Ballerina Swan Lake Mobile Home Country Club

van-borrowing

2011-06-24T09:49:00.000-07:00

We need a bus. I mean, really. I'm not sure we could get one, but we need it, and last night we sat and rejoiced over that fact. This Saturday, we are taking a passel of kids to the Aquarium, and as we figured numbers, we realized we were going to be cutting it close on car space. So we are borrowing a van from Leah's church. When she got off the phone after setting it up, we all sort of smiled at each other silently for a second, then laughed and said, "What the heck? We are borrowing a church van. How did we get here?" Leah and I recalled our first days moving in, almost four years ago now, when we had no idea what we were doing and whether or not it would "work" (or what that even meant). We recalled days of play time with 3 or 4 kids at a time, outings to that required a max of two cars. And here we are, borrowing a van from a church...and we will still need two cars. Most of the kids aren't even from the park...they make their way to our homes every week because we are a family. Praise God. Praise God!

We are in the midst of a time that is both incredibly challenging and really exciting (the two often coincide, no?). One our greatest struggles has simply been to "keep the peace". There is an incredible amount of drama and fighting among the teenagers. Parents get involved in some of the conflicts, coming to tell us about it, with the assumption that it is ours to take care of. This is both awkward and a bit stressful. As well, conflict between a particular teen and one of our younger kids brought about an incredibly dangerous incident, when the young one brought in his adult-and-yet-child older brother to take care of a situation that he had blown out of proportion (almost fabricated, really). We do our best. I mean, there is literally a household rule that if we catch someone being consistently unkind, they will be asked to leave. We explain to them that this is because we want our homes to be a safe place, a sanctuary of kindness for everyone who comes in, and that we will protect that family atmosphere. Yet these boundaries are difficult to make cut-and-dried. In the end, we just need prayer. A lot of it. Pray for peace, and for God to show us how to be peacemakers.

Ok, but the good stuff! First of all, thanks to a new friend helping on Thursdays, we got a few of the kids connected with sports camps at a local church. There, they played, spent time in a healthy environment, and heard about God's love for them. They loved camp! At the final awards ceremony, we had the great joy of watching most of them respond to a call to follow Jesus. Honestly, this caught me (and I think others) by surprise. People always ask us if we are leading Bible studies, or if people are coming to know Jesus left and right, and that has simply never been the case. We are there to be a steady and loving presence in the day-to-day of life, and to involve them in opportunities to connect with churches and such in ways that come naturally. But of course, we have always dreamed that those whom we love in the realities of their lives will see and desire the love of God. It was a beautiful moment for us. Then last night, we got a call from the youth minister at Leah's church to let us know that another of our kids had shown a similar response at the VBS she was attending. He just wanted us to know, so that we can follow up. So beautiful.

As I said, forcing our way into Bible studies and such has never been the plan. Having that kind of set agenda can do much to damage the genuiness of relationship. Still, we have none the less wished for the day when it would come, in the Father's time and not by force. As we talked last night, we realized that the day is upon us. Pray for us to know how to move forward, how to follow through. It is an exciting time, but requires some adjusting.

Pray for peace, and praise our kind and faithful Father. Four years ago he called us to uproot and relocate into a sketchy trailer park. Many Thursdays (and every-other-days) later, we could legitimately use a small bus for a simple Saturday outing.

Praise God.

doing that thing we do

2011-01-29T21:01:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite books is an oddly skinny and fairly short book by a monk named Mary Lou Kownacki (who immediately earns points for fantastic last name). In A Monk In the Inner City: The ABC's of a Spiritual Journey, Kownacki recounts her life in the inner city of Erie, PA. Her first entry, "Abandoned Places", has echoed in my mind consistently in the years since I first read the book."What do I do here?" she muses. "I play. I teach. I get to know my neighbors. I plead a case for presence, beauty, community, and call to follow God into the wilderness." I relate to these words on so many levels as I live my own life in a trailer park, not so much the inner city but a desert in its own right. And so I have been asking myself the same question.

What do we do here? We show up. I have said for many years that 90% of mentorship is showing up, and our time here in the trailer has only cemented that belief. We show up and band concerts, at football games, at school open house nights. I once heard someone say that much of what we find in marriage is someone to "bear witness to our lives", and I think that is true here as well. Kids need someone to bear witness to their many attempts, and the certain successes and failures that will ensue. They need someone to bear witness to the shaping of their lives, the living out of their childhood. Their parents do not always do this, some because of irresponsibility, others because of working two jobs or not having a car. And so we show up. We bear witness. We fill the silence with cheering.

What do we do here? We cook. We introduce kids whose diets consist mainly of microwavable fare to the wondrous world of produce and home cooked meals. We are Sunday afternoon lunch. We are Thursday night dinner. We are apples and grapes and carrots and broccoli, which they hated at first and now wolf down like it's candy. We are milk and water instead of soda and mostly-corn-syrup "juice".

What do we do here? We drive. A lot. More than us showing up, we make sure that kids can show up for their own lives. That they can get to their band concerts, get to school, get to the doctor. I have realized how poverty can limit the scope of opportunity for kids. They want to play basketball, but have no ride to the games. They want to join a club, but can't get to the meetings. They want to go to church, but are as car-less on Sunday as on every other day of the week. They want to be healthy, but have no way of getting from home to a dentist's office and back. And so we drive. We help them be present to opportunity, instead of dreaming of such things from a living room in a single wide.

What do we do here? We play Uno. And Apples to Apples, and catch, and hide-and-seek. We answer the door at odd hours to rejoice over new-found treasures. We go to the park. We go to the zoo. We make space for children to be children, kids whose lives are often spent being parents to their parents, or at least to themselves. I will be honest: I often don't feel like playing. Sometimes it sounds exhausting, and I avoid it even when I have no real excuse to. But play may be one of the most important things we do, and so we play. As one whose own childhood may have been short on play at times, I have a feeling it is more redemptive for me than I am aware of.

What do we do here? Like Kownacki, we plead a case for family, for community.To our joy and surprise, those who have moved from the park still com back on Thursday nights, shuttled in and out by one or another of the adults here. Last week, we had fourteen kids, only to realize that only four of them actually live in the park at the moment. Some of them never have been part of the neighborhood; they were invited by one of those who lives (or lived) here. What do we do? We celebrate birthdays. Tons of them. The birthday banner goes up, presents come out, and cake is served. The presence of community has made our home the preferrecd place for celebrations, and we rejoice in that.

And perhaps, like Kownacki, we plead a case for following God into the wilderness. Moreso, we attempt to tell the story of how what we thought was a journey into the wilderness has turned out to be a trek into a deep, deep well of life, no matter how turbulent it can be sometimes. We love to invite people into our home because we feel like we are inviting them into the presence of God among the poor. We are inviting them into what God can do with imperfect people who set aside comfort for the sake of love, even if we get it wrong much of the time. We invite people to see the face of Christ all around us. Sometimes I want to shout from the rooftops that God is present when we go with him into what Mother Teresa called "the dark holes, [where] our Lord is always really present."

In the end, what we do here (when we are able to step outside of ourselves) , is give thanks and bear witness to the miracle of God at work. I often feel like opening the hollow door of our tin-can-home is like Christmas. I can't believe I get to live here, get to watch the Father at work. If you're reading this, consider this an invitation to what we do here.In the end, it's really what God does here. We just show up.

remembering

2010-07-27T16:26:00.001-07:00

I forget sometimes.

See, the kids are generally happy at our house or on outings, and that is where we interact with them for the vast majority of the time. They play, they laugh, they chow down food and go through gallons of milk. Likewise, their parents are generally pleasant and fun to chat with when they stop by to get a kid or to say hello. It is much the same if we happen to catch them as we walk past their trailers on a walk to the mailbox. Just a bunch of neighbors we love and enjoy, that group.

And so I forget. Until the reminders come.

A few weeks ago, as I weeded our yard, I heard an all-too-common argument going on next door. Then a break in the shouting, tears, and "I hate my life", followed by the distinct sound of footsteps headed toward the bedroom to weep over a life that is not as she had hoped it would be. Later, from the same household, I listened to the sound of an angry father speaking far too harshly with his 4 year old daughter.

On a Wednesday night, Leah and I came home to find Kim sititng in the living room with a neighbor and her little boy. She was bruised from blows delivered by her live-in boyfriend. Her six year old played with our huge pile of legos a few feet away, pretending to be oblivious but clearly afraid. He is stuffing emotions that most people 5 times his age could not handle well.

One day as I sat on the porch, patching a bike tube while kids ran around the trailer, I saw one of the kids' rather drugged-up mom come walking his way. She lives in a different trailer in the same park as the kiddo and his dad. She looked at him, pointed to the athletic shirt that he absolutely loves, and told him it makes him look like a girl. When she walked away, I called him over and asked about the conversation. I told him that it was a really cool shirt and looked super cool on him. He smiled half-heartedly. This particular boy usually carries on with more bravado than most of our kids, a show-off and a tough guy. But that day he simply stood in front of me, hung his head, and said, "My mom is really mean."

When the subject of stealing came up a few weeks ago (we were trying to discourage them from nabbing a bike that seemed to have been abandoned), I found myself speechless. In the midst of mentioning something about stealing not being ok, one of our kids cheerfully piped up that her mom had stolen gifts in order to have something to give them for Easter the year before. "But they were in a car that was left wide open, so it was ok." This is her mother she is talking about. What do I say to that?

I pray that God will remind me of these things often, no matter how sad they may be to think about. Our home is a place of joy and safety, and that is beautiful. But it is the broken places of our neighborhood to which God has called us. May he help us not to forget.

the goal of gardens

2010-06-06T17:25:00.000-07:00

Late spring and early summer, 2010, has left us with one question: Where did they all come from?! Whereas the winter left us wondering if the dwindling numbers of kids meant we should spend some more time with adults, the spring found them coming out of the wood-works at the same rate that dandelions were springing out of our soil. So many of them! As tiring as it can be, it is a joy to have them bouncing around our house throughout the week. If we manage to pull together the hoped-for camping trip (most of the kids have never been), it will make for one chaotic campfire!

This new influx of kiddos brings up a need for prayer, however. Most of our new tykes are 100% BOY. They are great kids, but we are consistently seeing some things in their lives that we, as women, can't offer as much guidance on. We have a few guy friends who come by every Thursday to hang out with our kids, but we are in need of more, particularly on the weekends. Please pray with us that God prompts the right guys to come and spend time in our neighborhood.

In other news, we are attempting to make our "yard" look less like a dirt patch and more like an actual yard this year. Leah and Kim got a bunch of kids to do hours of work, weeding and then laying down grass seed. This week, I am having some of them help build a raised bed to put at one end of the yard (our soil has arsenic and cyanide in it....no veggies to be planted in that junk). We got the lumber last week, and I am looking forward to seeing them take part in the sawing and hammering, the dirt and the seeds. The idea of a yard and garden are just a glimmer of what I feel like God is showing me about how we can be involved in these kids' lives. I am realizing that we need to be constantly intentional in how we love them and in the lessons we offer and skills we teach. In this case, I want the kids to see that they can begin a task and complete it, and for them to actually see the fruits (maybe veggies) of their labor. I feel God asking us to begin inviting these kids into bigger stories, into places where they achieve and experience more than they might normally reach for, and to offer them the skills they will need to keep reaching for things on their own. I pray that he'll show us the best way to do that.

Here begins trailer life in the summer. This means that we currently live in an OVEN. So I will end with a simple plea:

E.T. send popsicles.

lessons learned from a water heater

2010-04-16T15:11:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-04T14:48:00.001-07:00

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.

love for the oppressor

2010-02-05T10:47:00.001-08:00

After only a few months of living in our neighborhood, my roommates and I made up a little ditty about the fine folks we pay rent to; It was called, "Mr. Slumlord", and was sung to the tune of Mr. Sandman. In this low-income setting, where we have come with the goal of showing the love of Christ to those we call neighbors, it has been difficult to watch them taken advantage of again and again. Charging outlandish rents (when compared with the assessed value of the actual trailers) and ignoring code requirements in the name of being cheap, our landlords seem to have no problem kicking folks while they're down. Meanwhile, they drive home to a huge house in the richest part of town, and take annual vacations to Hawaii. I don't understand it, and it makes me angry. I want to hate them, and I consistently rip on them. I have somehow come to the conclusion that I should love my neighbors and disdain my landlords. Love the oppressed, hate the oppressor.

It is not the gospel.

That is the message God has been opening my eyes to over the last few weeks. It is true that our landlords actions are wrong, and I am in no way called to condone, or even to remain silent about them. Yet I am unequivocally called to love them. The gospel speaks of a God who sends rain on the just and the unjust alike. It speaks of a Messiah who came for both the oppressor and the oppressed. It speaks of One who, when being brutally nailed to a chunk of wood, asked God to forgive those who were swinging the hammer. "If you love only those who love you, what good is that...?" asks Jesus. And so I begin to ask myself--and to ask God--what it would mean for me to show extravagant love to the oppressor in our midst.

Now it is important that I chose to love simply for love's own sake, but I will admit that I am becoming more aware of the strategy in loving my landlords. They are the people of greatest influence in our neighborhood. If their hearts are changed, and their actions follow suit, then the situation of every single one of our nieghbors could improve. The oppressor may become the advocate, the catalyst for change.

Pray for us as we learn to love our landlords. It is hard. And it is the gospel.

thanks!

2009-12-27T09:55:00.000-08:00

A huge thanks to those who spotted our in-house needs section and helped provide those items. We appreciate it more than you know!

Christmas and Mother Teresa

2009-12-27T09:25:00.000-08:00

Christmas at the trailer is a busy time. Since it is the end of the school semester, there are choir performances and band concerts. I was particularly impressed with our kids this month when they all showed up to a rather boring band concert just to support one of their own. The concert was 6th-8th grade, and our performer was among the last group. That meant sitting through a loooong stretch of other songs, including some played by a 6th grade orchestra, which is never an easy sound to listen to. But there they were, with not a single complaint. It is community at its best.

The season includes two kinds of shopping. The first is the obvious mass outing with my roommates to buy gifts for an ever-increasing list of neighbors. When I left the house for Indiana (where I am writing this), the floor was strew with presents which my roomies faithfully wrapped during an especially busy week for me. The other shopping outing includes the kids themselves. It has become tradition to take them out and let each of them fill a shoebox for Operation Christmas Child. It is important to us that they always feel as if they have something to give, something to contribute, rather than having a sense of always being the one in need. It's one of my favorite things that we do with them.

Over the last month, I have particularly enjoyed chances to see the depth of relationship that has been formed with some of our kids. When one kid recently got into my car sporting the smell of alcohol (or, I hoped, cheap cologne), I was able simply to walk up alongside him, put my arm around him, and ask him about it. We talked,I tried to affirm him, and then we just continued our evening of joking around and hanging out with the others. No anger, no offense. That is the kind of relationship I want.

My personal reading these days has included the (no longer) private writings of Mother Teresa. I am challenged every time I pick up that book. Today I was struck by a letter she wrote about her dream of starting the Sisters of Charity. I had always thought the original goal was to stand by the side of the dying among the poor of India. But I found this instead:

"...the Institute will be especially for the unity and happiness of family life...[for] the countless broken homes , here in India, in Calcutta, everywhere. --It is to make these unhappy homes happy--to bring Jesus into their dark homes that Our Lord wants me and the Sisters to give our lives as victims for homes. --By our poverty, labour and zeal we shall enter every home--gather the little children from these unhappy homes."

I do not live in a country where many beggars lie dying in the streets. But the above is a calling to which I can relate. I can speak of the countless broken homes in America, in my city. I can hear the call to bring Jesus into those unhappy places, and as Mother Teresa, to do so especially among the poor. It calls to mind a favorite quote of mine, with which I will close:

"I am a fragment of a mirror whose design and shape I do not know. Nevertheless, with what I have I can reflect light into the dark places of this world--into the black places in the hearts of men--and change some things in some people. Perhaps others may see and do likewise. This is what I am about. This is the meaning of my life."

once upon a time, we lived in Camelot

2009-11-07T14:33:00.000-08:00

October has come and gone in the trailer park, my first month back. A highlight: for two weeks in a row, I was reminded of the joy of celebrating birthdays in our home on Thursdays. One was the big 14, which featured a fine display of teenage flirting, and homemade pasta casserole from the birthday boy's faithful mom. The second birthday was number 11 and just happened to coincide with the annual pumpkin carving night. It was beautiful, that night. I stood back and watched a friend talk with a dad who had never been over before, and laughed at the kids as they pulled bowlfuls of goop from their great, orange gourds. My favorite 7 year old in the world personally helped me gut the pumpkin I carved for our household. It featured a carrot and a teddy bear with underwear--a testament to the quirky and ever-funny girls I am once again privileged to live with.

Via an unexpected source, we learned this month that our trailer is over 40 years old, is a model called "the Pacemaker", and is valued at less than $1,000. LESS than $1,000. I see that and laugh my head off, while at the same time taking in the sobering revelation that all around me people are struggling month after month to stay in something that assesses at the value of maybe two rent payments. It's a nasty system. Personally, I think the name is the best part, and rather fitting: We live in something that should naturally have kicked the bucket a good 20 years ago. Also hilarious, by the way, is the model of our original, mold-filled trailer: "the Camelot". No joke.

In the month I have been back, I have been reminded of another thing: I am selfish with my time. Hospitality has to do with so much more than opening our homes. We are called to live hospitable lives that welcome others in, that don't have excessive closing hours which come at the whim of the interior homeowner. This is difficult for me, yet the trailer, as always, calls me back to that place of inner hospitality. May I learn more and more to welcome others in, and may I find again the unexpected joy that comes when life and home and filled with neighbors and love.

adjusting and dreaming

2009-10-13T13:05:00.000-07:00

I am writing from the place where I belong: the single wide trailer from which I just spent a painful year away. I am sitting at our kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket because this wonderful house doesn't actually have insulation. Our clanking furnace does it's best, and it is a noble effort indeed, but the parts of the house farthest from it remain chilly nonetheless. Oh well.

Like anyone, I'd love to say I'm a selfless saint and that the return to my lifestyle here is an easy adjustment. Granted, the small discomforts of the house are minimal--just getting used to small spaces and the need for blankets. It is the re-adjustment to the demands on time that are more difficult. I have just spent a year where my time off was, well....mine. Very few demands were placed on it, and I generally resented even those because I was so worn out from my job. Here, however, one must get used to knocks on the door at any time, requests for company or homework help or a grocery trip that are not conveniently organized around when you do and do not feel like it. Much to my chagrin, I feel the selfishness in me resisting, resenting...it is putting up a fight. Prayer and time and conscious choices are what will overcome the selfish one within me, the "old man" that the gospel calls me to trade for a new one, one created in the likeness of the Christ who gave and loved relentlessly and without regard for self-preservation.

I am often amazed when I think back over how the kids have grown--how our littlest one was just 4 when we moved in, and how she recently celebrated her 7th birthday. I am amazed to recall those first days, when most of our friends and family were skeptical, and when even we weren't sure if this experiment would last more than a few months. It has passed the 2 year mark now. What a gift.

Personally, I return with a dream. My year of advocacy for the homeless began to teach me that we really aren't too small to make changes or to have an effective voice. And so my long-lived hope of calling others into the life we are living here seems less far-off and impossible. Rather, I want to be taking small steps in that direction. The grand dream is to begin inviting recent grads to spend a year living in low-income settings and learning about the issues behind non-urban American poverty, and about God's heart for the poor in our back yard. Where to start? I pray for God's direction. And so here I am, writing from the place where I belong, asking that you, too, can pray for how God might have us raise our voices for those whom are seldom heard.

I'm ba-aaack.

2009-09-22T09:39:00.000-07:00

Just when it seemed that Ballerina Swan Lake would drift into oblivion, the winds have changed. After my year away working with the homeless, I am recognizing that my heart never left the trailer. So in just over a week I am moving back into the neighborhood, which means this here blog should be updated again. So if anyone is listening, here come the trailer tales.....

breaking the long silence...

2008-10-03T20:07:00.000-07:00

AWOL. I know. Sadly, blogging fell victim to the final stretch of completing my Master's degree, which I officially completed last month. Of course, life didn't pause for it all. So much has gone on in our home that it is difficult to sum up. Our dear next door neighbors moved to a place far outside of town. We are so glad that they have a more suitable home, but we miss sharing conversation and meals and laughter. Just tonight, Leah and I walked next door to welcome to the woman who is moving in to the trailer they vacated. Another reminder that low-income housing is home to a pretty big turnover rate.

In August, we explored new territory when we had to file a restraining order against a nieghbor who threatened my life one day. Clearly, the process was a new experience for us, and it was a learning time for sure. I now have a sense of how challenging, stressful, and expensive it can be to get protection when it's needed. I can't imagine what it is like for those who need the protection even more than we do, and yet have not even half our resources. And experiencing far more emotional strain than I anticipated, I can't imagine what it is like for those who have to take out restraining orders on loved ones. The situatio was yet another chance to have our eyes opened to the experiences of those in the low-income setting, where a good deal of such issues occur.

Of course, joy has been the biggest factor. We have celebrated birthdays with cakes and gifts and silly string. We have made volcanoes erupt and water balloons burst, and have journeyed to parks and caves and playgrounds. We have caught some mice (and not caught some others), swatted flies, and wiped up spills. It is life, full and rich.

Sadly, I will soon be leaving the precious trailer we call home, moving on to work with the homeless in a town about 4 hours away. It is an exciting opportunity and a great loss all at once. But my roommates will remain and a dear friend will take my place, so I look forward to visits and letters and updates. For now, I hope to continue to update you here as they update me. I know that may beautiful things lie ahead in that place. Continue to pray for us in the transition, and in the promising days to come!

reality bites

2008-08-08T13:07:00.000-07:00

Ok, so only if the neighbor's dog was named Reality, which it isn't. The name is Rex. And Rex bites. Rex bites hard.

Rex is a wee little doggie, guarding the neighbor's yard with his equally wee buddy, Maya. The mutts only come up to about my ankle. Yet two of the three roommates have now recieved brutal bruises and teethmarks, sustained through jeans nonetheless. Leah is sole the hold-out, and she is realizing that she is wise just to shout over the gate rather than enter Rex's turf. Because seriously, Rex bites HARD.

But for some of our neighbors, reality does bite. Kids whose fathers are in prison or have been deported. Women who are raising children alone. Teens who are attempting to become adults with no one offering them guidance. Entire families living in less-than-sanitary conditions, unable to stand up to the landlord because they don't have anyplace to go.

It is this last group that is particularly on our minds this week. Most of you will remember that we moved across the street a couple months ago, leaving behind a dilapidated trailer with a mold issue that had left us coughing for months on end. The place is a health hazard. Yet is has come to our attention in the last week that the landlord had no intentions of doing any work on it before placing another family in there. He simply gave the outside a fresh coat of white paint, while the inside remains as unhealthy as when we left it. Never before has the concept of a "whitewashed tomb" been so real to me, friends. He is shining up the outside, while leaving the inside full of death.

We need wisdom in this situation. We cannot, in good conscience, watch a child be moved into that place. Yet speaking up could be incredibly harmful to our own relationship with our landlord. Even if calls made to groups like Code Enforcement are anonymous, there will be no mistaking who initiated them. Pray for us. The Bible calls us so clearly to speak up on behalf of those who can't speak up for themselves (Prov. 31). Pray that we can do this wisely and well.

And while you're at it, pray that none of us gets rabies. Because while God has made our own reality beautiful (even when difficult), Rex just plain bites.

the boys are back in town

2008-08-03T13:05:00.000-07:00

May until August...wow. It has been an incrediby busy season for girls of the trailer park. We've done more traveling than we anticipated...Alaska, Russia, Michigan, Oklahoma, Indiana, California, and all around Colorado. Travel remains one of the awkward reminders that we still have one foot in the middle class world, where people have both the time and the money to travel frequently. Needless to say, our busy travel schedules have made it difficult to be consistent in just being at home. Pray for us in that: it is the most important thing to us, and also the hardest. Pray as well that God would constantly draw us to being in prayer about our neighborhood. It's easy for us to forget to sit and be still sometimes!

The summer has been an interesting one with kiddos. For the first couple of months, a few kids were gone visiting other family members, so we had only three kids around (most of the time, only one). Recently, however, all have returned and new ones have showed up, and we are back to having a passel of youngin's running up and down the hall, crawling up the walls (literally), and eating burgers on the porch. The kid we lost to DHS so many months ago showed back up at our door a few weeks ago, bringing with him three other rowdy boys. To see his face again and to hear his mom talk about how well things are going has brought such joy to us. It was a gift we didn't see coming at all.

With the summer heat, Thursdays are about barbecues and trips to the park, about water balloons and squirt guns. In the coming months, the plan is to begin having our adults (all of whom have traveled) share about the countries they have visited (or in many cases, have lived in). This week, we kick things off with a dear friend who spent a year living in China. The goal is this: to continue having fun, while sneaking in some opportunities for our kids to learn and to gain a bigger picture of the world they live in. We'll be moving from Eastern Europe, to Africa, to South America and beyond. I'm so excited for this. One of the things I have noticed most about low-income kiddos is that their perspective on the world is very limited. Their horizons are narrow. Yet there is so much for them to explore, and some many places to dream about! We hope that in gaining a broader picture of the world, their hopes for what the future can hold will broaden as well.

I hope to be more consistent here in the days to come. Either way, I say it again: Thank you for being a part of life in the trailer park. It's a beautiful thing!

new digs

2008-05-25T13:33:00.000-07:00

This month's rather big news (and the reason I have been too busy to blog): We moved!

Into a trailer across the street. No more than 50 feet away from the old one.

After too many months of breathing mildewy air and coughing non-stop, we finally sought refuge in a cleaner space. The trailer is actually smaller--three people in 500 square feet--but we have a big, covered front porch and the whole place feels like a nicer place to be.

The process of the move allowed us to see something about one of our landlords: he's a slumlord. In fact, so much so that we started writing new lyrics to "Mr. Sandman"....Mr. Slumlord, bring me a dream. He tried to keep us in the old place no matter how unhealthy, and even the new place had some major issues right away. Crossed wiring, a leaky roof, a stove that the utilities guy said was unsafe, and on and on. This process was sobering for me. I grew up in a mindset that gives me the confidence to assert my rights to safe housing. On top of that, I am not behind on rent, so I don't feel like I have to do anything I can to stay in the good graces of my landlord.

What of those who have not learned to stand up for themselves? What of those who are so afraid of finding themselves homeless that they'll put up with just about anything for a little extra time to get the rent in? I fear the things that neighbors are putting up with, and that our landlord is neglecting in the name of saving money. It calls to mind the scriptural charge to speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves. I reminds me that I need to have my eyes open to those around me who are in need of a voice, and who are bent under the burden of oppression in some form or another.

On an exciting note, our small group community has gone above and beyond to help us transition, to move our junk, and to help with clean up. It has been an amazing portrait of the body of Christ in action. To any of you who are reading, Thanks!

the sanctity of scent

2008-04-22T10:19:00.000-07:00

When we first moved into the trailer, I remember that one thing stood head and shoulders above the rest when it came to adding difficulty to the adjustment. The ants?A little annoying. The small space? A bit frustrating. The heat? Somewhat aggravating.

The smell? Completely disheartening. It almost put me in tears several times, and not because it was making my eyes water.

I am learning that there is something sacred about smell. It makes sense even when one looks at it scripturally. God refers to Israel's actions and heart as either a pleasing aroma or a stench to him. Disobedience is literally compared to an offensive smell! And indeed, there is something about smell that touches us in a deep place. Ask a missionary what was hard about adjusting to a new place, and more often than not, you will hear about the odor. Observe a mourning family member with their nose buried in the clothing of the lost loved one, holding on to the scent. Watch the way that a particular smell can bring back memories so vividly that one will laugh out loud or melt into tears.

The rising spring temperatures are beginning to bring out the smells that winter had subdued in our home. Walking into the trailer, we are often stunned to feel our senses offended by a foul stench. More than that, we walk out of the trailer knowing that our clothes smell the same way. It is a little awkward. And I can see it on all of our faces: it is disheartening.

In our society, we make quick judgements based on how someone smells. We go so far as to think of someone as lazy, uneducated, or worthless when they walk in smelling badly. Yet here I am, well-adjusted, a leader in many settings, with an almost-completed master's degree, and I smell the same as those among whom I live. It is such a tangible--and uncomfortable--part of living in solidarity. Sometimes I want to just escape it, to run away and live somewhere where my clothes will smell sweet. Yet I realize how shallow that is in the end. Jesus calls us to lay down our lives for him. Period.

Let us be a people, a group of Christ-followers, who give a second thought to our assumptions about those whose odor offends our senses. Perhaps they have a spouse who smokes, and will not quit despite their pleading. Perhaps they work a job that would make most of us cringe, just because they are committed to feeding their families. Perhaps economic circumstances have forced them into housing that, no matter how clean they themselves are, will forever carry the scent of careless previous tenants.

Ultimately, we must face this: the judgment we hand out is a far greater stench to God than anything or anyone that may cross our paths today.

we've named them all Eduardo

2008-04-17T13:17:00.000-07:00

Well, pop pop, fizz fizz! turned unto hack hack, cough cough. Burst pipes bring mold! Thankfully, our landlord came and gave us new carpet in the bathroom (yep, carpet). While it was being installed, I got to catch a glimpse of what our floors look like: nothing but some thin plywood, some of it looking a little...sketchy. I love this place.

As for the ants, there are everywhere: in the food, on toothbrushes, in trash cans. Amazing where those little guys can go! As we named all mice Bobby, we have decided that the ants are all Eduardo. A couple days ago, I put my workout bag on my bed, totally unaware that a half eaten energy bar was inside. Later, I returned to my bed only to see that my sheets were basically alive! A huge line of Eduardos made its way across the wood of our bunk bed, and hundreds of them were crawling where I hoped to sleep. Ugh. In a less-than-refined moment, I uttered the first thing that came to mind: "You filthy bastards, get out of my bed!" Kim had a good laugh with me, and Leah later sprayed Raid on the wood. We still haven't decided if spraying toxins so close to my pillow was wise...

Last week, we spent Thursday night celebrating a neighbor's 13th birthday. It was a great (and totally exhausting) night, and we got to meet some more neighbors. Watching this girl turn into a teenager impresses on us anew the sense of call to communicate truth and strength to these kids. We long to help her navigate this exciting but very awkward time in life. So many days, we simply need reminders that God is able to do far more than we could imagine, and that there is great hope for these little lives to be lived beautifully.

One of the most exciting recent outings was a Spring Break day at the Zoo. A couple of us took the kids to Sonic, the Zoo, and for some ice cream before playing in the park. Since it was a Thursday, they also got to come watch a movie later. It was so encouraging to hear their excitment and joy throughout the day. Spring break trips or outings are a given for many from a different class bracket. Here in the park, they are not at all. It was a great day!

So much has happened in the time since I last wrote that my thoughts are scattered. But suffice it to say that life continues to go on here on these dusty (currently muddy) streets, life in all of its beauty and tragedy and messiness. God is at work. Lives are changing: ours and theirs.

"Praise the Lord, O my soul."

pop pop, fizz fizz...oh, what a life it is!

2008-03-14T08:51:00.000-07:00

God takes care of us in the funniest ways sometimes. See, I am never home during the day. We don't have a table, and it's just too distracting to do homework there most of the time. Yesterday, however, mostly due to frustration, I went home to eat lunch and just be there.

So there I was, sitting in the living room with my laptop, when I heard it: POP! Then the sound of shooting water. Confused, I ran back toward the bathroom only to see water spraying every which way and gushing across the floor at an alarming rate. I ran throughout the trailer looking for a place to turn off the water, finally calling my roommate in a bit of a panic. She didn't know. I ran outside and called to my neighbor, who looked but was unable to find it as well. I ran down to the maintenance man working on a nearby trailer. After a little searching, he found the valve (under a wooden box in the backyard...of course. Why didn't I think of that?) and turned off the water. I returned to the bathroom to see it flooded. Oh well. The maintenance guys had it fixed pretty quickly, and the carpet is drying out...slowly. It smells a little (or a lot) musty in the house at the moment.

Honestly, in the midst of an unbelievably frustrating day, that was the best part. When things like that go wrong, it's just plain funny. And isn't it funny that God chose a burst pipe as his way to remind me he's watching out for me? Amazing.

In more new, the ant infestation is back. Any ideas?

how should the conversation go?

2008-03-06T15:50:00.001-08:00

Life is crazy these days. When I'm not at the trailer, I'm buried for hours and hours in books, attempting to summit the mountain of homework that I have in front of me. It's tough to find time to write, but we have not disappeared!

The biggest thought ever since I returned from Seattle, where I had great conversations with a fellow lover of social justice, is this: How do we talk about ministry to the poor? As in, what vocabulary do we use? What angle do we take? What are we communicating about who we are, who they are...and how the I and They should really be one big We? How do we talk about this thing while always conveying a common dignity?

Talking about "ministry" to the poor is problematic in itself. Often, our definition of ministry clings to some sense of the us-and-them, elevating what I have to offer above what they have. Sadly, it is generally more comfortable for us middle-classers that way. Still, it is true that ministry in its best sense is what we hope for. We hope to be a living example of Christ and to effect change. How do we talk about that?

Perhaps the vocabulary should be more practical and relational. Kim and I recently talked about how we are beginning to cringe when we hear others elevate our current situation to some super-holy act. This life has its challenges, yes. But it is simply life. We love our neighbors. We live with them. They "minister" to us in many ways of their own. Just a few nights ago, I overheard Kim telling a friend that it is just so natural now that we're where we are. We feel as if we are living not in some strange way, but in the way that God had hoped we all would live. In community. In solidarity with those he loves. "Ministry" to the poor becomes sharing life with a people God created and loves.

I am in the middle of a term paper, and my thoughts are scattered. Still, these things linger in my mind. The issue is a complex one in the end. It begins with this: What is this life I live, and how do I talk about it? How do we talk about it? May we learn to do it well.

evaluating our influence

2008-02-17T10:03:00.000-08:00

Time passes here, and living life with the neighbors becomes more and more practical. Three days a week, I get a 6 year old ready and take her to school in the morning. This morning, I picked up a sick neighbor from work. Leah packs people into her car every Sunday and takes them to church. My roommates are always making grocery store runs, and sharing meals is just a natural part of the week. There are still new things to discover, and we still have fun events and outings, but more and more it is just relationship. We give and take. We get people out of binds and get ourselves into some pickles of our own. We cook meals for others and we enjoy those cooked for us. It's home.

Yesterday, Leah and I got some one on one time with a couple of the girls; she took the little one, and I had an outing with our 12 year old. It was beautiful time, and I remembered how important such time was to me at that age. Just as day-to-day relationship with the neighbors becomes deeper and more practical, so our thoughts about the kids and how to spend time with them becomes more intentional. How do we help a 5 year old learn to express emotions and deal with fear? How do we help an almost 13 year old transition into womanhood in a healthy way? How do we demonstrate important life skills to them? These one on one times will be a crucial part of that, and we hope to plan them more consistently.

I'd love to hear thoughts from any of you, memories of what were some of the most impactful ways adults influenced you when you were young. What sorts of things did they do with you? What words were most encouraging? What do you wish someone had done? Perhaps the sum of our experience will help us make a greater impact on these little lives. Feel free to leave a comment, or to email us at trailertales@gmail.com.

Again, we so appreciate those of you who faithfully read these words. Thank you.

a God who provides

2008-01-21T13:31:00.000-08:00

Some of you may have noticed that we've removed a few items from our "in-house needs" section. That means that God is providing for our needs, and he is doing so in ways that are hard to even describe! To those who have prayed, and to those who have played a part in meeting those needs, we say Thank You! Most of all, we ask you to join us in praising a Father who knows our needs before we even ask...or post them on the internet:)

it's so simple, really

2008-01-21T13:25:00.000-08:00

Things in the park are....interesting sometimes. Working with the poor becomes more complex when we move beyond meeting a material need (which is SO important) to actually involving ourselves in the messy lives of families, especially those which are seriously dysfunctional. Just this week, we've found ourselves navigating a situation that is simply out of our league. Yet the Father has placed us there to be the presence of love in the midst of it. I hear church folk say often, "God does not call the equipped; He equips the called." That is a nice thought, for sure, but at the moment I have moved from speaking it serenely, if not blithely, to clinging to its ankles in need. Even the less weird situations, in our relationships with families that bring us great joy and laughter, we can find ourselves chafing against challenges to the great American golden calf: a sense of entitlement to being the sole master of our "own" time and energy.

A lo of thoughts have gone on in my mind over the last several days of dealing with this dauntingly strange situation and several new demands on my schedule. One would expect to find among those thoughts, "Man, maybe we shouldn't have done this." Or perhaps, "This is just too ridiculous to be worth it." Even I expected to find those among my myriad thoughts. Yet, if present at all, they have not been prominent.

Instead, I find myself overwhelmed by the amazing fact that we are truly involved in our neighbors’ lives. We are not just skimming the surface, but wading knee-deep through the crap. How did this happen? I look back and chuckle at the simplicity of the answer: We moved. We plopped ourselves down in a new abode, and the rest just followed. I think of previous ministry jobs I've had, of the hours and hours spent trying to figure out how to draw these folks in and make them want to stay, and it seems crazy to me now. Jesus had it right from the very beginning: Ministry is about sharing life, about incarnation. It's not complicated, but it's hard. Still, it seems that many of our ministries have somehow decided that choosing complicated instead of hard is a better (and more effective?) deal.

In it all, one particular thought keeps charging around my mind like loose bull: "Why are we not doing this?" As in, why are we, the church, not living more incarnationally? Why did it take me so long to make the decision I did and move? There is really no way to describe the level of ministry that happens there, in that place where we knit our lives together with those who need Jesus. It leaves me shaking my head in amazement every time I think about it, every time I look around our home and realize, "Man, it really is that simple." Yes, the specific situations can feel complicated sometimes, but the ministry itself is not. I mean really....we just live there.

I have a feeling it will all be churning around in my dome for many days to come... But on a lighter note:

We were fully chastised last Thursday when we sat down at the table with our neighbors. "Where have you been? No one has been here for dinner? I mean, you could call!" I laugh even as I type it! That conversation came over a bowl of stir fry, lovingly prepared by the folks across the street. When a friend pulled up, expecting to find us home, he had not even reached our gate before our dinner host was shouting out the door, "They're over here! Come on over--we've been waiting for you!" Now that's a welcome you'll never forget, coming from a gruff man, leaning out the door of a rusty old trailer while dragging on a cigarette! Our friends are their friends; that's just how it works.

I’m writing from a coffee shop, but I’ll be headed home in a few hours for a meal of white bean chili with those same generous neighbors. My job is to pick up a kid-friendly movie on the way. That’s the plan tonight: to eat a meal, watch a movie, talk about the day.

It will be a night rich with ministry. Pretty simple, isn’t it?

you're never stranded when a neighbor is home

2008-01-06T12:16:00.000-08:00

So, I knew it would happen someday. I knew we should have left a spare with the neighbors, or hidden one near the shed or something. But we didn't, and I did it. I stood outside in 4 inches of fresh snow, with both house and car keys locked inside our trailer. Oops.

Thankfully, it ended up just being funny...and almost fun. A neighbor came over and helped me in a valiant attempt to break in, until I finally called a friend and asked if she'd drop me off at a coffee shop to work on things until a roommate got home. My neighbor and I stuck bobby pins in the lock, pried off screens, and tried random keys. No luck. One of our friends in the trailer park is an ex-con, convicted for grand theft auto; I have decided that my next request of him will be that he teach me to pick a lock. Maybe he could teach me to hotwire my truck, too. A handy skill, if you ask me.

Goofy incidents aside, I have been battling another hurdle of trailer life this week. Sharing meals--mostly, accepting those lovingly offered to us--is a huge part of our relationship with our neighbors. It is a crucial part of the take that allows us to freely give. Meals are simply one of the most important aspects of community in our lives now. Unfortunately, the meals are not exactly on the healthy side, nor are the offered portions small. This has meant a little weight gain for me, which can be a crushing thing for a girl in her 20's. I am not one of those young folks with a magic metabolism. I have to work hard to stay fit. So what do I do when maintaining relationship threatens that? What do I do with the fact that those relationships are far more important in the long run, no matter how much I struggle with the effects or feel terrible about how I look? It's just another example of roadblocks I never would have seen coming. So many things I thought would bother me seem more like joy than struggle. Others that I never could have anticipated cause great frustration.

Even with the frustration, the increased sharing and comfort around one another is beautiful. I love to gather around a table (or, at our house, whatever you can find to sit on) and eat, talking about life inside the park and out. I love sharing hearts over homemade lasagna and pie. In the end, it really does matter more than what the mirror says.

learning to give

2007-12-24T21:26:00.000-08:00

Winter has definitely come to the trailer park. Our heating bill did a serious jump, providing ample evidence that our home has basically zero insulation. I suppose this shouldn't be surprising, since in some places we barely have floorboards! The kids now leave a pile of coats and boots at the door when they come over, and our dirt streets require 4 wheel drive for safe driving. It's such a change from those summer days of stepping outside to escape the heat and kicking up dust with barefoot kids. In its uniqueness, we love it.

Christmas has been a wonderful time. We joined the neighbors in an outing to cut down Christmas trees, and the kids did a great job of decking it out. The folks across the street made us stockings, and we shared times of decorating cookies and eating a Christmas feast. Thanks to the incredible generosity of some others, the families closest to us are abundantly provided for this Christmas. The three of us roommates also had a great time doing some shopping of our own. It was so joyful, since it was coming out of genuine relationship with people who are dear to us.

As time has gone by, the trailer has offered some important perspective on giving. Suddenly, I am acutely aware of the importance of giving to those in need, while still allowing them to maintain their dignity. Sometimes the nuance is subtle, other times the difference is stark, but giving begins to take on some changes when we keep the factor of dignity in mind. How do I give in a way that does not make someone feel "lesser" or insufficient? How do I give in a way that affirms the strengths of the one receiving, and how do I allow them to give to me? How do I give in a way that is rooted in relationship so deeply that the concept of obligation leaves the scene completely? These questions are ever on my mind now, though before I wouldn't have known to ask them. It's been a beautiful process, especially in this season.

We won't be in the neighborhood Christmas morning, since we are all visiting our families. I know that some part of us is sad about that, because our neighbors have become our family, too, and in a very deep way. Pray for the trailer park this Christmas. Pray that homes which are often filled with anything but joy will suddenly be bursting with it. Pray for families to find healing. And pray that the same Christ born in a manger on Christmas will come to live in the hearts of our neighbors. To those of you who faithfully read this and support us, we cannot say thank you enough. Merry Christmas, friends!

the things that are unchanging

2007-12-11T10:07:00.000-08:00

There are differences when you cross class lines. Different priorities. Different problems to battle, different social mores to learn. Some of my friends are wrestling with remodeling their houses for a better resale value. Some of my neighbors are wrestling with paying to heat their uninsulated homes and still put meals on the table.

But then there are the things that are common to life, common to humanity. People love to share food and gather around a meal. Kids say goofy things, and they get dirty when they play outside. People have stories to tell.

And God. God is constant. He loves across all class lines and social distinctions. In fact, they are superfluous to him in the end--he is a God who cares about the heart. He sends sun and rain on people young and old, rich and poor, wise and foolish.

He reminded me of this last week. He showed me that he paints sunsets and clouds over every kind of sky, as majestic behind our trailer park as it would be behind the greatest mansion in the world. In everything, and in all places, God is loving and beautiful. That will never change.

Mr. Rogers was on to something...

2007-11-30T16:50:00.001-08:00

It's something that most of the American middle class has forgotten, or perhaps have never experienced: really knowing your neighbors. At best, we wave over the drone of lawnmowers or flash a smile as we exit garages in unison. But really knowing our neighbors? It's uncommon at best.

One of the greatest privileges of living where we do is exactly that: we know our neighbors. We know their joys and struggles, quirks and strengths. We share meals and play time and stories. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before, but I imagine it's how God had hoped we would live.

Not that I'm biased, but our neighbors are amazing. Kids feel at home in our home. Goodies and dinners show up at our door all the time. Yards get rakes or trucks repaired, just because they are those kind of people. In many ways, their giving hearts flabbergast me: this month, one family is struggling just to have the money to buy groceries. They scraped some money, and we contributed a little, and they now have food in the fridge. What will they do with that food? Probably send dinner over to us. They've already been talking about helping buy a Christmas tree for another family in the trailer park (we're going to cut trees together tomorrow). As I thought about it this morning, I remembered the story about the widow at the temple who "gave all she had to live on." Sure, we help out, and I think God honors that. But that family feeds us out of a generosity that runs deeper. They are sharing with us out of all they have to live on.

I heard a radio dj today reminding us to think about giving this time of year, and I thought, "That's ridiculous." The kind of sharing that takes place between neighbors--and hopefully between humans--should not be seasonal. It should be a way of life, which requires sharing life. It requires investing in people's lives in ways that go beyond waiting for some organization to hang their name on a tree with a list of needs. Those things are awesome, no doubt. But they are seasonal. Relationships marked by sharing life should not be seasonal.

I'd be a hypocrite to stand on some moral high horse and say, "Get to know your neighbors!" Until I moved into a neighborhood that sort of lent itself to relationship, I sure wasn't doing it. Instead, I offer the challenge from a place of simply feeling humbled and blessed. Because I now know the riches that it can bring, I say to you, "Yes, get to know your neighbors."

got him! ....but not her

2007-11-07T13:05:00.000-08:00

After quite a hunt, we finally caught our mouse friend, whom we had named Bobby so that we could talk about/to him. I took Bobby and released him next to a nearby barn. I figure he can be warm there and not be totally in the way. Either that, or a cat will take care of him. Poor fella'. Here's a shot of his nice little humane trap.

Ah, but guess what...Bobby has a friend (at least, we hope just one). Who knows if it's a girl or boy, but we decided to name it Evangelina (Kim's idea). I heard her rustling around in the kitchen this morning, but she has yet to take the bait in the trap. Perhaps if we put a new label on it...

Anyway, mouse stories aside, last Thursday Kim brought home a projector from work, and we showed a movie on a table cloth taped to the wall. It was amazing! We let the kids pick the movie, so we ended up watching the old version of Flicka, since they are obsessed with horses. Friends, if you ever want a good laugh and a chance to make fun of cinema, watch that movie. We had to tone it down, because the kids liked it, but we were all cracking up inside.

In other news:

-Due to the efforts of incredible friends, we finally have curtains instead of the sheets I cut up when we first moved in. High class, I tell you!

-I managed to smash into the chain link fence with my truck, totally destroying a pole, so we had to pay a little extra for repairs this month. I actually hit the trailer, too, but the dent was less than noticeable:)

That's all for now--more tales to come...

the long arm of the Father

2007-11-02T13:03:00.000-07:00

I used to be able to keep DHS at a distance. As in, it could remain objective, just an acronym for an agency I knew of. When I worked at a boys' home, I knew kids on the other side of the DHS call, long after the kid left home, long after the first frightening days in a strange foster home. I knew the far side of the system. But the sad and present experience of the phone call and the investigation and the removal of a child from his home...I could choose to keep that as distant as I can keep the child dying of AIDS in some African village.

One of our kiddos just spent those frightening few days in a strange home. We didn't know where he was, or where he would go. We just knew that he must be terrified. This time, the distance between me and DHS is short. I know what his face looks like when he's scared. I know what he sounds like when he cries. Imagining it brings real tears, not just a general hurt for the injustices in the world.

Life in the trailer park can feel messy sometimes. All those broken things in our society can no longer be kept at arm's length. They are happening not to "the poor", but to our neighbors, whose names and faces are a part of our lives. Thankful though I may be to be where I am (and I am SO thankful), some days the brokenness feels overwhelming.

Yesterday, when it all seemed so heavy, I felt like God kept bringing to mind a particular verse, one that I haven't read in a long time: "Surely the arm of the LORD is not too short to save" (Isaiah 59:1).

These days, I need that reminder so much. When I look at a bitter heart and desire to see God restore her to the woman she was created to be. When I see a child whose self esteem is attacked every day, and I need to know that God can heal. When I witness a broken family, and I hunger to see that God can redeem. The answer is yes, he can. His arm is not too short to restore, to heal, to redeem. I live and breathe and have my being in a God who is sufficient for all the broken places in the world.

May God grant us the grace to truly believe that, and then to step into those broken places and stand in awe as we hear him say, "Surely, child, my arm is not too short to save."

of mice and punkins

2007-10-30T11:43:00.000-07:00

Some of you will remember that in one of our first posts, I speculated on how long it would take before it happened. Well, folks, the day has come, and our mouse is here. He scampered across the kitchen floor as I was heating up my breakfast burrito (compliments of the neighbors, of course). I got down on the floor and just looked him in the eye as he cowered under our oven. He's kind of cute, in a disease infested rodent sort of way. I'm sort of sad that we have to trap him. The other recent trailer adventure involved losing water for a night, on perhaps the only night when none of us really had water in our water bottles. It was an interesting evening, for sure.

But let's talk about the really good stuff! Our last TGI Thursday was the long-awaited pumpkin carving party at our house! It was awesome. We got to try out the massive grill someone graciously bought for us (God is so good to provide), and Sean made it work wonders on some amazing chicken ka-bobs. The place was hopping with neighbors and kids and good friends. After dinner, we cleared out the living room furniture and covered the whole floor with our massive blue tarp so we could make a respectable mess. What a beautiful sight! There were like 10 pumpkins being carved all at once, with pictures being taken and conversations had and kids being wired and...well, it was the usual chaos that is our trailer on Thursday nights. The night included a chance to have some beautiful, deep conversations with one neighbor in particular--chatting about GED's and dreams of college--and an opportunity to meet one of our favorite kiddo's dad. Looking around the room, seeing people from all walks of life enjoying one another's company, was just such a blessing.

The last week or so has been tougher. We have all hit an insanely busy time, and have to struggle to be home when the kids are there. Pray for us, that we can be present and full of love in the coming crazy weeks!

big smiles and new eyes

2007-10-19T12:59:00.000-07:00

I can think of few times in my life when I have felt more joy than when we took the kids up to my church's movie night last week. As I have lived in the trailer park, I have realized that one of the things middle class people take for granted is the ability to go on outings and participate in extracurricular activities. Most of the kids in our neighborhood have very few such opportunities, so they were beyond excited to pack into a car, drive to a different town with a great lake, and have pizza and a movie in our big, old church building. Watching them take off running around the lake as we waited for the pizza to finish cooking, I felt my whole heart smile. It does that often now, as it did last night when I came home to find them all baking banana bread and then plopping down in a home-made fort to watch a movie. I love it.

There are a lot of things that begin to look different when one lives in a trailer park, the kids' lack of outings being only one of them. I am learning the value of keeping clothes clean as I enter a world where going to the laundromat is both costly and inconvenient. For those without cars, it feels nearly impossible. I am learning that some kids are labeled as lazy or stupid, when in reality they come home to situations where no one helps with homework, or where all of their emotional energy has to be devoted to navigating the challenges they face minute by minute. I am learning where to find the cheapest food, how to ward off the winter cold when the walls are thin, and how to help a kid get the things they need while still helping them learn about the importance of earning things. I am learning how important it is to try and show up at the band concert, the birthday party, the school carnival. The lessons are neverending, it seems. It is amazing and challenging.

And of course, life is just plain funny. We discovered a skunk under the trailer, and hoped that the hole was patched during a time when the poor thing wasn't actually in there. Frank (the furnace) is loud enough to wake me up at times. Meals continue to show up from across the street, and afternoons at home are often accompanied by the smell of stinky kid feet. The kids rarely wear shoes.

I hope to be better about updates, since there are great stories every day. Cooking banana bread, trips to the grocery store, homework help. For those who are reading this, I offer thanks. Thanks for reading our trailer tales. And thanks for praying over all the beautiful things God is doing in the trailers and on the dusty streets of our little neighborhood.

TGI thursday

2007-10-05T15:35:00.000-07:00

We're a busy lot, us roommates. When we moved in, we knew we'd need to be intentional about making sure we were consistently around to build relationships and just be present. In particular, we chose one night a week--Thursdays--to set aside as totally committed to trailer time.

God is pretty amazing. One little guy's birthday fell on a Friday, which made Thursday night perfect for making cupcakes for him to take to school the next day. Our neighbors' anniversary was on a Thursday, which meant we were around to babysit so they could go on a date. The girl down the street just turned 5...on a Thursday, so got to have a big ol' party for her at our trailer. These nights have become precious and life-giving. Last night we cooked out and had a trailer full of laughter and playing, food and conversation. Next week, we'll take kids to a movie at church (which they happen to be showing on a Thursday). In a couple more weeks, we'll carve some pumpkins with our neighbors.

There is something to this kind of ministry, where your home base is...your home, and where sharing the gospel takes the form of sharing day to day life. I just wrote to a friend today, saying that I often feel like the luckiest girl alive to be living where I do. With my camera full of pictures of birthday cake and dodge ball and sword fights, it just makes my heart happy.

Yep, it's good to be living in the loony bin.

Frank and the gang

2007-09-26T15:37:00.001-07:00

Here is the promised picture of Frank, our scary-looking but much valued furnace. He's going to be our best friend in a few months...

We have gone back and forth about what to use as a profile pic here. These ducks, which sit on our bathroom counter, were a major consideration. We have each chosen one as our own, of course. But then one of the girls brought over a drawing that trumps all other options. Like my ponytail?

love gives strange gifts

2007-09-18T10:25:00.000-07:00

After a week of travel, I came home last night to a surprising sound. As I opened the door, I heard a loud (and I mean loud) chirping sound bouncing off the hollow trailer walls. Moving across the dark room, going to close my roommate’s bedroom door so that I could turn the light on, I found her awake.

“What is that sound?”

“Oh, that’s our cricket friend. We’ll learn to get along.”

"Oh. Ok."

Knowing the usual quirks of our trailer, I figured that a cricket had gotten into some unreachable corner of the kitchen, and that they hadn’t been able to retrieve it yet. I, on the other hand, cannot stand loud noises when I go to bed, so I planned on finding the critter and exterminating it. Yes, I would conquer. With Kim’s door closed, I walked back to the kitchen and turned on the light. Then I saw it.

Sitting on the counter was a blue bug house crawling with a bunch of grasshoppers and, yes, one cricket, singing his merry song at an obnoxious volume. Too confused and frustrated to be polite, I went back and knocked on Kim’s door.

“I thought you were kidding about learning to get along. Why the hell is there a cricket in our kitchen?”

“They (that means the kids) brought us like 19 grasshoppers and a cricket. We can get rid of him tomorrow.”

“Oh no. He’s going now.”

I said goodnight, finished unpacking my things from the car, and turned my attention to the chirping intruder. Thankfully, the fellow actually jumped out of the box and onto my arm in an attempt to escape (this was much easier than trying to fish him out of a bunch of grasshoppers). I threw him outside with great satisfaction and locked the door for the night.

Back in the kitchen, I spotted a piece of paper on the floor with a child’s handwriting on it. Now, our fridge and floor are constantly cluttered with kid-drawn pictures, but this was new. I picked it up and read it:

to Kim and Leah at Kate
we have cot a lot of grass hoppers
trie 19 grass hoppers and 1 crickit and thay are all for you gus
take good care of thim
and this is from Sarah Lizzy and Livi (Levi)
have fun with thim and love thim
never get reed of thim

Turning it over, I saw it was addressed, “From Sarah Lizzy and Livi to you funney and goffy friends”

Now, I don’t regret tossing that cricket out the door. There’s no way I would have slept with it inside. But reading that scribbled note, the chirping suddenly had a new meaning for me. It was a sound of love, the gift of our relationship with a bunch of kids who spent their afternoon catching bugs for us. I wished I'd been there on they day there were delivered.

And now, I just sit back and wait for the day Levi decides to stick one of those hoppers in one of our beds….

what's in a name?

2007-09-11T12:18:00.000-07:00

Old, quirky things deserve to be named, as is the common tradition with old cars (all of my cars have been old...I only recently entered the 90's). I come from a long line of nicknamers. My family actually named a trash can once, after my mom drew a face on it with a permanent marker.

In many ways, our trailer is the embodiment of old and quirky. It has lasted longer than I think trailers are actually meant to last, and it is full of holes and smells and things that don't quite work. Hence, the naming has begun. When the heat was blazing, I began to refer to our little sauna as Herbie Hot Box. Now, as the chill comes on, Kim has dubbed it Fran the Freezer. Fran's issues, we have decided, will be remedied by Frank the Furnace. Frank is a scary looking fellow, for sure. (I'll have to post a picture of that ghetto furnace sometime soon.)

Herbie, Fran, and Frank are nice, but we know that the trailer needs a name that will remain throughout the seasons. After a month of playing with a circus of kids, dealing with a million little mishaps, and learning to make fun of each other's foibles, that name has become clear.

We live in the Loony Bin.

smiles and broken hearts

2007-09-06T13:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we don't even reach the door.

All we have to do is pull up to the trailer, and kids are coming down the street to play a game or tell us how school was today. It's a circus in there sometimes... cookies baking, movies on, board games going, crayons drawing, or a football being thrown outside. The little 4 year-old girl that often comes over can't quite adjust to the idea of playing "catch" with the football. Instead, she comes to me as I am about to go run an errand and whispers, "When you get back, can we play fetch?" It's painful on the days when we have to turn them away, when we have to say, "I'm sorry, but we can't play right now." The disappointment is palpable.

The circus is a joy for us. We love having a rag tag group of kids laughing and playing in our home. We love to see them alive and feeling safe. But it is heart-breaking, too. Two of the girls are hungry and under-showered most of the time. Their mom just can't be a mom to them. One little boy came over rather scared (though he tried to hide it under playfulness at first) after the police had arrested one of the men living in his trailer. Rumors were flying of his mom's drug use. His bike was stolen by someone he thought was a friend. What is a 7 year-old to do with that?

The struggle is that I am realizing the hardest thing will be the most effective in the end. It is easy to love the kids, even when they are pushing boundaries or needing more than we feel we can give. They are treasures. It is far more difficult to love the parent whom you know is neglecting those precious kids. Still, those mothers (and the rare father) are the ones who will be with them for the rest of their lives, while we will be here for maybe a year or two. To invest in the parents as well as the children, to hopefully make a small difference in how they guide and provide for their kids, will ultimately have the biggest effects on the lives of the little ones we have grown to love.

Pray for us in that. Pray that we'll have the courage to go beyond playing games of fetch, to inviting broken and hurting parents to join us and their kiddos for dinner.

snapshots

2007-08-29T12:52:00.000-07:00

Evening in the trailer park. I am chasing a football up and down our dusty street, having been chosen as "monkey in the middle" by the four boys who have joined me outside our trailer. Nearby, the little girl (6 years old) from across the street watches with anticipation and cheers me on. The boys are being obnoxiously loud, and for a moment I consider asking them to tone it down. In the end, I decide it's about time that they were just having fun, not weighed down by discouraging home situations, and I let them go on being as rowdy as they please. After all, it's not even 7:00.

When the mother of one of the boys, a woman whom I worry about, asks me to help jump her car, I knock on the door of another neighbor and ask for his help. He grumbles a little, but promptly (and proudly) pulls out his jumper box and gets the rattling automobile going. He's a man's man, gruff and truck-loving and sporting a worker's tan. What most wouldn't see is that he is also a chef and a trained beautician, which means his wife gets great hair styles each morning, and we get the surplus of whatever he cooks at night. Dang good food, I tell you. While crawling under my truck and offering to fix it, he says with sarcasm, "Remember. I'm not a mechanic. I don't fix cars, I don't do hair, and I don't cook."

Later, with a couple friends joining us, the three of us roommates eat Jim's food and play a board game on the floor. The place still smells, but at least the air is cooler at night. On our fridge, a drawing by the girl next door and a picture of the rambunctious 7 year-old who comes over every afternoon, grinning as he plays a game of Jenga with Leah. This journey is by no means easy. Sometimes the smells are overwhelming, the heat feels oppressive, and my mattress seems especially hard. But it is such a gift, our little home.

More and more, that's what it is. Home.

as I was saying...

2007-08-20T12:59:00.000-07:00

Henri Nouwen magaged to say it much better:

"Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, Vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering...Our greatest gift [is]our ability to enter into solidarity with those who suffer.

"In order to be of service to others we have to die to them; that is, we have to give up measuring our meaning and value with the yardstick of others. To die to our neighbor means to stop judging them, to stop evaluating them, and thus to become free to be compassionate. Compassion can never coexist with judgement because judgement creates the distance, the distinction, which prevents us from really being with the other.

"Much of our ministry is pervaded with judgements. Often quite unconsciously we classify people as very good, good, neutral, bad, and very bad. These judgements influence deeply the thoughts, words, and actions of our ministry. Before we know it, we fall into the trap of the self-fulfilling prophecy. Those whom we consider lazy, indifferent, hostile, or obnoxious we treat as such, forcing them in this way to live up to our own views. And so, much of our ministry is limited by the snares of our own judgements. These self-created limits prevent us from being available to people and shrivel up our compassion."

(speaking of compassion as the fruit of solitude)

Henri Nouwen, The Way of the Heart

taking out the trash talk

2007-08-18T20:33:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about the term "trailer trash". I'm ashamed to say it, but I have met some folks over the last couple weeks that I might have labeled as such in the past. They are people I have mocked in my mind (or perhaps out loud). I have been meeting people who are the "them" whom I have seen, for most of my life, as separate from "us". One always feels safer when she can justify mocking those who sit on the other side of a gap. Let's be honest: even when we don't say it, we find ourselves viewing some people as lesser, as "other".

Truly living out ministry over this next years means that I have to close that gap in my mind. I have to let God rewire my vision, to see through his eyes rather than through the lens of my culture. I have to learn to look past everything that is absolutely prototypical of "trailer trash" and see a neighbor instead; just like my neighbors have to look past things that might look different or irritating about me. In fact, it's not just enough to consider someone my neighbor--the call of the Word is higher: "in humility consider others better than yourselves."

As I read Proverbs this year, I am reminded again and again that God is all about the heart. His approval has nothing to do with socio-economic status. He puts it this way: "better a little with righteousness than much gain with injustice" (Proverbs 16:8). The righteous, whether they are men of great means or little wealth, are those he loves. The wicked and unjust, whether they are mighty or oppressed, are those he detests (15:9).

Destests. That's a heavy word. As he once told a prophet who was hunting for a handsome new king, the Lord does not look at the outward appearance, but at the heart (1 Samuel 16:7). God looks on a greedy, judgement-filled heart with the same disdain we generally direct at those on the other side of the socio-economic gap. And he looks at the righteous heart with the same approval we freely offer to those who are most like us.

If that's the case, then trailer parks are probably not much different than any other place; some trash, and some treasure. If the heart is the standard, then there is probably just as much corporate trash as anything else. Trailer trash, middle-class trash, upper-crust trash...or treasures in all three places. It's a matter of character, a matter of a heart that loves, or does not love, like Jesus does.

If I'm honest, a look at my own reactions to those around me makes it quite clear that I have some trash to take out in my own heart.

ajustments: part 1

2007-08-16T18:57:00.000-07:00

Shortly before moving in, I mentioned to Kim that we should be placing bets on certain probables: how long before the first ant infestation, the first major leak, the first mouse...

The ant infestation took about two days. In fact, when I opened my computer earlier today, the little guys came crawling out from it's technological innards. They are on our counter and in our cupboards. They are crawling around the sink and across the floor. We put out ant traps, so now we just try to laugh and hope for the best. That, and store our more tantalizing food in double ziplock bags.

The leak...well, yesterday it rained. Correction: it poured. I stood inside the trailer and watched the deluge pummel the dirt road leading around our trailer park, turning dust into mud and potholes into puddles (lakes?). Walking down our short hallway, I noticed that the rain was pouring somewhere else: down the inside of our back door. (Isn't rain supposed to pour down the outside of back doors?) Not far from the back door (because, in a trailer, nothing is far from anything), water was pooling at the base of one of our windows. This particular window, you see, is made of some flimsy plastic that has warped away from the weather stripping. Excellent.

As for the mouse, we have yet to see one, but a glance under the bathroom sink reveals a nicely gnawed hole through the particle board. I'm sure our paths will cross eventually.

Yes, life in the trailer park is an ever interesting adjustment. Broken ovens, holes in the floor hidden by thin carpet, an all-too tenacious stench, and a floor so slanted that one can place a ball on one end of our bunk beds (which ended up being too small for our mattresses) and watch it quickly roll to the other end. In these first weeks, each days is made up of a million different moments of shifting paradigms, opportunities to surrender our right to comfort. Each such surrender is followed by the realization that there will always be one remaining gap between me and my neighbors: I choose to give up comforts, while many of them have never been given the chance to embrace them. May I never grow so cocky as to think I can fully understand.

Still, don't get me wrong. In the quiet moments, when we are sitting on the floor (our furniture consists of a step ladder and an old office chair) with windows open to the cool evening air...in these moments I am just so thankful: thankful for the kids we've met, for the family across the street, for the ways that we are learning to live more simply. It is a dream realized, a journey we are excited to take together, living in community.

Even if it means that community includes a bazillion tiny ants.

beginnings

2007-08-14T09:11:00.000-07:00

It's official: we have moved into a trailer park. Most people thing it's crazy, but for us it's a bit of a dream. We have before us the opportunity to minister to a demographic that holds a special place in God's heart, and we get to do it by sharing living space. We desire to see the "us and them" mentality disappear from our thinking. We desire to learn something of simplicity, both in possessions and in heart. We desire to become even better acquainted with God's heart.

It seems that God has chosen a unique furnace of refinement for us in this season: a dingy, single-wide trailer on the west side of the city.

Let the adventure begin.