• The human earlobe can hold a lot of dirt.
• There are some socks too foul to spare.
• The “sanitary” setting on my washing machine is a God-send.
• Absence indeed makes the heart grow fonder. I’ve never seen my kids love on each other the way they did when Braden came home.
• A homely stuffed squirrel wearing an Eagle Lake t-shirt is never as special as when it’s given to a four-year old girl by her eight-year-old brother.
• Being the oldest child is a big deal. Addison assumed the role with vision and zeal.
• Despite all evidence to the contrary, Braden deeply cares for his sisters.
• I love watching my kids do the things they’re good at. I’m even prouder when I watch them keep trying when things don't come easy .
• Just as important as the fun of camp is the hardship of camp.
• Little boys were made to shoot rifles, bows, and baskets.
• To a little boy, even a pine cone is a weapon.
• Eight-year-old boys can survive quite nicely without anything electronic.
• You can’t put a pricetag on watching your kid learn how to turn his attitude around.
• It’s worth the extra 50 bucks to send your kid to camp when it’s actually summer. In Colorado, that means the last week of July.
• Ziplines are fun for kids and frustrating for mothers who are bad with cameras.
• Eagle Lake is more personal and more professional than I ever knew. They also make the boys bus the girls’ trays. Enough said.
• College students have as much energy as toddlers and don’t drool as much.
• I would make a lousy camp counselor.
• I make my best parenting decisions when I’m using my common sense, not following my heart.
• People named Tiny are rarely tiny. Kids find this amusing.
• Being invited to join one game of Nuke-em can change a kid for days.
• Our job is not to rescue our kids from difficulty but to direct them to the only true Rescuer.
• Camp teaches parents just as much as it teaches kids.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Camper Boy
My son’s fearlessness is baffling me. He leaves today for camp, and from what I can tell, he’s not taking a single worry with him. No anxiety, no butterflies in the belly. Nothing but his wide-eyed, eight-year-old self.
Like camp mothers before me, I lovingly washed and labeled each piece of his clothing yesterday. While pondering the odd sensation of writing with a Sharpie on Superman underwear, I also thought of the two-year-old boy who howled and sobbed when we dropped him off at the church nursery for 90 minutes. We bribed him with everything imaginable, but when at last he thought to bring his Pooh Bear along—combined with just the right teacher who eagerly included Pooh in all the snacks and crafts—his screaming subsided and we were able to go to church peacefully.
I thought of the one-year-old little boy with a death grip around my neck at our “Mommy and Me” swim class. Now he’s counting the minutes until he can be launched off the blob, into an icy lake, by some portly 11-year-old. He smiles at the idea of riding the zipline—the longest in North America, I might add—over this same lake.
I also thought of the sequence of events in my own life that have brought us to this day. I visited Eagle Lake Camp for the first time in 1994. Many days in my 20s were spent writing stories about camp for The Navigators and interviewing parents about their children’s experiences. And with just a blink of an eye (and 31 hours of labor), I’ve now become one of those parents.
I thought of Dawson Trotman and Lorne Sanny—the first Navigator leaders who started Eagle Lake in 1957—and their passion for ministering to young boys. They knew this is where you reach a man’s heart—inside the body of a boy. I thought of the many men I’ve met through The Navigators over the years, men with such depth of character and sold-out commitment to God. These are qualities I pray for my son, and I know they take root early on. Kevin and I do all we can to nurture that process along, but the investment and influence of a 21-year-old godly dude on a zipline will go further than I’ll ever know.
The undies are labeled now, the clothes are packed, alongside Braden’s Bible and a little notebook he requested to use as a journal. I tried to throw in a comb, but was told, “If you pack that, I’m not gonna use it.” (This journey is as much about me letting go of control as it is about Braden, I think.) The only one around here who seems wrought with emotion is me, even though I know he’ll be fine. My friend Craig, who used to run the camp back when I was writing about it, used to come down the mountain every August and say, “Well, no one died and no one got pregnant. It was a good summer.” I’m fairly certain neither of those things will happen to my boy, either. Much more likely, he’ll come down the mountain with a new sense of adventure and confidence, a jumble of incredible memories, and a heart more sensitive to the God of the universe. Not bad for $350 and a little separation anxiety for mom.
Like camp mothers before me, I lovingly washed and labeled each piece of his clothing yesterday. While pondering the odd sensation of writing with a Sharpie on Superman underwear, I also thought of the two-year-old boy who howled and sobbed when we dropped him off at the church nursery for 90 minutes. We bribed him with everything imaginable, but when at last he thought to bring his Pooh Bear along—combined with just the right teacher who eagerly included Pooh in all the snacks and crafts—his screaming subsided and we were able to go to church peacefully.
I thought of the one-year-old little boy with a death grip around my neck at our “Mommy and Me” swim class. Now he’s counting the minutes until he can be launched off the blob, into an icy lake, by some portly 11-year-old. He smiles at the idea of riding the zipline—the longest in North America, I might add—over this same lake.
I also thought of the sequence of events in my own life that have brought us to this day. I visited Eagle Lake Camp for the first time in 1994. Many days in my 20s were spent writing stories about camp for The Navigators and interviewing parents about their children’s experiences. And with just a blink of an eye (and 31 hours of labor), I’ve now become one of those parents.
I thought of Dawson Trotman and Lorne Sanny—the first Navigator leaders who started Eagle Lake in 1957—and their passion for ministering to young boys. They knew this is where you reach a man’s heart—inside the body of a boy. I thought of the many men I’ve met through The Navigators over the years, men with such depth of character and sold-out commitment to God. These are qualities I pray for my son, and I know they take root early on. Kevin and I do all we can to nurture that process along, but the investment and influence of a 21-year-old godly dude on a zipline will go further than I’ll ever know.
The undies are labeled now, the clothes are packed, alongside Braden’s Bible and a little notebook he requested to use as a journal. I tried to throw in a comb, but was told, “If you pack that, I’m not gonna use it.” (This journey is as much about me letting go of control as it is about Braden, I think.) The only one around here who seems wrought with emotion is me, even though I know he’ll be fine. My friend Craig, who used to run the camp back when I was writing about it, used to come down the mountain every August and say, “Well, no one died and no one got pregnant. It was a good summer.” I’m fairly certain neither of those things will happen to my boy, either. Much more likely, he’ll come down the mountain with a new sense of adventure and confidence, a jumble of incredible memories, and a heart more sensitive to the God of the universe. Not bad for $350 and a little separation anxiety for mom.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Perspective: The Gift of Time
Last Thursday, May 29, marked the 20th anniversary of my dad’s death. I was finishing up my last week of finals during my junior year of high school when he succumbed to his two-year fight with cancer. "Surreal" is the only word to describe my whole junior year. When I look back on it now, I wonder how I maintained such a dual life—acting the part of a carefree teenager by day but coming home to a father whose body was so riddled with bed sores that his flesh was literally rotting off his body before our very eyes. The fact that my dad was also my high school’s football coach made our private pain all the more public and the duality of my existence harder to hide. That memorial day in 1988 brought a lot of relief with it—an end to the suffering, the wondering, the fear of the worst. The worst happened on that day as I stood in the dark hospital room with my mom and brother, holding my dad’s hand as he slipped away, but I now see how it was really for the best.
I’ve written an essay about my experience with my dad’s life and death, and I’ve told most of the people who know me well all about it. There’s no need to rehash it here, but suffice it to say that my 17 years with my dad shaped my views of grace, forgiveness, and family as much as anything in my life. My dad was a flawed human being whose flaws spilled out all over me. His determined search for success and significance made my childhood unstable and lonely. His struggles with rage and discontentment made me fearful and resentful. But that was when I was a child.
I now see him as an adult. I’m only seven years younger now than he was when he died (and I remember thinking, at 17, “Well, at least he lived a good long life and made it to 44!”), and I have been separated from him long enough to see him as a man instead of as my dad. I can see a lot more good, like that he was a lot of fun, he had good friends, and he did everything with passion. As a football coach, he was also a powerful influencer of the young men he coached and invested in. And in the end—the very end—he was even the kind, caring daddy that every little girl longs for.
Everyone wonders if it would be best to die suddenly or to battle a horrible disease yet have the time to say goodbye. In our case, the time to say goodbye was one of the biggest blessings of my life. Cancer is an evil monster. It smells and debilitates and destroys, but for my dad and me, it healed. I can see now, as an adult, that God used his sickness to transform his life, and to transform mine in the process. My 20-years-later perspective gives me firm footing on Romans 8:28 as I see how God truly is working for our good, even through our pain and unanswered questions.
I also mark this anniversary with a heavy awareness that my everyday words and actions are making a permanent impression on my children. I pray they will extend much grace to me as they look back on their childhood years. I am a flawed parent as well. My flaws are different from my dad’s, but they are stems from the same root—a struggle to find my way, get my way, and have others see things my way. Parenting, unfortunately, can bring out the worst in us all. When this happens in our house, I pray I’m not messing them up too much, ask for forgiveness, and trust that God will continue working for our good even when I'm at my worst. It’s also these times that fill me with more grace for my own flawed parent and make me most thankful for the merciful gift of time and perspective.
I’ve written an essay about my experience with my dad’s life and death, and I’ve told most of the people who know me well all about it. There’s no need to rehash it here, but suffice it to say that my 17 years with my dad shaped my views of grace, forgiveness, and family as much as anything in my life. My dad was a flawed human being whose flaws spilled out all over me. His determined search for success and significance made my childhood unstable and lonely. His struggles with rage and discontentment made me fearful and resentful. But that was when I was a child.
I now see him as an adult. I’m only seven years younger now than he was when he died (and I remember thinking, at 17, “Well, at least he lived a good long life and made it to 44!”), and I have been separated from him long enough to see him as a man instead of as my dad. I can see a lot more good, like that he was a lot of fun, he had good friends, and he did everything with passion. As a football coach, he was also a powerful influencer of the young men he coached and invested in. And in the end—the very end—he was even the kind, caring daddy that every little girl longs for.
Everyone wonders if it would be best to die suddenly or to battle a horrible disease yet have the time to say goodbye. In our case, the time to say goodbye was one of the biggest blessings of my life. Cancer is an evil monster. It smells and debilitates and destroys, but for my dad and me, it healed. I can see now, as an adult, that God used his sickness to transform his life, and to transform mine in the process. My 20-years-later perspective gives me firm footing on Romans 8:28 as I see how God truly is working for our good, even through our pain and unanswered questions.
I also mark this anniversary with a heavy awareness that my everyday words and actions are making a permanent impression on my children. I pray they will extend much grace to me as they look back on their childhood years. I am a flawed parent as well. My flaws are different from my dad’s, but they are stems from the same root—a struggle to find my way, get my way, and have others see things my way. Parenting, unfortunately, can bring out the worst in us all. When this happens in our house, I pray I’m not messing them up too much, ask for forgiveness, and trust that God will continue working for our good even when I'm at my worst. It’s also these times that fill me with more grace for my own flawed parent and make me most thankful for the merciful gift of time and perspective.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
A Little Effort Goes a Long Way
I had to write my last post quickly, and it lost good examples as a result. But this example is too fun to leave unsaid.
My husband worked longer hours than usual the past week and a half. On top of that, he had to work at the front counter of his business, meaning his interaction with people was constant. This would be no sweat for some people, but since he's a big-time introvert, it's draining for him. Instead of throwing kids at him and hosing him down with details about our day—as I've done for years—one night we greeted him at the door with a thank-you worthy of his hard work. In just 15 minutes, we were able to shove the toys out of sight, clean off the always-buried table, set it with fancy glasses and place settings (Addison's specialty), throw a salad together, light some candles, and turn on music geared more for adults than preschoolers.
It took just another ten minutes for me to put on a dress (three of those minutes were spent searching the depths of my closet to see if I actually owned a dress), locate and affix jewelry, touch up hair and makeup and pray the perfume bottle I found hadn't fermented since its last use in 1993. The girls followed suit and dressed themselves up, too. Braden shook his head and asked repeatedly, "Why are we doing this again?"
Kevin stumbled through the door and stopped dead in his tracks. We were all standing in the kitchen, clean and smiling, hollering, "Welcome home, Daddy!" How do I know how much it meant to him? Because he couldn't make it through his blessing of the food without breaking down as He thanked God for all of us. And if I needed further affirmation, it came a couple nights later when he cleaned the refrigerator—that's right, ladies, every single crusty, stinky, nasty shelf AND the crisper!—while the kids and I were out. Completely unprompted.
My "welcome-home/thanks-for-your-hard-work" surprise took less than a half-hour. I served a frozen pizza for dinner! I'm not Martha Stewart and I didn't try to be. I just put on a dress and showed my husband some well-deserved appreciation.
I share this only to trigger your own imagination and plant the seed of suggestion. I'm the last person who's going to show anyone up in the domestic goddess department. I didn't even think of it on my own. My energy and creativity are as low as the rest of you; my point is that it took so little energy and creativity. And the result was more than I ever could have imagined. Husbands want to be appreciated. (Don't we all?) They want to feel like we care that they're home, and not just because the toilet won't flush or something needs killed or we need them to watch the kids. I thought Kevin always knew this instinctively. He didn't. He needed my actions and not just my words.
My husband worked longer hours than usual the past week and a half. On top of that, he had to work at the front counter of his business, meaning his interaction with people was constant. This would be no sweat for some people, but since he's a big-time introvert, it's draining for him. Instead of throwing kids at him and hosing him down with details about our day—as I've done for years—one night we greeted him at the door with a thank-you worthy of his hard work. In just 15 minutes, we were able to shove the toys out of sight, clean off the always-buried table, set it with fancy glasses and place settings (Addison's specialty), throw a salad together, light some candles, and turn on music geared more for adults than preschoolers.
It took just another ten minutes for me to put on a dress (three of those minutes were spent searching the depths of my closet to see if I actually owned a dress), locate and affix jewelry, touch up hair and makeup and pray the perfume bottle I found hadn't fermented since its last use in 1993. The girls followed suit and dressed themselves up, too. Braden shook his head and asked repeatedly, "Why are we doing this again?"
Kevin stumbled through the door and stopped dead in his tracks. We were all standing in the kitchen, clean and smiling, hollering, "Welcome home, Daddy!" How do I know how much it meant to him? Because he couldn't make it through his blessing of the food without breaking down as He thanked God for all of us. And if I needed further affirmation, it came a couple nights later when he cleaned the refrigerator—that's right, ladies, every single crusty, stinky, nasty shelf AND the crisper!—while the kids and I were out. Completely unprompted.
My "welcome-home/thanks-for-your-hard-work" surprise took less than a half-hour. I served a frozen pizza for dinner! I'm not Martha Stewart and I didn't try to be. I just put on a dress and showed my husband some well-deserved appreciation.
I share this only to trigger your own imagination and plant the seed of suggestion. I'm the last person who's going to show anyone up in the domestic goddess department. I didn't even think of it on my own. My energy and creativity are as low as the rest of you; my point is that it took so little energy and creativity. And the result was more than I ever could have imagined. Husbands want to be appreciated. (Don't we all?) They want to feel like we care that they're home, and not just because the toilet won't flush or something needs killed or we need them to watch the kids. I thought Kevin always knew this instinctively. He didn't. He needed my actions and not just my words.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The truth about having it all
About five years ago, I attempted to write a novel about a woman trying to have it all. I got 100 pages into it and quit—mostly because it was excruciating work, but also because I couldn’t adequately articulate her struggle. The message she grew up with—the same one I grew up with—was that she could have it all and that to settle for anything less was an assault on modern womanhood. I wanted to show that it’s not possible, that “having it all” is a lie, but I didn’t have a good enough grasp myself on why it doesn’t work to continue trying to convince others. So I quit. An offense to modern womanhood, I’m sure.
Now I’m reading another book that’s helping me grasp what I didn’t five years ago. I’ve mentioned it before; it’s Dr. Laura’s book on the Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands. I can’t remember the last book that I found so eye-opening. I HIGHLY recommend it—in fact, I think it should be required reading for all vaguely dissatisfied, grumbly wives.
The ones getting the short end of the “You can have it all” message are the husbands. And when they get the short end, the whole family loses.
The biggest threat to marriage today is not gay unions, porn, or decreasing family values. It’s selfishness. I don’t know how to address selfishness with men, but reading this book is a good place for women to start. Most of us are blind to our own selfishness, choosing instead to see the speck in our husband’s eye instead of the plank in our own. But it’s there, trust me. I’ve spent the past few months getting well acquainted with my own selfishness, acknowledging its presence and destructive tendencies in my life, and asking God for forgiveness and change. I have miles to go in learning to be the kind of wife God designed me to be, but I think Kevin would say I’ve completed the first lap.
I don’t think women have any clue the position of power we hold in our families. We are the influencers. We set the tone. We are the agents of change. If a wife is desperate for change in her marriage, she’s got to start with herself. That takes a lot of humility and honest assessment. It’s hard work and it’s not much fun, but I’m seeing firsthand that the payoff is worth it. My marriage is the one area in which I'm holding out hope that I really can have it all.
Now I’m reading another book that’s helping me grasp what I didn’t five years ago. I’ve mentioned it before; it’s Dr. Laura’s book on the Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands. I can’t remember the last book that I found so eye-opening. I HIGHLY recommend it—in fact, I think it should be required reading for all vaguely dissatisfied, grumbly wives.
The ones getting the short end of the “You can have it all” message are the husbands. And when they get the short end, the whole family loses.
The biggest threat to marriage today is not gay unions, porn, or decreasing family values. It’s selfishness. I don’t know how to address selfishness with men, but reading this book is a good place for women to start. Most of us are blind to our own selfishness, choosing instead to see the speck in our husband’s eye instead of the plank in our own. But it’s there, trust me. I’ve spent the past few months getting well acquainted with my own selfishness, acknowledging its presence and destructive tendencies in my life, and asking God for forgiveness and change. I have miles to go in learning to be the kind of wife God designed me to be, but I think Kevin would say I’ve completed the first lap.
I don’t think women have any clue the position of power we hold in our families. We are the influencers. We set the tone. We are the agents of change. If a wife is desperate for change in her marriage, she’s got to start with herself. That takes a lot of humility and honest assessment. It’s hard work and it’s not much fun, but I’m seeing firsthand that the payoff is worth it. My marriage is the one area in which I'm holding out hope that I really can have it all.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
No Mind Can Conceive
Our family has stumbled on an Australian recording artist who specializes in Scripture memory for kids. His name is Colin Buchanan, and his songs rival Veggie Tales in their “stuck-in-your-mind” effect. This is a good thing since his words are God’s words. If you see our green minivan rolling down I-25 at 7:55 in the morning, you can pretty much bet that we’re rockin’ with Colin.
We’ve become so familiar with the music that we speak of Colin like an old family friend, and the kids occasionally say “pawth” instead of “path.” Even 13-month-old Camryn is hooked. We’re pretty sure she’s shouting out, “God does!” at just the appropriate time in the appropriate song. (It’s either that or “gouda,” and we’re not really fancy-cheese people.)
I ended up paying about $20 to get two CDs shipped from Australia, but how can you squawk over twenty bucks when your kids have memorized dozens and dozens of verses within a month? (Dawson Trotman would be so proud!)
Kevin and I are learning them, too, because, well, it’s hard not to. Of course they are Scriptures I’ve heard repeatedly, but some of them have embedded themselves in my heart in a new way thanks to Colin. One of these is 1 Corinthians 2:9, which Colin sings as if he’s got a sinus infection. (He sings every song in a different style—patriotic, Negro spiritual, Beyoncé-esque—so they don’t all sound the same. Very helpful, if slightly weird.) “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind can conceive of what God has prepared for those who love him.”
I wrote last month that after losing a baby, my heart has become more heaven-oriented. In the months after Catherine died, I devoured books and articles on heaven. I think this is a fairly common course of action for those who lose a loved one. I tried to wrap my brain around heaven, tried to do just what 1 Corinthians 2:9 tells me I can’t—conceiving of what God has in store for us. It’s kind of fun to try, but it’s also futile. Our brains weren’t created to understand the fullness of heaven. We can’t conceive of it. All we can do is look forward to it.
We’ve become so familiar with the music that we speak of Colin like an old family friend, and the kids occasionally say “pawth” instead of “path.” Even 13-month-old Camryn is hooked. We’re pretty sure she’s shouting out, “God does!” at just the appropriate time in the appropriate song. (It’s either that or “gouda,” and we’re not really fancy-cheese people.)
I ended up paying about $20 to get two CDs shipped from Australia, but how can you squawk over twenty bucks when your kids have memorized dozens and dozens of verses within a month? (Dawson Trotman would be so proud!)
Kevin and I are learning them, too, because, well, it’s hard not to. Of course they are Scriptures I’ve heard repeatedly, but some of them have embedded themselves in my heart in a new way thanks to Colin. One of these is 1 Corinthians 2:9, which Colin sings as if he’s got a sinus infection. (He sings every song in a different style—patriotic, Negro spiritual, Beyoncé-esque—so they don’t all sound the same. Very helpful, if slightly weird.) “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind can conceive of what God has prepared for those who love him.”
I wrote last month that after losing a baby, my heart has become more heaven-oriented. In the months after Catherine died, I devoured books and articles on heaven. I think this is a fairly common course of action for those who lose a loved one. I tried to wrap my brain around heaven, tried to do just what 1 Corinthians 2:9 tells me I can’t—conceiving of what God has in store for us. It’s kind of fun to try, but it’s also futile. Our brains weren’t created to understand the fullness of heaven. We can’t conceive of it. All we can do is look forward to it.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed (and they have a lot of fun, too)
Tomorrow night marks the end of our AWANA season. Our family’s Wednesday nights will morph from chaos—“Where’s your bag?! Do you have your Bible? Yes, you can eat that quesadilla in the car! James 2:10! Anybody know James 2:10?!”—to relative tranquility. All three of our older kids have been clubbers this year, and for the first time, I was a leader of Braden and Addison’s group.
This after swearing off any kind of children’s ministry years ago. It was a Sunday-school morning in which I was kicked, scratched, and punched, all by the same three-year-old girl, that convinced me that children who do not actually come out of my body are not my calling. (And I’ll spare you the details of having to sit in a regurgitated pool of some other woman’s breastmilk in the infant room. Yeah, not my thing.)
Persuaded by guilt and a nagging longing to spend more time with my two oldest, I caved last fall, donning my painfully cheesy red “Sparky” shirt and tithing my Wednesday nights to the K-2nd graders at our church. And wouldn’t you just know it—I’ve loved every minute of it.
Getting the best group ever didn’t hurt. Not only did no one attempt to bite me, but they were actually quite lovable for the most part. It was not a stretch at all for me to cheer with them when they nailed their Scripture verses and received a new award. I cuddled up with the girls during the speaker sessions. And I high-fived and grunted with the boys during the games.
The games were the best. By luck of the draw, we ended up with a group of boys freakishly endowed with speed, coordination, and competitive drive. We four adult leaders had to suppress a smile of pride as our team crushed the competition—which usually came in the form of a pint-sized six-year-old girl who was afraid of getting stepped on. But, no matter. We gave it our all, as if it were our Olympics. The few times I took a turn running around the game circle harkened me back to my days as a high-school sprinter. Instead of my dad yelling at (er, I mean for) me, I had George, my 6’6 behemoth co-leader in his red Sparky shirt. I wasn’t going to disappoint George or the 14 cheering kids at his side.
Our Wednesday-night group experienced the gamut of real life together. We celebrated our victories (the aforementioned game domination), cried over our disappointments (an artistic masterpiece destroyed by another’s wayward crayon), communed over shared experiences (numerous trips to the bathroom and more lost teeth than I could count), and mourned deep losses (the sudden death of two of our girls’ sister). And hopefully through this spastic microcosm of the bigger world they learned a little more about how much God loves them.
So Adin, Josiah, Rachel, Caleb, Joey, Jay, Madison, Lauren, Brianna, Drew, Michaela, and of course Braden and Addison, this blog’s for you. You snuck into my affection when I wasn’t looking.
This after swearing off any kind of children’s ministry years ago. It was a Sunday-school morning in which I was kicked, scratched, and punched, all by the same three-year-old girl, that convinced me that children who do not actually come out of my body are not my calling. (And I’ll spare you the details of having to sit in a regurgitated pool of some other woman’s breastmilk in the infant room. Yeah, not my thing.)
Persuaded by guilt and a nagging longing to spend more time with my two oldest, I caved last fall, donning my painfully cheesy red “Sparky” shirt and tithing my Wednesday nights to the K-2nd graders at our church. And wouldn’t you just know it—I’ve loved every minute of it.
Getting the best group ever didn’t hurt. Not only did no one attempt to bite me, but they were actually quite lovable for the most part. It was not a stretch at all for me to cheer with them when they nailed their Scripture verses and received a new award. I cuddled up with the girls during the speaker sessions. And I high-fived and grunted with the boys during the games.
The games were the best. By luck of the draw, we ended up with a group of boys freakishly endowed with speed, coordination, and competitive drive. We four adult leaders had to suppress a smile of pride as our team crushed the competition—which usually came in the form of a pint-sized six-year-old girl who was afraid of getting stepped on. But, no matter. We gave it our all, as if it were our Olympics. The few times I took a turn running around the game circle harkened me back to my days as a high-school sprinter. Instead of my dad yelling at (er, I mean for) me, I had George, my 6’6 behemoth co-leader in his red Sparky shirt. I wasn’t going to disappoint George or the 14 cheering kids at his side.
Our Wednesday-night group experienced the gamut of real life together. We celebrated our victories (the aforementioned game domination), cried over our disappointments (an artistic masterpiece destroyed by another’s wayward crayon), communed over shared experiences (numerous trips to the bathroom and more lost teeth than I could count), and mourned deep losses (the sudden death of two of our girls’ sister). And hopefully through this spastic microcosm of the bigger world they learned a little more about how much God loves them.
So Adin, Josiah, Rachel, Caleb, Joey, Jay, Madison, Lauren, Brianna, Drew, Michaela, and of course Braden and Addison, this blog’s for you. You snuck into my affection when I wasn’t looking.
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