I recently finished a race.
To my running friends, I didn't run a marathon in any traditional sense of the word. But for all the energy it took, it could have been a 10K. I helped with Vacation Bible School.
The leaders of our group had tremendous patience, Red Bull-like energy and fantastic organizational skills. And because I love them and they bribed me with their smiles, I agreed to help.
In previous years I think I volunteered for VBS with half the heart that I did this year, but I chalk that up to the fact that my youngest child's energy and antics kept me busy. Now that she is older, I find that my mental capacity is somewhat stronger, to say nothing of my heart's availability. It turns out I really liked the kids in my group.
I think I was most surprised by the fact that these second graders wanted respect. They told funny jokes and offered smart responses, giving the teachers those "Aren't I clever?" glances. They are at a fantastic age to interact with the story without telling too many tangental tales about their puppy or baby brother. They actually listened. I think the best gift that they gave me was their smiles.
During snack time we were encouraged to quiz the children; leaders were given a sheet of questions which correlated with the day's lesson. Honestly, it was so blessedly loud in the room that any deep and probing conversations went out the window. We spoke broadly and slowly, like people do when they hear a train behind them. One day I looked around the table at my group and told each child something special I enjoyed about them. Their smiles. Their jokes. Their laugh. The next day one of the little girls came up to me and delighted, "I have TWINKLY eyes!" She caught me off-guard that she would remember the compliment I gave her the day before, but it felt right... that showing love to second graders means speaking life into them, right at their level.
The music was worshipful in the best sort of way. Children bumping up against me, occasionally yelling lyrics in my ear and dancing in the aisle all because they owned the space of the sanctuary and God owned the space in their hearts.
We had communion. Our teacher broke the bread. We had a special piece of bread for a little boy who has the most fantastic smile and who also happens to have celiac disease. But everyone ate. We crammed a large piece of bread in our mouth, each of us, and we smiled, hearing the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000, the story which reminded us that God can take little and make it big. I immediately thought of how threadbare I felt, my husband being gone two separate weeks at trade shows, my mind wondering what we would have for dinner... and I rested there in the moment of the story, knowing that Jesus could take my meager time and energy and make it more.
Earlier this week I heard three pieces of bad news from three different friends. My heart felt frayed and afraid and I began to forget that God was their God, too. I prayed for them as I could and, beautifully and mysteriously the Bible lesson of each day coincided with what my heart needed to hear. How Ezra helped rebuild the temple... how the temple was devastated, but God rebuilt it again. How God intersected Esther's life with that of the king at just the right moment to provide for His people.
During craft time I watched in amazement as a little boy scrawled his belief in God on a piece of paper. He was quiet and had big, lamb-like eyes. His declaration caught me off-guard and my eyes felt hot and tingly for a second.
Another boy in my group was strong and active and definitely not a "sitting" type of person. The first day I was frustrated with him. The second day I was challenged by him. By the fourth day, I honestly liked him. I saw that he did not respond well to even the slightest harshness of tone and that he had to be softly, but firmly spoken to in order to change his behavioral choices. Each child has their own love language.
The week felt like boot camp. Every morning my family crammed breakfast down their throats and I threw back some coffee. We rushed a lot and I found myself barking, "Go! Go! Go!" as if we were invading Normandy. I began to forego showers for more sleep, which might sound like I'm being melodramatic, but it's the honest truth.
But at the end of it all, when all the hoopla was silenced and the children were back home, I put my apron over my head and began making dinner. My youngest was sitting in the craft room making something out of construction paper and under her breath I heard the faint sound of singing, lyrics to a song she learned that week. A seed of joy had been planted. I smiled.
