lessons learned from a water heater

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, character development. How I love thee.

(semi) sweet smells

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

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

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

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

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.

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."

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.

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.