Rites of Passage

Growing up, I was never the kid who loved school. I was (and still am) socially awkward, had a substitute teacher come in at the end of the year who picked another girl to be prefect over me even though I had been on my best behaviour and was the top girl in my class that year, and a best friend who eventually decided it was cooler to hang with the good kids than the one who didn't turn in her homework on time. I even told Mum once that I had really bad cramps because I was tired of being the black sheep that got to school late.

I had every reason to hate being at school. But every year, at least at the beginning of the year while I was in Primary, I LOVED starting school because I had new textbooks that had pages that still sometimes stuck together and smelt like they came fresh off the press. There were no creases in the spine--at least, not yet--a reminder that it was another opportunity for a fresh start, another opportunity to make it better than the last year.

And there were the coloured pencils. Every year around December, Mum would take us shopping for new pencils and erasers and coloured pencils and clothes for Chinese New Year. Every year, I would wrap those up and tuck them under the Christmas tree until Christmas morning when we got to unwrap all our new school supplies.

I didn't realise it then, but that became my rite of passage into a new school year--the little things we did to celebrate another year, another day.

This year, I find myself looking into the faces of the kids in Kids Club, each one of them proudly telling me, "I'm one year older this year, one year closer to being an adult." I marvel at their joy and pride in growing up, and wish I could keep their childlike perspective so I don't lose sight in the everyday miracle simply known as Life.

And the precious year 6s who will be graduating and heading on up into Intermediate, where they finally get to hang out in youth group with those cool big kids--an experience all fun and terrifying at the same time.

I remember being 11. I started being a part of the worship team at church, which brought with it questions of why I'm even serving when I don't get what being a Christian meant. It was the same year I wrote in my journal that I felt like a rubbish bin that was used by the once-bestfriend where she unloaded and unloaded all her junk, then set me out on the street for the dumpster-man while she ran off to play with the pretty girls. The dumpster-man that never came.

I look back on those experiences now and wish there had been an adult in my life that I could talk about those experiences with. Adults who would allow me to question my faith instead of telling me I just needed to know the Sunday School answers. At 11, Sunday School answers weren't cutting it anymore for my faith journey. I knew them all, but still they did nothing for my feeling like a complete fake when I sat at the piano in front of the church because what I claimed to be believing had no real meaning.

And then I look back again at the faces of the precious year 6s whom I've had the joy (and sometimes sorrow) of walking with in the last year. I wonder if I've done enough to help them along their journey. I want to say to them, it's ok if you don't understand the faith thing. It's ok to have questions. It's ok to be socially awkward. You don't have to pretend to be looking forward to Intermediate if you're terrified deep down inside that you're not going to be the big kids at school anymore.

I want to tell them, I was a mess when I was 11--still am a mess today. But we have a friend who knows our mess and will not leave us out on the streets for the non-existent dumpster-man. And you have friends in this place we call Church who will walk with you.

In a little less than a month, we'll be kicking-off kids' church for the year. Just like the coloured-pencils I looked forward to every year, I hope whatever we end up planning for the kick-off will be that same celebration of a rite of passage for these kids. But more importantly, I hope they know that these same people (maybe not the exact same faces, but the same people we call the Church whanau) who celebrate their rites of passage with them now will continue to celebrate every milestone with them along the way.

Happy 2013, my little people.