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.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
doing that thing we do
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
remembering
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.
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.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
the goal of gardens
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.
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.
Friday, April 16, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
(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.
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.
Friday, February 5, 2010
love for the oppressor
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.
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.
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