calvary boys

Isaac sits at his father's feet, cross-legged, playing with a yellow sportscar. To his left, his little sister lies sleeping in her car seat. To his right, just five feet of carpet separates him from Peter, who is playing the conga with his eyes closed and his head toward heaven. I can feel the pounding of Peter's hand against that taut skin from my side of the room; I know Isaac feels it through the floor.

He pushes his sports car along an unseen-to-me highway, causing it to skirt surprise obstacles, jump other cars, twirl and leap and dodge the way only 6" cars in the hand of 6-year old boys can do. Stuck at a stoplight, he uses that time to notice his sister's fluttering eyelids. He bends his head, ducks under the handle of her car seat, and kisses her cheek once, twice, three times for good measure.

I watch him and I know he's oblivious to the words we're singing:

The arms of God are open, waiting
Everlasting, loving, saving
Underneath me when I fall
Outstretched every time I call
The arms of God are always near
They hold me high above my fear
This is where I want to stay
My Hideaway

Does that boy know why we gather in this room Wednesday nights and fill this space with guitar strums and congo beats and voices raised in praise? Does he know the gratitude that fuels our worship--the remembrances that lift our hands and faces toward the sky? He doesn't. Not yet. But I pray that as he sits here, Wednesday night after Wednesday night, he begins to understand that You, Jesus, are his hideaway and his rest.

Drill deeply, Lord, and plant a seed of faith.

In the very back row, another boy has taken a seat. He accepted my hug when he walked through the door, but he was careful to choose a way-back place, and take a middle seat between two empty chairs.

I've known this boy since he was small and blonde, with eyes that looked much too big for his tiny face. An enduring image I have, whenever his name crosses my mind and I latch hold, is of an afternoon the 4-year old version of himself spent at my house making kites. When we'd taped the drinking straw crossbeam in place and unfurled the tissue paper tail, he took it outside and showed me his kite-flying skills. The higher it rose, the deeper his dimples grew. As he ran circles in my fenced-in backyard, the sun broke through the evergreen boughs overhead and sprinkled light sparkles over the grass.

He's been gone a long time--long enough to venture into dark corners. He looks older tonight, and sadder, as if he knew things he wished he didn't. But he's here. He's come home.

Does he hear the words we're singing now? Does he know they offer the cleansing he's looking for?

Mine was Your only sin
Yours is my only righteousness
Mine was Your only shame
Yours is my only confidence
You took all of me; I want all of You

Mine was the pain You bore
Yours is the healing I received
Mine was the nails and thorns
Yours is my life abundantly
You took all of me; I want all of You

I'm waiting here to feel Your touch
The weight of sin it seems so much
The freedom that You offer me is You

Mine was the the victory
Yours is the blood that purchased me
Mine is a blessed way
Yours is my love eternally
You took all of me; I want all of You

Does that boy know You are the answer, Jesus? Does he know that You're the stealer of shame, the robber of regret?

Drill gently, Lord, and free his heart to remember.
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"Hideaway" and "The Trade" by Brett Williams