One thing I've learned...

I had this long post written about the intricate reasons why Jason (husband) and I are comfortable with our decision to raise our kids in the house church atmosphere. But it felt boring and wordy and not like me at all. So, instead, I'd like to tell you a story -- one from our last year of service, as a part of our house church. One that made me think, yes, this is right, this is what we're meant to do for our kids.

It was a cold, snowless night in early December, and our kids were brimming over with Christmas spirit. For weeks, we'd been shopping, not just for the normal people, like cousins and grandparents and school teachers, but we'd been on the hunt for the perfect gift for each member of our sponsored refugee family, who had moved here in September from Thailand. We were busy finding little things like Barbie dolls for the girl who had admired my daughter's so much and a puzzle for a little boy who was in his first semester of kindergarten and a grown-up purse for the middle-schooler who wanted so badly to fit into American culture and silly video games for the younger men who were so blown-away by the possibility of our Wii.

The gifts were lovingly wrapped in bright colors, with bows, and the kids were so excited as we pulled them from beneath the tree and loaded them in a shopping bag. We dropped one, and it started making vrrrom noises -- a shake-up car for the little 3-year-old. My own 2-year-old almost threw a fit, but we talked again about how little Thomas had no toys, and we wanted to share some with him. Jaybin hesitated, then smiled. Whew -- the tentative Christmas spirit was back.

We arrived at the door in santa hats, excited. As always, it was a bit awkward to be there. Lots of bodies were packed into the small apartment and the unfamiliar scent of strange spices filled the air. The room is sparsely furnished with second-hand furniture and strange handwritten papers are taped to the wall. A lone calendar hangs behind the couch. A clock, still in its original Target box, is nailed above the window. And a little boy with bare feet and shorts peeked up at us from under his father's arm.

"We brought presents!" we said needlessly. Of course, they didn't understand. We don't speak the same language, but they could see the brightly wrapped packages. Hurrying awkwardly now, we passed them out. Everyone received two presents, one from us and one from the Zoellers, and their cautious smiles showed us that this wasn't a ritual they'd taken part in before.

Fast forward 20 minutes, with balls of wrapping paper lying around the floor and loud pockets of conversation saying we-had-no-idea what. We snapped photos and enjoyed the festive atmosphere. Someone broke out the gallon-sized orange drink and various mugs. I glanced over to where my 5-year-old was playing with a 10-year-old's first Barbie doll. And as I eavesdropped, I heard my daughter say, "Shoe, shoe, Tae-ae, can you say shoe?" And a tentative voice echoing of the names the clothing items as the Barbies got dressed for, well, the ball, according to my daughter. I don't know where Tae-ae thought they were going.

I learned something that evening -- children's church, in it's most basic form, isn't about flannel graphs or cute songs or banks filled with pennies for missionaries. It's all about learning to love others -- even those who don't look like us. And whether that happens in a classroom environment with a teacher and a chart keeping close track of attendance or a real-life experience of actually befriending a 10-year-old who can't speak a word of your language, the end goal should be the same. At least, for me it is. I want my kids to grow up to be lovers -- not sympathy lovers, who feel superior to the little boy without shoes in India, but true lovers of all people, even those with worlds completely apart from their own.

And if they can truly learn to have a natural reaction to love those who are different, rather than judge or feel superior or even just feel awkward, who knows, maybe a little bit of it will wear off onto their mom and dad.