Hide it under a bushel

He came in to youth group hooded, forty-five minutes late, tailing his older brother. Usually his eyes are so bright, but that night they never came out from the shadow of his hood.

Sometimes I greet one of the boys or ask, "How's it going?", more as a habit of etiquette than because I really think a middle school boy will share his heart with me. But if he was willing, I wouldn't say no to listening. Once Sam took me off guard when I asked the question and forgot to expect an answer.

"I'm tired!" he told me enthusiastically. "I slept terrible last night!" His words were downers but he was obviously in such good spirits, and so eager to share something of his experience. So, with the door thrown open in my face, I asked the follow-on -- why hadn't he slept well? "My pillow slipped off to the side and I could never get it back, so then I was just sleeping without a pillow -- it was a bad night of sleep!" There was something in the sparkle in his eye that betrayed that his knowledge that his life was actually a good life, that the tragedy of a misplaced pillow is a luxury.

Or there was the night, our first gathering after Christmas break, when we all shared a memory from our holiday celebrations. When it was Sam's turn he held the floor with confidence and beguiled our wayward attention. "Well, we weren't supposed to wake our parents up till 6:00 on Christmas morning," Sam said. "We were awake at 6:00, but we thought we would be nice to our parents and wait until 6:15 to wake them up. But then, we couldn't wait, so we woke them up at 6:07!"

That's Sam -- aware of others, and wanting to be thoughtful, but with a blaze within him that he cannot easily contain.

Sometimes in small group discussion he gets so carried away with the excitement of receiving and expressing an insight that he can hardly get any words out. Always, those eyes crackle and pop with excess zest for life. 

But that night I couldn’t see those eyes under his shadowing hood. When we had finished our teaching and discussion time, each person had a chance to share a prayer request. When it was Sam's turn, he spoke sparsely. “Pray for me and my dad. We’re having a hard time.”

A scant handful of familiar words, two short sentences. Raw pain, gracious absence of detail, relatable honesty.

After prayer, as we sang our closing song, Sam's dad come in to pick up his boys. I had a view straight across the  circle to Sam, and beyond to his dad, standing quiet in the corner till we were done. There was no doubt each one longed for a whole relationship with the other. I sang as I looked at these two heavy-hearted men,

You will be safe in his arms, you will be safe in his arms
The hands that hold the world are holding your heart
This is the promise he made, he will be with you always
When everything is falling apart, you will be safe in his arms.

I pray Sam and his dad will both know they are safe enough in His arms to risk it all in their relationship with each other. I pray they will treasure each other fiercely. I pray that the blaze in Sam's earnest young eyes would not be smothered, but that his passion would burn bright against the world's cynicism and despair, apathy and arrogance. 

*"Safe in His Arms" // Phil Wickham
*Sam's name has been changed