On Sunday I had the great good fortune of spending some time with middle schoolers. I’d been invited to talk with them by a dear friend, and so overrode my initial hesitance. I find middle school kids in groups to be cute, funny, energetic, challenging - and outside my skillset. I think anyone who likes teaching middle schoolers and is good at it has a moral obligation to do so - because there aren’t a whole lot of those folks around. Give me ornery tenth graders any day.

I’ve been formally retired for ten years, so aside from grandkids it had been a while since I’d been in the same space with a crowd this age. As I prepped I tried to imagine how it all might go. My friend Bryan warned me the crowd was “pretty squirrelly,” and when I walked into the room they confirmed his assessment. Seven middle schoolers of wildly varying sizes were totally immersed in a foosball game. They were having a wonderful and very loud time. The church was serving a taco lunch, and these kids were so engrossed they didn’t even take time for tacos. TACOS. My heart sank at the prospect of having to compete with foosball. 

Bryan invited the group to find a spot on the large sectional couch in the room. The boys piled on top of one another, bouncing off each other and the walls. The girls sat primly on another section of the couch, apparently praying for it all to be over. Bryan did a couple of warmup exercises with them, and then handed them off to me.

Deep breath.

I began by inquiring whether any of them were experiencing stress. Several nodded. I asked the group to rate their stress on a scale of 1 to 10 and began a countdown. When I called out the number 10, one of the rowdiest kids’ hand shot up. 9 - More hands. 8, 7 - more hands. The craziness I’d seen when I walked in the door was masking a deeper reality.

As I described the rising stressors I’d observed among my high school students over the years, the group fell silent. I talked about my former students’ lack of sleep, the increasingly high expectations and monitoring around academics, the ever-expanding pressure for high level performance in sports and other activities. As I continued the entire group grew still; as I scanned their faces every single one was making unbroken eye contact with me. They were hearing their experience named and it mattered.

Time was short and we barely skimmed the surface. I didn’t even get to mention the challenges of world events and movements. I spoke of our need for connection with our best selves, with one another, and with God. They agreed. We talked about asking blessing on difficult people, and they took time to write a thank you card to someone who had made their own lives better. They were quiet and focused, and even the few who chose not to write a card were respectful of the time.

It was a moment. To be honest, it felt like a little miracle.

Moments are important. They help heal us and our connections. They don’t fix everything, but they remind us of what’s possible. Moments give us a bit more strength, a shade more purpose, whether we’re in the throes of early adolescence or elders taking stock of our remaining time on this earth. Moments can even rewire our brains and offer an antidote to the toxicity and mindlessness we encounter all too often.

Thanks, Bryan, and thanks, kids. You reminded me of the depth of your hearts - and my own.