lessons learned from a water heater

Our house is 500 sq. feet. A 10x50 single-wide. Only about half of that is space to share with guests (you know, living room and kitchen). Do the math, and then compute that we had 24 people in there a couple Thursdays ago. That's right: 14 kids/teens, and 10 of us adults. We were celebrating a neighbor's 15th birthday, and since she had invited guests, our house was filled with the sounds of girly giggles, and our walls were covered with posters of the Jonas Brothers (Ugh). It was chaos, and of course, we loved it. Thankfully, the night was warm enough for some of that chaos to take place outside:)

On a different note, I am always surprised at what avenues God chooses for character formation. This week: an outlandishly small water heater. The little round bucket of warm H2O that graces our bathroom closet barely stands as high as my knees. The obvious consequence of possessing such a shorty: there is not a lot of hot water to be had at the trailer.

While I was away for a year, my roommates got in a rhythm of morning showers. Leah takes a short one (the kind of water-saving shower she learned to take in Russia), and then Kim uses the rest of the supply shortly thereafter. Clearly, there is nothing left for little ol' me, and recovery takes at least 3-4 hours. It has been a source of frustration on and off, but I am pretty much adjusted to customizing my hygiene schedule to accommodate theirs.

Last Tuesday, I rode my bike to work. It was a sweaty venture and I looked forward to a shower when I got home at about 8:00. I walked in to see Leah doing dishes; danger, Will Robinson. Of course, this was a disaster that could be averted, as long as she hadn't been doing them for long (one good round of dishes takes the whole supply). "Wait! How long have you been doing those?" I asked. "Not long," she said. "Good, I really need a shower." Her head dropped a little, and she spoke a little more softly: "But Kim took a shower when she got home from work, so there's not really any left. It's still kind of warm, though."

I reacted nobly, of course: "What? That's cheating! I never get a freaking shower in the morning, and now I don't get one at night? I'm sweaty. I want to be clean. Are you freaking kidding me?!" I huffed and puffed around for a while, trying to calm down, knowing that a cold shower awaited me (remember, it's early April in Colorado, not the season for cold showers).

Slowly, slowly the Spirit called me back to my senses. "People are dying in Africa," I actually said out loud as I sat on the floor, "it's just a shower." (As if people aren't dying everywhere...but I was feeling overly dramatic, I suppose.) It's just a shower. Granted, I still uttered unpleasant words when I stepped into the not-so-hot water a few minutes later, and I mentioned my frustration to Kim when she got home from the date she had been cleaning up for. Character development is slow.

But really, it is just a shower. My life is infected with a million germs of entitlement, most of which I'm not even aware of; our trailer has a way of removing some of the blinders. To follow Christ wholeheartedly is to lay down all entitlements. I look forward to the day when it takes more than a shower to make me feel shafted.

Oh, character development. How I love thee.

(semi) sweet smells

A sure sign of approaching summer came to the trailer today: the smell of kid feet. I returned from church this morning to the sound of little girls giggling at Tim and I through the window when we pulled up. I opened the hollow, fiberglass door to a living room packed with 7 children, and there it was: the familiar stink of sweaty kid feet, recently pulled from sweaty kid shoes. It's gross, really, but it made me smile. It is the presence of Christ in my living room: "Whoever welcomes one of these little ones in my name, welcomes me." (We welcome you, Jesus, you and your stinky feet.) The chaos of board games and bike rides, puzzles and giggles, jump ropes and boo boos and bandaids, reminded me of our early days at the trailer. For our first few months, we would come home to 5-7 kids who had been waiting for us since they got out of school. Things changed after that; we were buusy, but in a different way. Today was a fun return to our beginnings, as well as reminder of why we were often so tired in those days:)

In the midst of the joy came a fresh reality check. One little boy who only comes to stay with his dad on the weekends was contentedly doing a puzzle in our living room. We have only known him for a few weeks, but he is precious. Hoping that we can celebrate his birthday next weekend, we asked, "Hey buddy, do you guys come to see your dad every weekend, or just some?" His reply called us back to our surroundings: "Every weekend. Well, except some weekends because he doesn't have food. But most of the time he has a little." This kid is 5, and he says it like it's the most normal thing in the world. Sometimes his dad doesn't have enough food to have his kids over. Don't tell me there is no poverty in America.

Yet causes to celebrate remain. One of the most striking statements I heard in my first month or so at the trailer came from a 12 year old girl, who told me rather matter of factly that she expected to be pregnant by age 14. This coming week, we will celebrate her 15th birthday at our house. Her whole outlook is different: now she expects to be a veterinarian, not a teenage mother. We are surrounded by mini-resurrections, God's recreation at every turn. I am reminded today that the power of Easter is expressed in subtle ways every single day when we choose to believe in a God of resurrection. Just a few weeks ago, our precious 7 year-old told us that she woke up in the middle of the night and spent some time thinking, and that right there in the sanctuary of a midnight bedroom, asked God to make his home in her heart. Just like that, in the middle of the night. While we all slept, a mini-resurrection was happening in our midst.

Two and a half years after we moved into that stinky original trailer, with no idea how long the whole thing would last, I am no less awed by the privilege of living where I do. I never wold have guessed that the aroma of Christ could smell like kid feet, but it does. The smell sure isn't sweet, but it is nothing short of beautiful. Welcome Jesus. You and your stinky Christ-feet.