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.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
thanks!
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
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."
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."
Saturday, November 7, 2009
once upon a time, we lived in Camelot
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
adjusting and dreaming
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
I'm ba-aaack.
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.....
Friday, October 3, 2008
breaking the long silence...
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!
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!
Friday, August 8, 2008
reality bites
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.
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.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
the boys are back in town
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!
Sunday, May 25, 2008
new digs
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!
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!
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
the sanctity of scent
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.
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.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
we've named them all Eduardo
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."
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."
Friday, March 14, 2008
pop pop, fizz fizz...oh, what a life it is!
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?
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?
Thursday, March 6, 2008
how should the conversation go?
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.
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.
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