faith

About that letter to Christians in Indiana: in which I look deeper

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A few days ago, Jesus penned a letter to all the Christians in Indiana and any others elsewhere who might be reading (which I think might have been code for All the Christians America, but that’s just a guess – he kept that a little vague).

I didn’t get the letter until today, which makes me wonder what’s wrong with my mail service. It was addressed to me, after all. I also wonder how many other important missives from Jesus I’ve missed. I thought I had them all, but now who knows?

If Jesus were here, I’d want ask him something – after first confessing all the ways I continue to fail him, each and every day, in spite of passionately loving him and desiring to follow him closely. I’m basically a schmuck. Layers and layers and layers of selfish, petty, blechness filling up my guts, just waiting for a chance to spill out all over the place.

It’s a real problem.

Thankfully, there is also the gracious breath of God nudging aside space to fill up layers and layers and layers of my soul, meaning there is hope each and every day for yet another layer of schmuckiness to get peeled away. At least that’s what I read in an earlier letter. Maybe that’s changed (as this letter seems to imply) and I missed the memo.

This is the thing I would ask Jesus, if I were looking him in the eyes:

Are we really, each and every one of us, as hopelessly and horribly debauched as all that? I know we are each a complete and total mess, especially deep, deep down in the most hidden places, broken beyond human reckoning. But has that beautifully redeemed collective brokenness really grown into nothing more than angry, combative, petty, arrogant, entitled, and unbreachable barriers between you and the world while leaving a legacy of only damage, pain, and isolation, like you said? If so, we might as well all call it quits now because I can only assume the Transforming Spirit of the living God has fled Indiana

If I were looking Jesus in the eyes, and he said such searingly difficult things of me, I wouldn’t say nay. He sees things inside I do not.  He might have even stronger things to say. But I know he wouldn’t give up on me. At least he never has in the past. I also know that he wouldn’t strip my identity and take delight in sweeping me and everyone else into a dust pan of shame.

I know there is much too much yapping, carping, nit-picking, and less-than-neighborly goings-on (not just in Indiana, by all account). I know that a good amount of all the yapping, carping, nit-picking, and less-than-neighborly rhetoric might be so much stinky hot air because many yappers and carpers don’t read the thing they are yapping and carping about – regardless of which angle their yapping and carping may take.

But I also know there are countless disciples and followers of Christ who are not primarily angry, combative, petty, and arrogant full-of-themself screamers whose sole accomplishment is to erect unbreachable barriers between the world and God Almighty.

I was in the presence of 50 tonight – young adults who joyfully and faithfully give up hours each week to share life with middle school and high school students, listening to their questions, attending their events, celebrating their uniqueness, and breaking down barriers.

They are reflecting Jesus to those around them. They are bringing salt and light to a bland and dark world. They are spreading the sweet aroma of Christ wherever they go. They are spilling over with the love of God and changing the world.

But their faithfulness is quiet. Their service is gentle. Their voices are soft. They do not scream and thrash about.

Instead, they follow Jesus, step by step, day by day, faithfully, humbly, joyfully. Even here in Indiana.

They, and countless others, feed the hungry, clothe the poor, comfort the broken, welcome the children, reverently serve and partake of the Eucharist, pass the peace with sincere warmth and concern, humbly refill the coffee pot again, engage in deeply personal conversations with those who are lonely. And so much more.

I know such things could and should happen to a greater degree – but still they are happening. Week after week, day after day, minute by minute, by people who aren’t waving placards or shouting platitudes or taking broad swipes but rather people who are intent on following Jesus as best they know how.

Admittedly, disciples of Christ make missteps along the way, sometimes serious ones. Our rhetoric sometimes fall short of gracious. Our actions sometimes fall short of kind. Our service sometimes falls short of humble.

But Jesus continues working in us, stirring our hearts towards his work, and drawing our souls deeper and further into his. He’s amazingly faithful that way.

Even in Indiana.

 

Copyright 2015 Crystal Kirgiss
The views and opinions expressed in this blog are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect any organization or institution she is affiliated with.

Expect Dragons (in which I leverage the lessons of certain dead British authors)

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Sketch by J.R.R. Tolkien (The Art of The Hobbit)
Sketch by J.R.R. Tolkien from The Art of The Hobbit

**In my ongoing quest to leverage my love for dead British authors (whose writings continue to be long-lasting and meaningful) in the realm of life and ministry (which on occasion runs the risk of being short-lived and shallow), I have compiled:

Seven Principles for a Lasting and Meaningful Ministry, also applicable to Life and other Meaningful Endeavors, based on the writings of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Dorothy Sayers, and G.K. Chesterton, authors now long-dead but whose Devout Embrace of Christ lives still in various and sundry essays, tales, poems, letters, and diaries. MMXV.

PRINCIPLE #4: EXPECT DRAGONS

“As you like,” said Chrysophylax, licking his lips again, but pretending to close his eyes. He had a very wicked heart (as dragons all have), but not a very bold one (as is not unusual).
–from “Farmer Giles of Ham,” J.R.R. Tolkien

But perhaps if he had known something about dragons he would have been a little surprised at this dragon’s behaviour. Most of us know what we should expect to find in a dragon’s lair, but, as I said before, Eustace had read only the wrong books. They had a lot to say about exports and imports and governments and drains, but they were weak on dragons.
–from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis

Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon.
–from “The Red Angel” in Tremendous Trifles, G.K Chesterton

Here be dragons to be slain, here be rich rewards to gain . . .
If we perish in the seeking . . . why, how small a thing is death!
–from “Desdichado” in Catholic Tales and Christian Songs, Dorothy Sayers

So, here’s the thing about dragons: they are hands down, entirely, thoroughly, exceptionally, and superlatively bad, wicked, evil, nasty, foul, no-good little stinkers. Period.

Except here. Except now.

Our sophisticatedly nuanced world offers us dragon riders, dragon trainers, and dragon fighter-pilots. Nothing against these tales or their authors (Naomi Novick’s series about draconian aerial warfare during the Napoleonic wars is supremely delightful), but this recent domestication of dragons portends something infinitely more perilous.

On the one hand, we fail (or refuse) to recognize dragons for what they really are, convinced that if we just handle them gently enough, feed them plenty of tasty bits, and cajole them with sweet songs, they will somehow cease to be dragons — as though we have the power and the wisdom to be undragoners.

On the other hand, having lost sight of real dragons, we now see dragons everywhere, squinting our eyes crooked-like and viewing things from inverted angles until – beware! – every kitten, tree, and cloud is branded a dragon — as though we have the capacity and the discernment to be dragonlords.

We surely do hate dragons . . . especially if they are of our own imagining.

We surely do love dragons . . . even if they threaten our very soul.

And by they, I meant it.

Sin. Self-enthronement. Me-centricity. I-fullness. God-emptiness.

It is a dangerous path we tread when we forget that Christ died because of dragons and instead focus our undivided attention on kittens, trees, or clouds, as though they endanger our very existence.

It is a perilous turn we take when we neither recognize nor admit the power of dragons, and instead head off into the forest with a knapsack of jelly sandwiches and a flapping paper shield, as though life were naught but a make-believe quest.

Dragons are. We ignore and forget this at the cost of our ministries and our lives.

But– Christ is. Christ will be. Christ forevermore. We live and minister within that brilliant truth, regardless of the cost.

Expect dragons, dear friends, and then prepare to willingly see them slain.

© Crystal Kirgiss 2015

The truth about Purdue’s shooting tragedy [one year later]

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Exactly one year ago, things changed at Purdue University. Today, I wonder just how lasting that change really was. Do people still remember? Do they still mourn? Does the shocking reality of what happened on January 21, 2014 still run as high, long, wide, and deep as it did in those first days? For a few, no doubt yes. For most, assuredly no. The daily realities of life have settled into the space where the shock once was. That’s to be expected. Else how would life carry on?

But there is one reality that must not be forgotten – one reality that can begin to make sense of last year’s pain – one reality running so much higher and longer and wider and deeper than any other that we dare not forget it. (The following post was first published January 21, 2014.)

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Purdue Memorial Mall, 1-21-2014 (Photo: CKirgiss)

It was sunny today at Purdue. Sunny and snowy. Sunny and snowy and freezing. Sunny and snowy and freezing and beautiful. Which is to say, it was a day pretty much like every other wintry day on campus the past two weeks.

Except that it wasn’t.

At 11:00 a.m. when I walked across Memorial Mall, I was struck by the peaceful stillness. By some footprints in the snow. By a brilliant sky. By the hushed atmosphere. Even on this typically busy, bustling day at a Big 10 campus, there was a measurable sense of calm and comfort. Things were much as they should be.

Except that they weren’t.

At noon when I walked back across Memorial Mall, nothing had changed. Not visibly, anyway. There were the footprints. There was the brilliant sky. There was the hushed atmosphere. There was the sense of peaceful stillness amidst the busy, bustling crowd.

And then, ripping through the stillness, slashing through the peace, there was an emergency siren. Screeching. Wailing. Shrieking. On and on and on and on. And the unexpected text message: “Shooting reported on campus. Bldg Electrical Engineering; Avoid area; Shelter in place.”

What place is this? Where am I? Have I stepped into another time and place? Because, you see, these things do not happen here. In other places, perhaps. But not here.

Except when they do.

It has been a devastating day. Someone’s son has died. Someone else’s son has killed. Both families are forever changed. It is one more bitter reminder that we live in a very broken world (all of it), among very broken people (all of us).

That’s right – all of us. We are all broken. Entirely, very, thoroughly, quite broken. That truth manifests itself in different ways, to different degrees, and not just in the midst of tragedy. It is a truth easier to ignore than acknowledge, easier to deny than accept, easier to protest than admit. Nonetheless, we are all – each and every one of us – in need of a Savior who loves, forgives, and transforms broken people.

Which he does.

The sun shone brightly today on a very dark and desperate place. Can you see it there, powerful and radiant?

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Electrical Engineering Building, Purdue University, 1-21-2014 (Photo: CKirgiss)

And tonight, the light of thousands shone brightly on a very sad and wounded place. Can you see it there, brave and hopeful?

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Candlelight Vigil, Purdue University, 2-21-2014 (Photo: Reddit User 8bitremixguy, http://voices.suntimes.com/news/photos-from-purdue-universitys-candlelight-vigil-for-andrew-boldt/)

Both lights – sun by day and candle by night – are glorious, comforting, indescribably beautiful.

But they are nothing – absolutely nothing – when compared to the one light that really matters, the one light that is truth, the one light that is life, the one light that is love, the one light that is hope, the one light that saves.

“I am the light of the world.” The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not – and will not ever – overcome it.

Oh, sweet Jesus – we need your love, your compassion, your grace, your humility. Mostly, we need You. Each and every day. Today (and every other day, in truth) is a fresh reminder of this.

[My continued thoughts, written on the third day – January 23, 2014 – are here.]

On her 21st birthday (in which I tell you about Alisa Ruth)

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January 17, 2015

Exactly 21 years ago today, at 12:34 in the afternoon, Alisa Ruth arrived on the scene two weeks before anyone expected her, the first-born child of my sister and her husband. With her first breath, she officially gave me the title of aunt, which is a wondrous title indeed.

From 600 miles away, I got the joyful phone call from my brother-in-law. “She’s here! She’s lovely! She’s wondrous! She’s a miracle!” I talked to my sister for just a few minutes. Already she was in the rocking chair, nursing her firstborn.

600 miles feels like from here to the moon when it separates you from your sister and your newly arrived niece. I wrote in my journal:

My sister is a mother. Her husband is a father. I am an aunt. A new baby IS! We celebrate!

What is it about new life that is so entirely overwhelming? So utterly breathtaking? So infinitely miraculous? Technically, it’s just another person, on a smaller and less-advanced scale, that for at least a few moments is quite wrinkled, crinkled, slimy, mewling, and flailingly awkward. Anyone who has either given birth or been present at a birth knows this to be true; true but of no consequence because a child lives; breathes; is.

Newborns are my spiritual grounding point. If ever there are doubts about God’s existence or questions about God’s presence or confusion about God’s power or worries about God’s providence, there is this to fall back on: new life; babes; the first breath of being.

For all of our human progress and advancement and development, we cannot create new life; we cannot knit together a new soul; we cannot bestow the breath of being. Ever. This is definitely not of our own making. This is certainly not of nothing’s making. This is of God’s making.

And so in my family that day, there was joy. Rivers and oceans of joy. Mountains and moonscapes of joy. Joy overflowing the dancing shores of our collective selves.

But less than two hours after her first breath, I answered the phone again, and this time instead of uncontained joy, I heard inconsolable grief – sobbing, speechless, overwhelming grief.

Trisomy 21. Down’s Syndrome. Heart condition. These words, and others I don’t remember, spilled out from rivers and oceans of grief, mountains and moonscapes of fear, despair overwhelming the battered shores of first-time parents. Already, nurses were gently lifting Alisa Ruth out from her mother’s arms, towards a NICU that would be her home for the next several weeks.

600 miles feels like from here to eternity when it separates you from your sister and your newly arrived niece who is unexpectedly more beloved and precious than she was just moments ago.

They told me that my sister sobbed; that my brother-in-law went blank. I know that the tears and the emptiness, at their very core, were not primarily about Trisomy 21 and Down’s Syndrome as much as they were about having held and adored their daughter for what must have seemed like mere seconds before she was whisked away, out the room, down a hall, into a Unit.

From 600 miles away, I wrote in my journal:

In a split second, all has changed. Alisa Ruth of K-12, senior prom, marriage, motherhood is gone. But Alisa Ruth herself is still here – a miracle indeed.

Those first few days were a painful muddle for me – the aunt, 600 miles away. For my sister and her husband…I cannot imagine. So many painful questions. So many difficult decisions. So many things to learn. So much responsibility to shoulder.

Alisa’s heart – the physical one – was not healthy. She needed surgery soon, and would need more as she grew. But other than that, she was a wonder. In a NICU filled with dangerously premature underdeveloped children, she looked misplaced, so big and strong was she. When I held her in my arms the first time – 600 miles are but a small skip when a niece awaits – she took my breath away. Fearfully and wonderfully made she absolutely was.

As so often happens when difficulty explodes into the very center of life, neighbors brought food. Friends ran errands. Relatives wrapped strength and hope and joy around the family-now-of-three. Hope settled over the land of home-and-work-and-hospital, hope that spilled directly from the fount of Christ’s love.

At one week old, Alisa had heart surgery that went very well. The doctor was confident and reassuring.

At two weeks old, she was recovering and gaining strength.

At three weeks old, things took a sharp turn.

At three-and-a-half weeks old, I wrote:

Things are critical. Meningitis. Pneumonia. Collapsed lung. Heart recovery. More. Very little is going right in her body. My sister – whose perspective is shockingly clear – said, “I can handle the Down Syndrome and the heart problems. That’s how she came to us. It’s all this other stuff I can’t handle.”

 “That’s how she came to us.” Meaning, “That is my child. That is my flesh. That is my love. That is my Alisa – just as she is.”

Sometime during those very difficult days, someone said to my brother-in-law: “But didn’t you know she had Down Syndrome beforehand?” implying (even just writing these words makes my soul rage) that if they’d known beforehand they could have done something about it beforehand and avoided all this pain and heartache.

Silence, you! Do. Not. Speak. Be silent! BE SILENT! You speak the words of a fool! 

Avoiding pain and heartache is not the point. Avoiding pain and heartache is less than living. Avoiding pain and heartache is for people who run from all that matters. Life is pain and heartache. Love is pain and heartache. Joy is pain and heartache. The cross is pain and heartache. How dare anyone suggest that avoiding pain and heartache is worth the price of a life.

Did God plan this? Allow this? Will this? I do not know. Is He here? Watching? Caring? Holding tightly? I do know – yes. Always yes.

At four weeks old, Alisa was still fighting with all the strength and courage she had. Valiantly. Bravely. The nurses said so. My sister told me so. I know it is so. I do not doubt that in every breath she took, the Spirit’s strength poured through her soul.

At four weeks old and a day, after fighting as hard as she could, Alisa’s strength was gone. She breathed her last breath in her parents’ arms, right where she belonged.

I was not there, but I have watched that moment many times over in my mind. I see my sister and her husband more broken than I can imagine, but also more firmly held in the arms of God than I can comprehend.

Just a few years ago, my sister said to me, “Yesterday was the first time I didn’t think about her at least once.” I was stunned. How could I not have known that even after 10, 12, 15, 17 years, her first child still fills her heart?

Just last year, my brother-in-law said, “After 20 years, it still hurts, but it stings less.” I was silenced. How could I not have known that even after 10, 12, 15, 17, 20 years, his first child’s short life was still very real?

Just as importantly, he also said this:

God is good.
A mother’s love is extraordinary.
“No” is an answer.
It’s okay to scream at God. He can take it.
Tell your children “I love you” every chance you get, even if you aren’t feeling it.
Mother’s Day and Father’s Day can be very cruel holidays.
To some people, a crying baby on a plane or in a restaurant can sound like a symphony instead of an annoyance
If a friend is going through something tough, don’t ask what you can do. Just pick something and do it.
Family and friends are important. They’ll be there when you need them. Keep those relationships healthy.
Dwell on the positive. Dwelling on the negative just sets you up for more negative.
I wholeheartedly agree with what Asaph said in Psalm 73:28.*
I can’t choose what circumstances come along in life, but I can choose how I will respond to them.
God is good.

Today is Alisa Ruth’s birthday. She would have been 21. She would have been a wonder. She was a wonder. By God’s infinite love and grace, she is a wonder. I celebrate you, sweet niece, over and over and over again.

Alisa Ruth.
Alisa Ruth.

*But as for me, how good it is to be near God!
I have made the Sovereign Lord my shelter,
and I will tell everyone about the wonderful things you do.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being read while reading (leaves, snow, scripture, grace)

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November leaves (Photo: Kirgiss)
November leaves (Photo: Kirgiss)

Side by side is where I found these two November leaves late last night, prone on the pavement, fully dead, yet clinging to something – anything – resembling life, the one by reflecting brilliant colors (as brilliant as night light allows) and the other by bedding down the new-fallen snow, giving it a place to last, to live, to remain for just a few minutes more.

They are the flip side of life and death, one holding out for its own last few breaths, the other holding up another’s first few breaths.

They are poignantly beautiful. They are powerfully sublime. Yes – those two tiny dead leaves made me feel small (a smallness that is divinely reassuring) in the way only nature can. They read my heart and they whispered the words written there: “You are loved, whether exposed to the bitter cold air, whether feebly attempting to cling to one last breath, whether bravely trying to help another hold on just a little longer, whether lying all alone on an endless pavement, whether clinging to another for comfort and companionship and hope, whether looking ahead with hope or looking around with caution, whether courageous or afraid. You are truly loved, by the God who created all that is.”

Sometimes nature does that – reads our souls and reflects the words back to us, reminding us of what is true.

And sometimes nature – being born of the hand of God – gets it right, which is a lovely, moving, and sacred event. But other times nature – being viewed through the eyes of a weak and broken being – gets it wrong. Not intentionally, of course. But wrong, nonetheless.

Being read by nature often makes my spirit leap with something resembling joy.

Being read by the Creator of nature makes my spirit soar – with joy, remorse, adoration, hope, contrition, love.

Trust in the LORD (are you trusting in someone else? in something else?)
with all your heart (how much of your heart is Mine – deeply and truly Mine?).
Don’t depend on your own understanding (the way that you so often do).
Seek his will (not yours, not someone else’s – just Mine)
in all you do (all things, all the time…all…it’s a powerfully big word, ‘all’ is)
and he will show you (are you looking? are you listening? are you watching?)
which path to take (because gracious, child, I know how many paths beckon.)

Being read by truth aches. Soothes. Exposes. Reveals. Comforts. Corrects. Breaks me apart into tiny, jagged pieces. Stitches me back together with loving grace and joy.

Read the true words of God and be filled with them.

Be read by the true words of God and be enlivened by them.

Be still and know that He is God.

 

People worth knowing (in which I consider the active obedience of YoungLives childcare workers and Young Life work staff)

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In a world full of bad news, broken lives, battered souls, and bruised hopes, there are still plenty of reasons to rejoice and be glad. Here are 80:

Childcare Workers: Young Lives Camp 2014 TWL (Photo: MKirgiss)
Childcare Workers: Young Lives Camp 2014 TWL (Photo: MKirgiss)

In July 2014, these people paid their way to a week of camp (which they also paid for) to watch the babies and toddlers of over 100 young mothers. Some drove an hour. Some drove a day. Some flew a ways. Some flew more than halfway across the country. All spent 6 days cuddling, cradling, strolling, rocking, soothing, reading, playing, singing, and all manner of actively humble and obedient things in order to love beautiful, wondrous, and miraculous living souls so that those souls’ mothers could live and laugh and play like other teenage girls.

While that group of people was taking care of the babies, these people were taking care of everything else:

TWL July 2014 Workstaff (Photo: CKirgiss)
TWL July 2014 Workstaff (Photo: CKirgiss)

The baking, the cooking, the setting, the serving, the clearing, the cleaning, the washing, the folding, the mowing, the raking, the weeding, the wiping, the working, the lifting, the hauling, the carrying … if it was a task of any sort, then these people did it. Over and over and over again. For a month. Without pay. Because Jesus has done something beautiful deep down inside their hearts.

These two groups of people – plus so many more all across the world, at all manner of camps and schools and centers and businesses and homes –  are who we should be reading about in the news. They are the ones who should be held up as the model of humanity, as the picture of humility, as the image of community, as the example of possibility.

All of the world’s bad news needs an antidote of good news. The cult of celebrity needs an equal measure of homage to humility. The buzz of headlines needs a revised tune of faithful daily living.

For just a moment, let’s stop and collectively consider the amazing wonder of such mundane and quiet things as integrity, hard work, faithfulness, honor, commitment, contentment, service, and sacrifice.

And Love. Love that comes first from God and – if we allow it – then spills over onto those around us. Onto young mothers. Onto babies and children. Onto co-workers and campers of all ages. Onto colleagues and neighbors and family and friends.

It’s a wonder, really, that such Love manages to pierce the hate-filled darkness of the world. But pierce it, it does, sometimes in large swaths of a brilliantly blinding light and sometimes in small pinpricks of a persistently gentle glow.

We are all, each one of us, invited into this piercing Love – both as a recipient and as a conduit. The people in these pictures have experienced both. The people in these pictures have been changed by Christ. The people in these pictures have helped change the world – not by their own might or power (which is the stuff of temporal headline news) but rather by humbly surrendering to the Only Almighty and Powerful One (which is the stuff of eternal selfless being).

We would do well to seek out such people. We would do well to know such people. We would do well to be such people.

Psalm 23 for Young Lives camp (in which I consider how childcare workers reflect the character of God)

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Precious Young Lives childcare worker (Photo: CKirgiss)
Precious Young Lives childcare worker (Photo: CKirgiss)

[If a shepherd can reflect and illuminate the character of God, then surely a Young Lives childcare worker can too.]

Psalm 23 (repurposed) –

The LORD is my childcare worker, I lack nothing.
He travels from far away at his own expense to spend time caring for me.
He helps comfort me when I am separated from those I love.
He holds me near his heart where I can hear his love beat strongly.
He rocks me to sleep when I am tired while cradling me in his gentle arms.
He patiently listens to my sobs and never tells me to “just get over it” or “stop that now” or “quit being such a baby!”
He keeps careful track of when I need to eat and sleep and makes sure they happen.
He checks the weather and dresses me appropriately.
He cleans up my messes – no matter how horrid – with a gracious and humble attitude.
He holds me tightly and safely while we ride on a flatbed trailer through the countryside.
He strolls me up and down the sidewalk so I can breathe fresh air and see the beautiful creation.
He takes care of me faithfully and joyfully, as though I were his own child or grandchild.
He laughs at my silliness and encourages my attempts to learn new things.
He makes me feel safe as I experience things that are not part of my daily life.
He welcomes me sincerely and enthusiastically each and every day.
He expresses joy and excitement and grace when I recognize him and hold out my arms to be held.
He makes me feel loved and safe, each and every moment of each and every day.
He does many unexpected and fun things to make me smile and laugh.
When I reject his care and love, he is disappointed and hurt, but he does not reject me in return.
He is available all the time to provide whatever I need without asking for anything in return.
He is wise. He is loving. He is comforting. He is humble.
Amen.

 

Of rodeos, carnivals, and Young Lives (in which I consider why we do what we do)

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In the Young Life camping lexicon, tonight is traditionally called The Night That Never Ends.

In the Young Lives world, The Night That Never Ends does in fact end. Usually by about 10:30. Because, well, the babies.

But still – it is a very long day (though not the longest, for in the Young Lives camping lexicon we have something called The Day That Never Ends, aka SPA DAY which is exactly what it sounds like, so go ahead and be jealous).

Pulling off The Night That Never Ends week after week after week is A Thing Neither Quick Nor Easy. And more than once at least a few people are likely to wonder whether all the work is really worth it.

There are the gravelly rodeo paths to navigate with all those strollers:

Rodeo Road: Young Lives TWL 2014 (Photo: MEmerick)
Rodeo Road: Young Lives TWL 2014 (Photo: MEmerick)

There are all the costumes to gather and don:

Here there be cowboys: Young Lives TWL 2014 (Photo: MEmerick)
Here there be cowboys: Young Lives TWL 2014 (Photo: MEmerick)

And then there is a carnival to set up – in silence, in darkness, in 30 minutes flat – while campers are otherwise occupied:

Here there are party lights: Young Lives TWL 2014 (Photo: CKirgiss)
Here there are party lights: Young Lives TWL 2014 (Photo: CKirgiss)

And there is cotton candy to spin. And funnel cakes to dust with sugar. And ice-cream sundaes to scoop and serve. And during all of that, all those babies to be cared for and cuddled and loved and held.

I don’t suppose there is anyone who more deserves a personal rodeo and carnival than a group of young mothers who spend their days caring for a young human being who is entirely dependent upon them. Personal rodeos and carnivals aren’t come by just like that. You can’t order them online or download them as an app.

But here, there are rodeos. And costumes. And carnivals. And a whole lot of state-fair-type food.

And because of almost 100 childcare workers, there are several hours in this Night That Never Ends (But Really Does Because, You Know, The Babies) during which over 100 young mothers can laugh and play like children.

We believe rodeos and costumes and carnivals and state-fair food are worth every ounce of effort because they translate thus: All of this for you. And you are worth all of it. 

And it’s true: every young mama and baby here is worth every single ounce of energy and effort and love that is expended, and so much more than that. For just like everyone else that has ever lived, God knit each one of them together before they were born, he knew and loved them before they were conceived, and he came and died for them before they’d ever heard his name.

All of this crazy nonsense on The Night That Never (But Really Does) End is just a tiny overflow of something deeper, richer, wider, higher, and more magnificent than any one of us can ever truly understand. But if rodeos and costumes and carnivals and state-fair food that are presented with excellence and a joyful smile can reflect even just a sliver of that overflow, then we will have done today’s job well.

That is why we do what we do, and it’s an amazing why to be sure.

Young Lives on flatbed trailer rides (in which I consider stunning acts of love and kindness)

ckirgiss1 Comment

If you ever happen to find yourself serving as a childcare worker at Young Lives camp, you will discover that keeping happy for several hours 100+ babies aged 6 weeks to 36 months is no small thing. That’s a lot of happy…and also a lot of diapers, a lot of sippee cup refills, a lot of holding and bouncing and cuddling, a lot of board books, a lot of snacks, a lot of stroller rides, a lot of soothing and calming and cooing, and a lot of a lot of other things.

So if while serving as a childcare worker at Young Lives camp you happen to have a flatbed trailer that is suitably decked out to take a bunch of childcare workers holding a bunch of babies for a long ride through the nearby magical forest, and if you happen to then end up at a small homemade pen of someone’s pet chickens and kittens and ducks, well, that could go a long way towards keeping up the happy for a while because, well, chickens and kittens and ducks.

But if you don’t happen to have that kind of flatbed trailer or small pen of pets, then what would be equally awesome would be if someone who really cared about young moms and babies (and who also really loved Jesus, because that’s where real love for young moms and babies comes from) decided to make that kind of flatbed trailer and also to build a sturdy pen to hold his pet chickens and kittens and ducks that he kindly brought to camp from his own home that is more than a mere mile or two down the road.

Yeah. That would all be pretty awesome. So I guess you could say that today was pretty awesome and that both childcare workers and babies were pretty blessed – which shouldn’t come as a surprise since God is in the business of awesome and blessed.

In other words, Young Lives Camp Day 2 was a flatbed-trailer-magical-forest-chickens-and-kittens-and-ducks type of smashing success. Times a thousand.

Young Lives TWL 2014: the view from here (Photo: CKirgiss)
Young Lives TWL 2014: the view from here (Photo: CKirgiss)
Here we have chickens (Photo: MKirgiss)
Here we have chickens (Photo: MKirgiss)

Here we love babies and mamas (in which I consider Young Lives Camp Day 1)

ckirgiss2 Comments

Six hours. That is how long this sacred space in the netherlands of Michigan has become even more sacred because, well, mamas and babies, of course. Over 100 of each.

Not everyone understands why there is so much love here for young mothers and their children. Not everyone understands why a bunch of teenagers have given up a month of their summer to work for free doing things like taking several hours each day setting beautiful tables for these mothers and babies, tables that have real linens, proper place-settings, polished high-chairs, toddler cups with bendy straws, and a full pack of baby wipes…

Young Lives pre-dinner table (Photo: CKirgiss)
Young Lives pre-dinner table (Photo: CKirgiss)

…even though it will take only about 15 minutes of dinner activity for the table to look like this…

Young Lives post-dinner table (Photo: CKirgiss)
Young Lives post-dinner table (Photo: CKirgiss)

…and for the floor to look like this…

Young Lives post-dinner floor (Photo: CKirgiss)
Young Lives post-dinner floor (Photo: CKirgiss)

…which is a wondrous tapestry of broccoli, rice, chicken, salad, bread, juicy puddles, and a mama’s pair of sunglasses.

Indeed: even if the mealtime experience weren’t such an adventure in patience and grace, still not everyone understands why this week of loving teen moms and their babies is such a very, very big deal.

This is why: because, well, mamas and babies. Isn’t it obvious?

Mama and babe. Mother and child. A whole crowd of them. What could be more wondrous and sacred, especially for a child of God and follower of Christ?

For you see: the LORD loves children, so much that he carefully and purposefully knits them together while still in the womb. He warmly welcomes them, even when his friends and followers try to push them aside for being too young, too noisy, too distracting, and too much trouble. He considers them precious enough to be the incarnated identity of himself. God Almighty. Creator of all. A babe. A babe! Why do we love babies? Why indeed.

And the LORD loves mothers, so much that he himself is often described in those terms. He is like an eagle that rouses her chicks and hovers over her young (Dt. 32: 11). He comforts his children as a mother comforts her child (Is. 66:13). He gives birth to the dew and the frost from heaven; he is the mother of the ice (Job 38:28-29). And then there is this: he entered the world as a helpless babe, not formed directly from the dust of the ground, but rather ushered into life out from the womb of a mother, a living breathing flesh-and-blood human mother. And this: when shepherds and Kings met the Messiah of the world, they met him  not as a king surrounded by advisors and subjects but as a babe with his mother. And this – oh, do not forget this: when he hung on the cross, preparing to breath his last breath, he yelled out to his friend, “My mother…do not forget my mother! Take care of her as if she were your own! Because I love her!”

We love mothers and babies here at Young Lives camp because God loves mothers and babies, and we are commanded to love as he does. Really, that’s all there is to it. That’s all there is because that’s everything there is. God’s love is everything. And we want in on it, not just for ourselves but to share it with others so they can be in on it, too. That’s it. That’s the whole story.

Not everyone understands. I get it. But God does amazing things anyway – and this week is going to be full of those amazing things indeed because, well, mamas and babies, and more importantly a God who loves them beyond what any of us will ever understand.

Mother and child: Young Lives TWL 2014 (Photo: CKirgiss)
Mother and child: Young Lives TWL 2014 (Photo: CKirgiss)