The men at the People’s City Mission are like the children in the slums of India. They come in need, but they mumble and complain, turn their noses up at what is offered, try to weasel their way into getting something more. I look at their grown-up forms and see the eyes of the small brown children in the slums with their manipulative puppy-dog eyes: Please, teacher. One more teacher.
I begin to think that people hard on their luck will be docile and grateful to receive whatever is free. I thought that once about children as they played with legos in India. I know better than to think that now. I am tempted to judge and say it’s wrong for grown men to complain or sneak extra food when others have gone out of their way to give them what is placed in their hands. I am tempted to think that they should be content. But then I think of the way I also try to get everything I can out of the dollars I’ve been given, how I look for sales, or advertisements with the word ‘free’, or fail to argue when my mother slips gift cards into my purse or offers to let me bring my laundry home. I too try to manipulate the system. I think it’s a part of human nature, the will to survive. I look at myself and call it frugality. I look at these hungry men and call it ungratefulness. The difference is a dainty word called hypocrisy.
The writer in me has to stop and wonder at their stories. Why are each of them here tonight? Where are their families, their children, their wives? Did they ever have any? How have they been wronged, abused, discarded, blamed? Perhaps they’ve done something to deserve being here, accepting handouts because they cannot feed themselves. Perhaps. But maybe they haven’t in the human sense of fairness and equality. Maybe they got dealt a bad hand. And maybe I’ve sinned just as much as them. Maybe there is nothing separating me for a mission food line than the grace of God and shepherding of people who care.
I can be so quick to judge, but tonight I want to hold my tongue and ask God to show me the difference between what I see and what he understands.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Nightmare
There are a lot of things people find to be afraid of: pain, intruders, poverty, abandonment, dying. I know that I don’t quite think like most people when I don’t feel fear when I should, or at least when other people think I should. These things don’t frighten me. I’m told boarding a plane to the other side of the world—alone—where I have no previous relationship on foreign soil would be something most people fear. I forget to bat an eye.
So many times I look at the world I’m surrounded by and I see plastic. Pasted happiness, makeshift fortresses. A culture that spends its life making a name for itself without realizing it could all crack so easily. Or melt. Or blow to smithereens.
When fear makes me cringe, when it breathes down my neck and sends shivers down my spine, when it brings hot tears to my eyes until there is nothing left to cry—this is why:
I’m afraid of forgetting that the walls are plastic. I’m afraid of rhythms and normalcy messing with my vision, lulling me to sleep like a child in its cradle until I forget that I was made for something else outside the plastic. I’m afraid of being comfortable, afraid of wasting my time on trivialities when there is something more important to be done. I’m afraid of loving my life more than I love my God, afraid of reaching that point without even realizing it.
This would be my nightmare, my daymare, the horror film of my life. It keeps me praying for grace, pinching myself to make sure I’m awake, asking for vision to see beyond the plastic. God, don’t ever let me come close to normal.
So many times I look at the world I’m surrounded by and I see plastic. Pasted happiness, makeshift fortresses. A culture that spends its life making a name for itself without realizing it could all crack so easily. Or melt. Or blow to smithereens.
When fear makes me cringe, when it breathes down my neck and sends shivers down my spine, when it brings hot tears to my eyes until there is nothing left to cry—this is why:
I’m afraid of forgetting that the walls are plastic. I’m afraid of rhythms and normalcy messing with my vision, lulling me to sleep like a child in its cradle until I forget that I was made for something else outside the plastic. I’m afraid of being comfortable, afraid of wasting my time on trivialities when there is something more important to be done. I’m afraid of loving my life more than I love my God, afraid of reaching that point without even realizing it.
This would be my nightmare, my daymare, the horror film of my life. It keeps me praying for grace, pinching myself to make sure I’m awake, asking for vision to see beyond the plastic. God, don’t ever let me come close to normal.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Because God is bigger...
Sometimes you step into something and you don’t realize how much it’s going to cost you. But when that moment of exhaustion and overwhelmed and frustration, that moment when you wonder if it’s all worth it, that moment when you want to throw up your hands and run away to hide in a comfy couch with a good book in a place where no one else can reach you to ask you to do one more thing—that is the moment when you must remember that God knew how much this was going to cost in the moment when he brought you into it, even though you didn’t. That is the moment when you trust him, with every raw, aching muscle of your brain and heart. You trust that he has something beautiful to pull out of the middle of all this work, that there is some indelible reason why he’s moving in this way that pushes and prods and presses the clay of your soul. You cling to his vision with tenacity that comes from a grace bigger than yourself. You cling even though it’s a vision you can’t quite see. You surrender your own desires for what you would have wanted when you think of yourself, and you trust that the vision God is working is better than your own. So you get up morning after morning and you do what needs to be done. And you choose joy. Because joy is a choice. Just like obedience.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
A Window of Timing
God takes an incredible interest in the small details of our lives. Whoever thinks differently can argue with me till their blue in the face and I still won’t believe them. Today proves it.
I’m moving to Lincoln next month to begin working on my masters in writing fiction. Yesterday I drove down to go apartment shopping. I’d never done this before. I didn’t really know what I was doing or the best way to go about it. Plus I was devoid of any company to serve as a sounding board for what was there to see (or the absence thereof). I lined up appointments all afternoon and raced from address to address, peeking in so many closets and bathrooms until they all started whirling around in my head.
All that work, and at the end of the day I had only one fairly viable option, but I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t quite the neighborhood I wanted. So 9 o’clock at night I’m crashing at Melissa’s place and scouring craigslist for any new postings. But it was all just so God could prove that he knew what I needed, see if I would trust Him to provide.
“Here’s one on K Street,” I said.
K street?!
Melissa and I looked up at each other. Then out the window. Then back at each other.
“That’s across the street,” we said.
So this morning I got up and called and nervously tried to distract myself while I waited to meet the landlord. I pulled some company along with me for the visit, and we invaded a girl and several guys who were supposed to be moved out but weren’t, prancing into their kitchen discussing dishwashers and electricity as they groggily stared back from couches and a bed. The place didn’t smell like smoke; it was the first thing I noticed. The second was the size. So spacious compared to others. It was the quickest tour I made, due to the awkward male occupancy, so I still have closets to discover when I move in, but it was the also the quickest decision I made.
“I want it,” I said as we stepped back out on the front stoop. And now it’s mine. I paid a deposit that says so. So I have my own place in a neighborhood overflowing with community and Taylors where my mother won’t have to worry for my safety and I can bike to school in a few minutes.
The crazy thing is that this was the first vacancy this building has had in over a year. The landlord had another viewing scheduled just a few hours later with a guy that said he wanted it, so if my timing had been off by just a few hours it never would’ve happened. If I had chosen to go to Lincoln another week or even just another day, I never would’ve found this place. It was definitely a God moment. What's to conclude except He cares about apartments, and neighbors, and landlords. He cares about us, and He knows how to meet our needs.
I’m moving to Lincoln next month to begin working on my masters in writing fiction. Yesterday I drove down to go apartment shopping. I’d never done this before. I didn’t really know what I was doing or the best way to go about it. Plus I was devoid of any company to serve as a sounding board for what was there to see (or the absence thereof). I lined up appointments all afternoon and raced from address to address, peeking in so many closets and bathrooms until they all started whirling around in my head.
All that work, and at the end of the day I had only one fairly viable option, but I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t quite the neighborhood I wanted. So 9 o’clock at night I’m crashing at Melissa’s place and scouring craigslist for any new postings. But it was all just so God could prove that he knew what I needed, see if I would trust Him to provide.
“Here’s one on K Street,” I said.
K street?!
Melissa and I looked up at each other. Then out the window. Then back at each other.
“That’s across the street,” we said.
So this morning I got up and called and nervously tried to distract myself while I waited to meet the landlord. I pulled some company along with me for the visit, and we invaded a girl and several guys who were supposed to be moved out but weren’t, prancing into their kitchen discussing dishwashers and electricity as they groggily stared back from couches and a bed. The place didn’t smell like smoke; it was the first thing I noticed. The second was the size. So spacious compared to others. It was the quickest tour I made, due to the awkward male occupancy, so I still have closets to discover when I move in, but it was the also the quickest decision I made.
“I want it,” I said as we stepped back out on the front stoop. And now it’s mine. I paid a deposit that says so. So I have my own place in a neighborhood overflowing with community and Taylors where my mother won’t have to worry for my safety and I can bike to school in a few minutes.
The crazy thing is that this was the first vacancy this building has had in over a year. The landlord had another viewing scheduled just a few hours later with a guy that said he wanted it, so if my timing had been off by just a few hours it never would’ve happened. If I had chosen to go to Lincoln another week or even just another day, I never would’ve found this place. It was definitely a God moment. What's to conclude except He cares about apartments, and neighbors, and landlords. He cares about us, and He knows how to meet our needs.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Dullishness
Yes, it has been three months, to the day, since I have blogged.
While this fact has constantly been nagging at the back of mind (occasionally aided by the physical voices of a few loyal followers), every time I try to think of words to write, my life stares back at me like a blank page. I feel like a monstrous case of writer’s block.
Life since India seems muted. Color is there. Life, purpose, community—all the good things of existence—swirling around in the natural ebb and flow of sun risings and settings. But less poignant. Less vibrant. Dull.
I know there are things to write about here. It wasn’t the large things of India that drew my focus. I loved discovering small details, having the time to slow down long enough to notice the ordinary. Even now I’m probably surrounded by hundreds of miniature wonders; I’ve probably seen them so many times I’ve grown blind their existence. I’m probably walking so fast I don’t take the time to notice. Probably.
Half the things I love about India, the Indians likely aren’t even aware of. Maybe they have my problem in reverse. So somehow, my eyes need to become a stranger in their own home.
It’s also just a season. We all have to learn to walk with God through splendor, through pain… through boredom.
As I was walking with my mom last week we were discussing my dullishness. I was lamenting the lack of having anything specific to process. She told me it wasn’t a bad thing not to have issues to work through. “Yes, but being healthy is boring,” I said. She laughed.
She’s right. I should just be grateful for a healthy reprieve. I’m not sure why I’m writing all this other than the fact that I’m tired of walking through a maze of tedious social conventions and want to vent, that something of some kind needed to be written, and maybe there are others of you that can relate to the fact that life does not always feel like an adventure.
I should it make it my goal for my next post to find something ordinary worth noticing.
While this fact has constantly been nagging at the back of mind (occasionally aided by the physical voices of a few loyal followers), every time I try to think of words to write, my life stares back at me like a blank page. I feel like a monstrous case of writer’s block.
Life since India seems muted. Color is there. Life, purpose, community—all the good things of existence—swirling around in the natural ebb and flow of sun risings and settings. But less poignant. Less vibrant. Dull.
I know there are things to write about here. It wasn’t the large things of India that drew my focus. I loved discovering small details, having the time to slow down long enough to notice the ordinary. Even now I’m probably surrounded by hundreds of miniature wonders; I’ve probably seen them so many times I’ve grown blind their existence. I’m probably walking so fast I don’t take the time to notice. Probably.
Half the things I love about India, the Indians likely aren’t even aware of. Maybe they have my problem in reverse. So somehow, my eyes need to become a stranger in their own home.
It’s also just a season. We all have to learn to walk with God through splendor, through pain… through boredom.
As I was walking with my mom last week we were discussing my dullishness. I was lamenting the lack of having anything specific to process. She told me it wasn’t a bad thing not to have issues to work through. “Yes, but being healthy is boring,” I said. She laughed.
She’s right. I should just be grateful for a healthy reprieve. I’m not sure why I’m writing all this other than the fact that I’m tired of walking through a maze of tedious social conventions and want to vent, that something of some kind needed to be written, and maybe there are others of you that can relate to the fact that life does not always feel like an adventure.
I should it make it my goal for my next post to find something ordinary worth noticing.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Culture Shock
For weeks before I came home from India, I braced myself for a tidal wave of culture shock to come crashing over me and leave me in a soggy, mucky mess. The strange thing was, it never hit. Sure, I was a little dazed when I walked into Walmart and stared down aisle after aisle of products that it didn’t seem anybody really needed, but I didn’t melt into tears or get angry and race out of the store. In some ways this absence of obvious grief has been hard.
It took me several weeks to realize that my experience with culture shock was a much more subtle affair. It creeps up on me slowly, softly, in a way that I’m not sure it’s there. I can’t put my finger on the discomfort, I only know that something is not right. Instead of tidal waves I have the gently rolling surf of the seaside. I stand on the shore as the water laps around my feet. It’s easy to withstand a wave, and then another one. But the tide rises, slowly but surely. All of a sudden I look down and wonder where all the water has come from. It’s harder to stand straight as wave after wave rushes in, first around my ankles, then around my knees. It’s easier to lose my balance.
I’ve been babysitting my siblings this week while my parents are off on a much-needed vacation. I love my siblings, and I don’t consider it much of a burden to watch them for the week. I volunteered. But tonight, I’m stumbling for footing as I stare out to the sea. All week I’ve listened to them grumble and whine over food. I’ve watched bits and pieces go to waste here and there, seen them turn up their noses to four offered choices of leftovers for lunch. I’ve gritted my teeth against their little, self-entitled hearts.
It’s not something so big. My siblings are good kids. They have strong values compared to others of their peers. I know they don’t purpose to be selfish and demanding. But their flesh is still strong within them, and they know nothing other than the world of Walmart super stores and refridgerators full of food. But I am haunted by the dear face of an Indian grandmother who lowered herself to ask for two dollars to buy rice to feed her family for the week. Her son hadn’t been able to find work for over a month. I see the faces of my tution students who open their hands to accept whatever snacks I bring, their cries of “thank you teacher” echoing in my ears. I remember a whole village of people that thought it a treat when we brought them eggs or milk or tea.
I left the dinner table in tears tonight. I’m curled up in the dark in my parent’s bedroom right now, finally giving in to tears that may have been kept at bay for a little too long. Abba, teach me what to do. I don’t want to walk in judgment. I don’t want to be angry. But I also don’t know how to navigate my heart between such polarized worlds. I don’t always know how to maintain my joy in the midst of a culture that splays their sense of self-entitlement across their faces, their wardrobes, their pantries, their houses, and their cars. And as I write this I realize it’s not that I can’t live with the glut; I just can’t live without gratitude. Somewhere in the midst of all this stuff, we need to realize that it’s just stuff. If it disappears, the world won’t come crashing down.
So help me, Abba. Show me what to do with the pain. Help me to be vulnerable in a way that invites others to consider your goodness, rather than pushing them away in my frustration.
It took me several weeks to realize that my experience with culture shock was a much more subtle affair. It creeps up on me slowly, softly, in a way that I’m not sure it’s there. I can’t put my finger on the discomfort, I only know that something is not right. Instead of tidal waves I have the gently rolling surf of the seaside. I stand on the shore as the water laps around my feet. It’s easy to withstand a wave, and then another one. But the tide rises, slowly but surely. All of a sudden I look down and wonder where all the water has come from. It’s harder to stand straight as wave after wave rushes in, first around my ankles, then around my knees. It’s easier to lose my balance.
I’ve been babysitting my siblings this week while my parents are off on a much-needed vacation. I love my siblings, and I don’t consider it much of a burden to watch them for the week. I volunteered. But tonight, I’m stumbling for footing as I stare out to the sea. All week I’ve listened to them grumble and whine over food. I’ve watched bits and pieces go to waste here and there, seen them turn up their noses to four offered choices of leftovers for lunch. I’ve gritted my teeth against their little, self-entitled hearts.
It’s not something so big. My siblings are good kids. They have strong values compared to others of their peers. I know they don’t purpose to be selfish and demanding. But their flesh is still strong within them, and they know nothing other than the world of Walmart super stores and refridgerators full of food. But I am haunted by the dear face of an Indian grandmother who lowered herself to ask for two dollars to buy rice to feed her family for the week. Her son hadn’t been able to find work for over a month. I see the faces of my tution students who open their hands to accept whatever snacks I bring, their cries of “thank you teacher” echoing in my ears. I remember a whole village of people that thought it a treat when we brought them eggs or milk or tea.
I left the dinner table in tears tonight. I’m curled up in the dark in my parent’s bedroom right now, finally giving in to tears that may have been kept at bay for a little too long. Abba, teach me what to do. I don’t want to walk in judgment. I don’t want to be angry. But I also don’t know how to navigate my heart between such polarized worlds. I don’t always know how to maintain my joy in the midst of a culture that splays their sense of self-entitlement across their faces, their wardrobes, their pantries, their houses, and their cars. And as I write this I realize it’s not that I can’t live with the glut; I just can’t live without gratitude. Somewhere in the midst of all this stuff, we need to realize that it’s just stuff. If it disappears, the world won’t come crashing down.
So help me, Abba. Show me what to do with the pain. Help me to be vulnerable in a way that invites others to consider your goodness, rather than pushing them away in my frustration.
Monday, March 21, 2011
When friends fall in love
I’m good at weddings. I’ve worked the bridal business for a few years. I’ve been a personal attendant quite a few times (officially and unofficially). I’m an all-around gofer, seamstress, steamer, decorator, snack-maker, boutonnière pinner, dress-fluffer, tabs on the flower-girl keeper, ring-bearer entertainer, lip-gloss carrier, present deliverer, reception cleaner, and bridal sanity maintainer. When the people I love decide to join their lives with someone else, I like to show up and help make it happen. It brings me so much joy to watch a day unfold that has been so-long anticipated and longed for, cried over on couches, and fought out with God.
But I have to confess, that when the cake is all eaten, or the leftovers pawned out on hapless souls leaving the reception, the chairs are folded, and my feet ache from dancing, I crawl into my car and give in to shedding a few a tears.
You see the hardest thing about being single is not being single. It’s watching friends who were single move on to this place that you are not ready to follow. There’s a bit of grieving that happens in the process.
Some of my friends are good at making friendship important after marriage. Some of them kinda disappear. But either way, things shift. And they’re supposed to. It’s a good thing, but it’s hard. I have to re-remind myself of what I know is true, that I’m content, that I don’t really want my life to be different, that the lines God has drawn for me are good. And they are. In the midst of shedding my few tears, in the midst of my heart’s voiced honesty, I remember. I resolve to cling to that remembrance—and to gratitude.
But I have to confess, that when the cake is all eaten, or the leftovers pawned out on hapless souls leaving the reception, the chairs are folded, and my feet ache from dancing, I crawl into my car and give in to shedding a few a tears.
You see the hardest thing about being single is not being single. It’s watching friends who were single move on to this place that you are not ready to follow. There’s a bit of grieving that happens in the process.
Some of my friends are good at making friendship important after marriage. Some of them kinda disappear. But either way, things shift. And they’re supposed to. It’s a good thing, but it’s hard. I have to re-remind myself of what I know is true, that I’m content, that I don’t really want my life to be different, that the lines God has drawn for me are good. And they are. In the midst of shedding my few tears, in the midst of my heart’s voiced honesty, I remember. I resolve to cling to that remembrance—and to gratitude.
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