DAY ONE

Julia is just as adorable as last year, with dirty-blond bangs not quite hiding the one-in-a-million sparkle of her 6-year-old eyes.

Elliott is taller and thinner than when he and Miles shared a preschool class, but still heatbreakingly beautiful with his black, black curls and eyelashes longer than exclamation points.

David has a heart under all that bravado and rule-breaking.

Austin just wants more attention. Anna is something of a genius. And Genesis is the quietest, gentlest pre-teen girl you will ever encounter.

Yep, you guessed it... VBS time again! Day One down; three more to go. I am exhausted but also overwhelmed with tender emotion for this motley crew of 60-some-odd kids who so recently got on my VERY! LAST! NERVE!

Yep. Vacation Bible School. I know all about it, and yet, each year, it hits me like a revelation.

Anthony and Kendall call themselves bothers, though they have different parents. "Our moms are best friends. We were born at the same time. In the same hospital." (By now Anthony's arm is around Kendall's shoulder.) "See? We've been friends since birth!" One boy is fair and pale, the other a perfect caramel brown.

David hates that he can't have the same sugary frosting as the other kids. He's so serious -- head and shoulders taller than the rest, olive skin and clean-cut hair surrounding big, dark eyes. A good rule follower who keeps his table in line ("It doesn't matter who gets a plate first; we'll all get a plate!"), he makes a face and puts one finger in his ear when I get too loud and his Austism makes him wince. A little part of me wants to cry when David tears up over the contraband frosting. He isn't so much sad, I think, as suddenly very, very angry. That little weasel Will says too-loudly, "But the REST of us will get frosting, right?" Oh, the rest of us! How we could use a David, just to remind us that God works in many ways, in many lives, and His mind, like David's, is something of a mystery.

Later, Will asks me why the sound of banging on a metal table is a peeve of mine. "I don't see what the problem is! Why do you not like this sound? Unless it's because every class does this. Whenever they come in here, if every class bangs their tables and it just gets to be SO much banging and you think it might make you crazy. Is that what you don't like?" "Will," I say. "You are a very wise boy. I can see we're going to be friends." Silently, I add: "after all...."

And, while we're talkin,' who does not love Robbie and Brett? How can one fail to absolutely fall in love with those brothers? Robbie's getting older now -- maybe 5th grade -- and developing a sharp, pre-teen wit I haven't seen in such relief before. He makes a crack today about "what if that Jesus thing hadn't worked out" for the paralytic. I shake my head slowly and do my best to shame him, but I'm not really upset at the test-the-boundaries blashphemy. Sweetness still oozes from his eyes. Ya' can't hide good raisin.'

Oh, and that Mark! Little Mark is an absolute MESS! Another boy, just like my own, who never found a napkin he preferred over a shirt sleeve. God Bless his optimistic mother for ever dressing him in white! (And, note to adult leaders: Perhaps we should choose a less staining color of punch?)

By the time the final group reaches my station, the teen leaders are fried and the bigger boys are out of control (if ever they were "in" it). I make the group snap and clap in rythym, then speak to them in my best skit voice (my roles this week are Kooky Tourist during the warm-up session and Munchie Maker extraordinaire afterwards). The semblance of peace lasts about 7 of 30 minutes.

Less than an hour later, though, I hear a blessed sound over the PA system -- my friend Jim wielding a mic from the portico, calling kids to their cars one by one. I dare to enter the demilitarized zone we otherwise call our sanctuary. A mother quickly taps my shoulder. "Are these ALL the kids," she asks? "Hmmm... Yes, I believe they are. Unless we lost one to the bathroom or the underside of a pew." She is not amused. "Well, that's a problem because I don't see mine." I ask who her child is, and she doesn't immediately answer, scanning the crowd in a 360-degree turn. Our fabulous secretary, Cindy, enters the conversation to ask if the woman's car is running in our driveway. It needs to be moved. Again, the mom is asked, "Which child are you looking for?" After a split-second too long, she replies, "His name is Eddie." I am now completely on kidnapping alert, because I'm feeling a weird vibe. But both Cindy and I answer "Oh, he's right there..." as the boy in question turns around and smiles in recognition -- they do seem related. Eddie stands up and moves easily towards the woman, no big hug but no discomfort, either. I'm trying to reassure her, and myself, that we have everything under control when she says, "Oh, it's his hair! That's why I didn't recognize him. It was a buzz cut the last time I saw him." The boy's hair is a floppy bowl cut -- about 4 to5 inches long on the sides. Disturbed, I am, but what do I know? So she hasn't seen her kid in a while. LOTS of things could conspire to make that happen. And maybe Eddie has special hair -- hair that just grows really, really fast. Not my call to judge.

So it was with a full mind but spent body that I turned and called my own kid away from his comfort zone, snug against his cute teenage leader. "Miles Cannon, your ride is here!" He takes my hand and dances out of the building. Once home, the Dad asks how things went today and if Miles thinks he'll go back. "OF COURSE, Duh! It was just Day One, Dad! We're GOING again and again!"

Yes, we are.

Of course we are.