It’s about the end of summer. School has been going for a few weeks, both in the high school world and the college world. While my stepson kicks around his campus trying to learn, 55 miles north my husband and I stagger around ours trying to teach. We converge at home in the evenings and our little house becomes a sanctuary for family, familiarity, rest, and good food.
It’s about the end of summer, but it hasn’t felt like it outside. It was a long and hot summer, and I as a non-native Oklahoman was relieved to find out that everyone else thought it was hot, too. This week still boasted temperatures in the 100s, and we Oklahomans gritted our teeth like we normally do, continued to pray for rain, and went about our business – sweating and squinting.
The end of summer also means that I’m starting to experience things “again.” For instance, this is now the second fall I’ve been inOklahomafor. The second start of school. I can add a whole new set of thoughts and words to my thinking because I remember “what it was like last year.” That’s a good feeling. Good thoughts. Steady, grounding thoughts that make my soul smile as I feel my roots gently pushing their way down.
And in all of that experiencing, I realize that the things that are the most precious to me are those that make me feel like I’m home. Strangely, all of those things are…small. I’ve been thinking about this a lot through the summer, and it kind of went like this: the more at home I felt, the more I found I was enjoying and rejoicing over smaller things. It culminated at Youth Camp.
Every year we take a group of Jr. High and High Schoolers to camp for a week. It’s usually a really good and really crazy time – everyone gets to hear good speakers talk about God, sing loud songs, play weird games and get very little sleep. And while I love our youth group and while we have a fantastically good time, we are never the group that’s jumping around during worship or games. We are never the group that dresses up in bizarre costumes, that comes up with crazy chants, or that’s ever the loudest. We just aren’t. And because of that, we never, never win the spirit stick. This elusive award goes to the most enthusiastic group during the game times every day. And because of who we are – we never win.
But this doesn’t mean that we don’t have fun. We have perhaps more fun than anyone out there. Nor does it mean that we are not enthusiastic. All things being equal, we are the most enthusiastic group out there. The key to all of this – and what the leaders who give out the spirit stick could never see within the confines of a week – is that it looks different for us. And so we put out our best efforts. The students this year were more than gracious in the 115+ heat, they all participated and did their best and had amazing attitudes. And yes, they did want to win the spirit stick, but at the end of each day, when we found out yet again that we didn’t win it, it did not deter their conversation about how much fun they had and how they were ready to do it again tomorrow.
They really were having fun. They really were gracious; it wasn’t just a show. They really were good sports, even when they were disappointed. And they really didn’t win all week. Every one of us sponsors were far more upset than the kids were. I have to admit, I even prayed for the spirit stick.
See, my husband and myself and the other adults that are committed to this youth group really love them. We really want to see them succeed and they really are up against some of the worst this world has to offer. Every year there’s new teen pregnancies, new abuse, new stepparents who aren’t nice…and here in the middle of nowhere, it can feel like there’s no way out. I used to think that was a cliché, but now I understand. I live among them and see them in school and talk with them and look at their eyes. And sometimes our best efforts go completely unheeded. Most of the time we have to fight for every square inch of credibility, even when what we have to say is incredibly important – and would change their life. It’s so hard to keep going in these circumstances. So hard. So challenging when all you see is mistakes you feel like you could have prevented. So defeating when your best words of passion and truth are met with nothing but a blank stare.
And so when we take kids to camp and see them trying something, participating in something, you see a glimmer of hope that they might get it. They might see a better life, even if they see that in stupid games. And you desperately want that to be recognized by someone else other than yourself.
But, just like always, we don’t get the spirit stick. Night after night. Week after week. Youth group after youth group. Year after year. And you’re continually confronted with the discrepancy between solidly knowing that what you’re doing and teaching is right and good and needed – and the seeming absolute lack of change or impact. Night after hot, sweaty night.
Until the very. Last. Night.
And when the camp leader came through that door with the spirit stick on the last night of camp…I have never heard cheers and clapping and yelling and screaming like I did that night. I yelled along with them…and then turned and ducked my head because, honestly, I was crying. Finally.
Finally.
Someone sees. I know this doesn’t actually make what we do valuable. I’m not claiming to have some kind of monopoly on difficult situations or on discouragement or even on unique youth groups. Anyone who knows anyone faces this. Anywhere in the world. But for a few minutes (and even now in this moment), someone saw these kids besides us. Someone saw what up until now, only we saw. And someone acknowledged.
In that spirit stick was represented everything small. Everything small that we work so hard for, everything small we pray for because only we know, everything that seems small to the outside but is monumental on the inside. We have never asked for fame or recognition on some grand stage.
All we wanted was the stupid spirit stick.
Because if we had that, everything we’ve done is somehow confirmed. In a spirit stick, every question we’ve had about is this right? Is this worth it? was answered. And I cried.
After I collected myself, I went out into the rejoicing throng and found another youth leader, Joe. “Joe, I have to admit,” I said chuckling, “that I cried just then when they brought that in.” And Joe replied “…yeah…me too…” I turned my head quickly again, as tears sprang to my eyes. After blinking hard, I looked back at Joe…
…and tears were rolling down his cheeks. We both shrugged and cried.
Small things.
No Small People.
