both groups had an epiphany. They realized that I, their leader and the original source of their materials, didn't physically have the missing puzzle pieces in my possession. I had already given them all away.

They needed to communicate with the people on the opposite side of the room--the same people they had all but ignored entirely once the Puzzle Wars began, save for appraising glances to judge their competition's progress and periodically declare their own superiority.

What followed was something of an informal détente. It was an incongruously peaceful moment during the Puzzle Wars.

It could have been awful. It could have been rife with pillaging and sabotage.

But instead it was an exchange more mutually giving than any negotiation or transaction. It seemed there was no doubt in their minds that their opponents' need was just as great as their own, and that they would quickly and gladly produce the pieces for each other.

And then, with one picture completed, all of the children gathered around the other puzzle to collaborate and finish it together.

And the Puzzle Wars ended with two things:

Collaborative and joyful destruction of the puzzles--the work that, as it turns out, maybe didn't matter so much after all...

Source

...and the natural emergence of one beautiful, cohesive team that will hopefully matter to them for years to come.

Sometimes I Fantasize About Carrying Two Umbrellas

I do a lot of walking, and naturally, the statistics of getting caught in the rain increase exponentially the more you walk.  I’ve also found that we are 387%* more likely to get caught in the rain while traveling without an umbrella, though I may be biased or just habitually underprepared.

Either way, I’ve had my share of unplanned showers.

One cool summer day, I was so thoroughly soaked from the two-mile trek from church that all I could think about was getting home, kicking off my waterlogged flats, and wrapping myself in as many layers of warm, dry things as I could fit on my body.

I was so close I could taste the sweet Cocoa of Victory . . . only to be thwarted by the Gandalf of traffic lights.

While I stood there with rainwater in my shoes and the tease of imaginary cocoa on my tongue, the disagreeable light permitted passage to plenty of cars, but would not yield to button-pressing pedestrians at the crossroads.

So I waited.  For a lull in traffic.  For a light.  For a sign.

And then, just like that, someone with an umbrella leaned over to shield me.  It was generous and neighborly, of course, but it was also comical, because I was unmistakably drenched.  I may have said, “Thank you,” but I kind of wanted to say, “It’s too late for me.  Save yourself!”

It was one moment in time on a small town street corner, but after my bleary-eyed journey squinting between raindrops that I would never outmaneuver, it felt like the climax of a war film.  I was the would-be martyr resigned to self-sacrifice only to be slung over the hero’s shoulder as he limps to the barracks, except my hero had already outmaneuvered the enemy with a scrap of supported fabric.  Instead of limping to our glory, we stood still, side-by-side, two neighbors huddled under an umbrella for one, exchanging greetings and gratitude and smiling up at a traffic light as though to persuade it with kindness.

When we parted, my neighbor was apologetic, but the gesture and the brief reprieve had already brought me more than enough joy to accompany me home.

Within a month or so, I had the joy of paying the act forward twice, once at a bus stop where the rider had been waiting in the drizzle long before I arrived, and once at another street corner in a sudden downpour.  I’ve been learning both to accept others’ generosity and aid and to find joy in receiving, but it felt good to be able to offer others that neighborly love.

Then, whenever I walked in the rain with my umbrella, I became more and more aware of the other pedestrians: whether or not they had umbrellas or raincoats, whether or not the rain seemed to weigh heavily on their bodies and their spirits.

That was when I began to fantasize about carrying two umbrellas.

I imagined giving one away to a different stranger in every storm.  I started spending long stretches of my walks pondering the ethical implications of carrying multiple umbrellas and giving them away.

Would it be cumbersome?  Wasteful?

Presumptuous?  Insulting?

A life’s mission?  An expensive hobby?

An overestimation of the trouble of rain?

An underestimation of folks’ contentedness in the rain?

If there was any way to overcomplicate the daydream, I found it.

Weeks later, in another storm, I walked my boyfriend to the train station.  We took my two umbrellas.  I almost sent one home with him, but he said he’d have little open-air walking to do after boarding the train and he would be fine.

Soon the passengers disappeared, and I was alone on the platform except for one older gentleman with empty hands.

It took a minute to register the circumstances, but then, without any guilt about the overabundance or uncertainty about the gesture, I offered him the second umbrella.

He didn’t speak English and I understood only enough Spanish to know that he was in awe of the storm, but we easily established that he lived along my way home.

As we walked together, he commented on the rain, and I agreed, wagging my waterlogged shoes over the ground to indicate that I could feel the water swishing around my feet.

We laughed.  I was laughing because I was doing a ridiculous dance, but I imagine it looked just as ridiculous to him.

It’s a beautiful thing to experience—that moment with a stranger with whom your only common language is life itself; the moment that you realize it’s more than enough.  What we couldn’t share in words we shared in umbrellas and grins and squishy shoes.

Once we arrived at his building, I almost told him to keep the umbrella, but when he handed it to me, I accepted it back.

These days, if I remember to carry an umbrella at all, I will try to carry two.

---

*Research is ongoing.