Notes on life...

A journal entry from Malawi...

2009-06-30T12:35:00.000-07:00

June 23
1:07pm, somewhere near Chilombo

The bus is heavy with heat and the faint smell of engine exhaust, hovering over a thin layer of dust that never quite dissolves in the warm air. We have broken down on our way out of the village. This afternoon we shared with the people in the village again, the men meeting to speak about leadership in their families and villages, the women about their value and identity in Christ. I wasn’t expecting to be with the women today, I was on the schedule to be with the kids, and in fact was for the earliest part of the morning.

The little girl who had fallen asleep in my lap yesterday came and found me again immediately, and we sat down in the shade. Another little girl joined us. She was tiny, maybe 5 years old (though here, that probably means 6 or 7), and she wore a white dress with red trim, dirty and badly torn. She sat down at my left. I played games with her and made animal noises—I can’t speak Chichewa, so most of my communication was to say, “Ndi (make a noise like a pig, horse, chicken, etc.)” Which means, “what do you call (fill in the noise.)” This amused her greatly (especially the pig noises), and we played until I ran out of recognizable animal noises. (I don’t know what lobster sounds like, really.) The girl in my lap, Linda, was clearly better taken care of than the other children I’ve seen here. She wore a different dress than the one she’d worn yesterday, clean. She is plump and wears long braids in her hair. She is also more forward with asking for things (and simply taking them, like sunglasses, etc.), and she smacked away the hands of other children who tried to touch me. I tried to ignore the thought that having more things inherently leads to selfishness. Even if it were true, I will accept no suggestion that would alleviate my newly realized responsibility (as someone who is rich) to do whatever I can to help meet the basic needs of these children, and even to offer them what temporary joy is within my power to provide—crayons and ribbons and nail polish. These things mean so very little to me, and here they are gold. In any case, I decided that the plump little girl with the braids was probably just selfish in the same way that many 4-year-olds can be selfish, and I humored her and simply slipped my hand away quietly to hold hands with the little girl in the red and white dress.

I’ve sponsored Yankho for over a year now. I decided to sponsor Alinet yesterday, and I’d begun to think that I’d like to sponsor a child in my mother’s name as a Christmas present. Mom sponsored a child in Guatemala until he was no longer eligible, so I know she’d love it. I know she’d do it herself if she could afford to, but she’s just begun a new job a week ago—she just graduated from nursing school and had been laid off for quite some time. I leaned over to ask the name of the little girl in the red and white dress (who had been patiently and gently enduring the scorn of the plump little girl), and she said, very, very quietly, “Joy.” Thankfully, "what is your name" is one of the few phrases in Chichewa I finally got down. In that same moment, someone came over and asked if I could facilitate a women’s group. They’d apparently been short one leader, but had a translator ready, and so I ran off rather abruptly.

I was a bit unnerved—though I’d been praying for the group leaders all morning, I hadn’t prepared to lead a group, and didn’t realize I had, in fact, been praying for myself. Naffe was my translator, and she was wonderful. I feel so terribly inarticulate here, and it seems to get worse each day—even when I’m speaking in my own language to other Azungu. We talked about what it was like to be a woman in Malawi. They shared the challenges that they face daily—lack of food, sickness, having to provide for their children, nieces, nephews and grandchildren without the help of a husband, and often mal treatment if they do have a husband. I asked them how they get through, and a woman said, “we persevere, only because of God.” Another woman said that they still loved their husbands because that is what God would want from them. Their strength and beauty and grace are unparalleled, and it overwhelms me. I tried not to, but my eyes welled up with tears, and I asked Naffe to tell them that I hoped to be half as strong and beautiful as they are, and that they make me proud to be a woman. I told them that God’s heart breaks for their sorrow, and that if I see their perseverance, how much more does God see, who sees everything—God who will pour out rich blessings upon them when he returns to claim his daughters, the daughters of the King. But even as I said the words, it seemed not enough comfort to offer. I wanted so much to tell them that there would be relief now, or even soon—but what can I offer, save empty words? I know that my wealth is not my own, and that I should feel responsibility, not guilt—but what of disgust? What of anger? As I sat there with those beautiful women, thin, barefoot, hands calloused with babies strapped to their backs or nursing at their breast, what I have seems unendurably arbitrary. I don’t know how to not be angry right now. I pray that God will guide this anger into something more productive.

When I returned an hour later, I could not find Joy, and I asked Davey to track her down. Alinet came over to greet me, and pantomimed to ask me to watch her school books while she went to play net ball. I was happy to do it. I’m so glad she feels free to go and play today. I think she stayed glued to my side yesterday mostly out of obligation after Pike told her I was to be her sponsor. (I didn’t realize they told the kids right there in front of you when you made a decision to sponsor them.) I kept trying to pantomime to her to go play. She is 13, and is proving to be quite the athlete. I just want her to go have fun while there is fun to be had. I know two busloads of Azungu with soccer balls and jump rope is more excitement than these kids have seen in a while. I’m glad she feels more free to go today.

Davey returned to tell me that he could not find the girl called Joy, but he wanted to know if my mother might be interested in sponsoring another child. (Apparently “sponsoring in the name of” doesn’t translate well, and I didn’t think it was important enough to explain.) I said yes of course, and he asked if he could share a story with me. Davey brought with him an old woman, so thin she looked like a skeleton made to walk around. She spoke very softly, and Davey began to translate. “I want to share with you this woman’s story, because there is a very great need. Her niece is called Ellen, and Ellen’s mother died years ago. Her father did not want responsibility for the child, so now her aunt cares for her, but she is so poor that she cannot provide for Ellen. She has nothing.” Davey asked if I thought my mom would consider sponsoring Ellen, and I agreed immediately. I knew mom would want to help where there was great need, and I hoped I would get to meet Ellen before we left the country. The woman thanked me, and I thanked her, and shortly after our team left to board the busses. Just as the engines started, and that familiar smell of dust and exhaust kicked up into my nostrils, I saw Davey running up to the bus with a little girl in his hand, calling to me. It was Ellen, and he lifted her up onto the stairs to greet me. My heart leapt. It was the same little girl in the red and white dress who I’d played with, who had endured the constant rebuke of the girl with the braids just to be near me—and whose name I had clearly misheard when I asked for it. I tried, unsuccessfully I feel, to explain this to Davey in the few seconds that she was on the bus, but as I’ve said, I’ve become terribly inarticulate.

So here I am on our broken down bus, in the heat of the African sun, inhaling in the heavy perfume of exhaust. I hear the chatter behind me as other team members joke (or perhaps half-joke) about rationing out their granola bars and fruit snacks until we’re rescued. I breathe in deeply—and choke on the dust—and nothing could dampen my spirits in this hour.

on a prayer... a Summit Church worship article

2009-02-24T13:25:00.001-08:00

“Lord we pray that you would take your word and apply it to our minds, that we may not grow shallow, apply it to our hearts, that we may not grow cold, and apply it to our feet, so that we may not just be hearers of your word, but doers also…”

There is a girl sitting next to me in a chair with a cup holder, and I see her as she mouths these words silently to herself as Isaac speaks them aloud to God in the presence of this congregation. Perhaps I should be more holy and have my eyes closed, but in this moment, I’m so glad that I do not.

I remember the first time I heard this prayer. I was sitting in a chair with a cup holder, alone, in a dimly lit, intimate little room with gently sloping movie theatre seats. I was at once and forever charmed by the profound simplicity of that prayer, and I have come to appreciate (in increasing degrees) the verity with which it reflects one of the most unsullied desires of this body—to worship God with every part of ourselves.

“Take your word and apply it to our minds, that we may not grow shallow…”

Surely you desire truth in the inner parts;
you teach me wisdom in the inmost place.
Psalm 51:6

For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ.
2 Peter 1:6-8

In one of the first sermons I’d ever heard preached in that little theatre, Pastor Isaac (whom my mother, two years later, still affectionately refers to as “Pastor Miyagi”) shared a memorable caveat. “The greatest gift you can give anyone is your own person pursuit of holiness.” There have been seasons in my life when I’ve fallen prey to the impertinent delusion that I may actually have anything of value to offer anyone, that doesn’t come soundly from God—that it’s even possible for me to think up something that could effectively communicate God’s truth, without first pursuing God directly, humbly, and frequently. I have since learned well that my very best moments are altogether a manifestation of Christ’s direct grace in my life, and that my very worst moments are a manifestation of my stubborn interference therein. If I believe that God is so perfectly sublime that I am incapable of any good apart from his grace, may I worship Him through my constant pursuit. May I worship him by seeking out a greater understanding of his character. May I worship him by my immersion in the truth of his word, that I may be transformed into his image for the sake of others.

“…apply it to our hearts, that we may not grow cold….”
But encourage one another daily, as long as it is called Today, so that none of you may be hardened by sin’s deceitfulness.
Hebrews 3:13

Turn my heart toward your statutes and not toward selfish gain. Turn my eyes away from worthless things; preserve my life according to your word.
Psalm 119:36-37

There was a man who “keyed” my car once. Just 4 days prior, this same man ran into my car in the middle of the night, while I was parked in my driveway. I turned him into my insurance, only to find he was uninsured, and my insurance was filing suit. The day after I had my car repaired, someone drug a key across the entire section of the repair—and only that section. I have no witness of this, so I suppose it’s speculation to say that it was this same man. (But if I were a betting woman…)

What sticks out to me, in retrospect, is that I lost days of my life to my anger. It seemed far more important for me to be angry (and to gain affirmation for my anger) than it was for me to do anything else. What a waste of my time.
There is a very brief window of opportunity that we have here, and then, like a breath, this life will be gone. Is it really more important for me to be right than it is for me to be helpful? I have done far worse than keying cars.
The selfishness that blinds me from the urgency with which I should pursue the hearts’ of other with the message of God’s grace slowly eats away my time, moment by unnoticeable moment. I pray that He would soften the parts of my heart that become hard when I refuse to others the grace of which I, myself, am so wholly undeserving. May I worship God through my softness. Perhaps then I will one day dance on the streets of the New Earth, hand in hand with that man and his key.

“…apply it to our feet, that we may not just be hearers of your word, but does also.”

Is this the kind of fast I have chosen,
only a day for a man to humble himself…
Is that what you call a fast,
a day acceptable to the LORD ?
"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice…
when you see the naked, to clothe him,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
And if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness…
The LORD will guide you always…
Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins…
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.
Isaiah 58:5-12

One of my earliest Christmas Eve memories is of a bar in downtown Pittsburgh. I was six, I think. My mom led us around the city collecting donations. We took the money to the nearby dollar store and put together several modest Christmas stockings to give out at a local soup kitchen Christmas Day. I remember the bar looking rough as we approached—but then again, I was six. I waddled in under too many layers of clothes, pink-nosed and mittened, carrying a little bucket that rattled with change. There was a large, bearded, leather-clad man who eyed our trio suspiciously. I imagine this was about the time mom began to wonder if we should depart before asking these people for their money. But before she had as much as a moment to act on her apprehension, the large, bearded fellow walked right over to me, scooped me up, and placed me securely on his shoulders as my mother’s jaw dropped open. He walked me around the entire bar in that fashion. We visited many other scruffy men with pony tails and unfiltered cigarettes, and their girlfriends sporting Kiss t-shirts and bleached-blond mullets.
I left with a full bucket.
This memory is convicting for me, because my mom was not a Christian at the time. She had no relationship with God, and yet she was willing to do what she could to love others. I am not always so willing to put my love into action—and that to my shame, as I know the God who is Love himself. I have a dangerous tendency to over-spiritualize the very real, very tangible needs of my community. What use is it for me to memorize verses of scripture which say things like, “you see that his faith and his actions were working together, and his faith was made complete by what he did,” if I’m not going to put my knowledge into action? Does it even matter? Am I any better than one who knows nothing of the gospel? May I worship God not simply with my mind, my words, my emotions—may I worship him with my sweat as well.

on splinters...

2008-11-15T16:49:00.000-08:00

I stepped on a piece of glass today. It left a tiny splinter in my left foot, and the pain of it with each step was nearly intolerable. The problem with a glass splinter is that you can’t really see it in your skin. I sat down with a pair of tweezers, and ran a fingernail over my foot to see if it caught against anything. It did. I did the same with the tweezers, felt the protrusion, and spent few minutes working and pulling until, at long last, I withdrew a tiny piece of stubborn glass. Satisfied with myself, I got up, threw away the little shard, and went about making a sweet potato and a cup of decaf coffee. It was still a little uncomfortable to walk, but I assumed this was because of the puncture left where the shard had come out. It was nearly three hours later when, as I was walking from my bedroom to the living room, one step sent a sharp pain shooting through my foot causing me to stumble, and I nearly fell. I knew instantly that glass remained in my foot. I hadn’t gotten all of it. I limped awkwardly over to a chair, turned on as many lights as possible, and tried the same approach with the tweezers that seemed to work earlier. It was unsuccessful. I became frustrated. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t reach the leftover glass, nor could I even see it—which made the whole affair even more infuriating. How can I get rid of something I can’t see? After several more minutes of fruitless attempts, I nearly threw the tweezers across the room, got up, and limped to my room to retrieve a pocket knife. With the knife point, I worked below the surface of my skin, and I was shocked at how deeply the glass had been embedded when I finally dug it out. It was painful, and the wound left in its place was significant. I limped to the bathtub and turned on the water. Cleaning it might have been the most agonizing part. The water stung, and the soap was far worse. When I was finished and dry, I covered it with the only band aid I could find, which happened to be covered in black and purple cartoon images of batman.

When I stood to walk, the pain was still significant. It was more arduous, in fact, than the splinter alone had been, and yet more tolerable.
I knew it would heal.

It’s been a long year. I’ve found myself almost perpetually exhausted and, most of the time, unable to really pinpoint why. I’ve found myself sad. I’ve found myself longing. I’ve found myself numb and indifferent. I spent a good deal of time trying to make something fit in my life that was never meant to fit at all. I’ve learned that sometimes God is most gracious to us, not in the things he grants, but in the things he withholds. I am disheartened and disappointed by the decisions I’ve made this past year, and staggeringly grateful that God has been so gracious to save me from my own self-sabotage.

I’ve recently begun attending something called reGroup, at Summit. It’s like a 12-step recovery program, except it’s for everyone. Recovery for life. And while I don’t struggle with a particular chemical addiction, the sin and brokenness that I, and most of humanity, struggle with each day is sufficiently insurmountable for me to navigate alone. What I’ve discovered is that so many of my struggles and poor decisions, like the tiny shard I withdrew with tweezers, are only a surface manifestation of a much deeper splinter. When it starts to hurt, I pick out what I can see, what I can get to fairly easily, and then I spend some time limping around in semi-discomfort until the wrong step suddenly brings me to my knees. I’ve spent a year of my life stubbornly clinging to control over my life, stubbornly choosing what I wanted at the moment over what I knew was best. I’ve spent the year limping, awkwardly, from the pain of hidden glass. I’ve spent a year feeling pain that I’m now certain God never meant for me to feel. Pain that accomplishes nothing, changes nothing, teaches nothing. Wasted pain. Pain that will not heal.

As I work the steps, it’s necessary to dig up a lot of things that I’d prefer to leave buried. Perhaps even more grievous than the wasted pain of bad decisions, is the deep, sinuous pain of unresolved suffering. Abandonment. Let down. Desperation. Hurt. Embarrassment. Betrayal. Humiliation. Believing lies about who I am, and not even knowing how long I’ve believed them. Acting out of that deception. Guilt. Shame.

How much easier it seems to just limp.

The scars reopened as I navigate my past feel far more excruciating than the tiny punctures of my present. Like a knife cutting through the years of callous, the wound is by necessity large, offensive, graphic. But unlike the intolerable prick of a hidden splinter that cannot be removed, the pain I feel now is not wasted pain. It is a transformative kind of pain. Refining. Absolving. Good. It is the pain of reconciliation. It is exactly the kind of pain I know God would have me feel. I get up each day and walk on a wound that stings, but it is tolerable.
I know this pain will heal.

If I mourn anything, I mourn how long I’ve spent on the wrong kind of pain. I pray I’ll never again wait so long to get my knife.

Family Vacation 2008

2008-08-26T19:49:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWesTo4JSKY

on bread...

2008-07-10T13:08:00.000-07:00

Pastor Isaac is in week 2 of a series entitled "Bread," here at Summit. He is discussing how we have a tendency to simply examine what we need to consume. That we "can only be nourished by what we consume."

Here are a few of my (probably unhelpful by comparison) thoughts on the matter...

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
John 1:1

I like nothing so well in the morning as a good “everything” bagel. A dear friend of mine prefers the more fruity variety, perhaps a blueberry or a strawberry. On a Saturday morning excursion, the two of us stopped at Einstein’s with the intention to split one of their wonderful, delectable, obscenely enormous bagels. Two generous halves of toasted heaven.

It’s the smell, I think, that puts you over the edge. The entire shop is thick with a kind of warm, delightful, doughy smog, reminiscent of grandmas and home and soft butter and makes you half wish the place has very poor ventilation.

Knowing my friend as I do, when it came time to place the order, I asked for a blueberry bagel, toasted, with cream cheese. It was an easy decision. I like blueberry just fine, despite my preference for the “everything.” I love my friend, so my actions changed as a result of her presence—and not begrudgingly, but with a comfortable ease.

I am very good about thinking the words, “God is always with me,” without actually allowing this truth to penetrate my present reality. Present meaning, the reality of what I do with my free time. The reality of my eating choices. The reality of my gossip. The reality of my snooze button. At practicing my awareness of God’s presence consistently enough that it actually affects each choice as I make it, I am, more often than not, an utter failure. And in those precious moments of success when I do remember God is at the bagel counter, I am at the mercy of my knowledge of his preference. I can only hope I know him well enough when the moment of my decision arrives. And those moments are always arriving. In our humanness, we have a tendency to embrace a casual detachment that allows us to read scripture as though it were an addendum to real life—a field manual we only pick up when the situation calls for assistance. But if in the beginning, “the word was with God, and the word was God”, our treatment of scripture is an abject act of intentional starvation. If we cannot learn to ingest scripture as life itself, we will waste away, slowly, of a spiritual anorexia.

In this knowledge, it occurs to me that I must do more with scripture than simply read it—I must ingest it. I must treat scripture as an open dialogue with God—a conversation with a good friend, in which I take great joy in new discoveries. I long to know my God, my Lord, my Lover so well, that such wonderful knowledge renders my own preferences bland, at best.

on having a sponsor...

2008-07-10T13:00:00.000-07:00

It would take more than both hands for me to count the number of alcoholics in my family. My brother is one such relative. He has been in recovery for about three years now, devoted to God and his family. He is a loving husband to my sister Heather, and a proud father to my nephew Austin, the love of my life. He and my sister are even heading up a ministry at their church in Pittsburgh aimed at helping to integrate faith and recovery in life-giving ways. When I look at him, when I remember our dark history, when I think of how far he's come—it is impossible for my eyes not to swell with tears just as my heart swells with pride. I am overwhelmed by the grace in his life—and I am so grateful. It was almost a year ago that my brother asked me to get coffee with him at Starbucks.
It was the week before I moved to Florida. We sipped frappuccinos, and Jason began to share with me the journey of his recovery. He talked about the steps, he talked about his sponsor—phrases I had heard my father use in the past. He explained that his sponsor was like a mentor to help him through the steps of this journey—one step of which required him to ask me to Starbucks that afternoon.There, in the billet of coffee-house jazz and background chatter, in the affable murmur of frothing milk, in the warm smells of vanilla and hazelnut, Jason said he was sorry for everything he had ever done to hurt me. These things he recounted by name, and with each new name I could see my pain was also his. Through our mutual tears, through our words of vulnerable transparence, we found forgiveness and restoration at that café table. On the drive home, I turned to Jason and said, "I want a sponsor."
If I need addictions, I will name them. I am addicted to complacency. I am addicted to ignorance. I am addicted to selfishness, slander and idolatry. I am addicted to sin.If a sponsor helps you on your journey to come to terms with your addictions, your need for God, your inability to change yourself apart from his help, the necessity to confess your sins to one another and ask forgiveness—I want a sponsor. I want a sponsor for my life.
Do we need addictions to warrant such a request? I cannot think of anything more significant, more powerful, more life-giving and poignant than the exchange between Jason and I that day. As I reflect on my own life, I'm certain that—whether intentionally or unintentionally—I have hurt others in profound ways. I am certain that others might be blessed by such candor as I was shown. I am certain that I have amends to make. Alcoholics are way ahead of the game on this one.
I'm ready to start my twelve steps.

on communion...

2008-07-10T12:59:00.000-07:00

When I was 8 years old, I tried to turn a slice of Wonderbread and a glass of grape juice into the body and blood of Christ on my bedroom floor. As best I could cognitively manage, I copied the exact actions of Father (something or other) in the blessing of the bread and wine each Mass… Arrange bread and juice in front of me. Lift bread up toward the ceiling with both hands. While bread is lifted, sing the following words in a solid, monotone tenor: "through him, with him, in him, in the unity of the holy spirit, allpowerandhonorareyours, almighty Father, forever and evvvvvverrrr. Aaaaaaaaaaameeeeeeeen." Eat bread, which has now been physically transformed into the actual body of Christ. Repeat with wine or grape juice. Drink wine or grape juice. In my naïve, albeit well-meaning, adolescent attempt at transubstantiation, I managed to spill the blood of Christ all over my new white carpet. I tried to hide the purple blemish under (what I thought to be) a brilliantly inconspicuous sneaker, strategically placed in the middle of my bedroom floor. And yet somehow, remarkably, it did not take long for mom to discover my chimerical papal endeavors. She was unimpressed. I remember a long lecture, something to the tune of "WHAT... ARE... you doing with grape juice all over your WHITE CARPET!?" "But it's not grape juice mom! It's... the blood of Christ!"I can't be certain, but I believe her censure softened, markedly, when I explained why I did, in fact, have grape juice in my bedroom that day. Tonight, Pastor Isaac took the time to explain to us what it meant to be a member, a partner, at Summit Church. I remember feeling absolute delight as he spoke the words, "Don't think our mission is to keep you. Our mission is to reach the lost." How brave and profound an idea in our self-aggrandizing consumer culture. In those few moments I reflected, with gratitude, on the knowledge that church is not about me. In those few moments, I was overwhelmed with desire to go where God calls—to serve without reservation, trepidation, irritation. To be truly selfless. I would love to claim that my service is always selfless. I would love to claim that the thoughts I have about the people with whom I live in community are always pure. I would love to claim that my actions, however topically altruistic, are never carried out begrudgingly. But I would be a liar to claim any one of those things. Even at my best, I am often derelict. And then, suddenly, I have a moment. That rare and precious occasion in which I realize that life is not about me—that my desire to do good is genuine, tangible, willing. That moment when, by God's grace, I experience a brief and poignant inkling of transformation. A seed. If only I can make it grow. I long for that moment--even if I am inept at seeking it. As embarrassed as I used to get when mom would tell my friends and relatives about my grape-juice-into-blood-of-Christ debacle, this was as pure a moment as I've ever had. I wanted to be close to Jesus. As an eight-year-old Catholic, this was my best understanding of how to accomplish that. Though my understanding of what it means to be close to Jesus has matured with age, I would be lucky to regain so innocent a pursuit.

on Moffett Drive...

2008-07-10T12:58:00.000-07:00

This Saturday morning, I received a voice mail from my mother. The message said, "Hey! Happy first day of Trout season! Guess how I knew." I didn't have to guess. Among the many quirks of living on Moffett Drive in rural Darlington, Pennsylvania, is the infallible built-in calendar of Trout season. I was a sophomore in high school the first year mom and I discovered this. I had just walked into my room and closed the door after a quick shower. I turned to face my window, and I shrieked at the sudden appearance of the backs of several, balding, middle aged heads, making their way up the dyke which separated our back yard from a small river. Ah, Trout season. Mom shared a similar experience that morning. For you to understand just how bizarre it might have been to see unfamiliar faces in our yard, it's important to give a little background on 106 Moffett Dr. We moved to Moffett Drive after having spent most of our lives in the city of Pittsburgh, with a brief stint on a farm during the interim. Darlington, Pennsylvania is situated between Chippewa and New Galilee—all the locals insist this is pronounced "New Gal-ee," despite its biblical significance. There is not much in Darlington except Jack's Independent Service station, and One-Stop-Shopper—aptly named, as you can find anything from chipped ham and Wonderbread, to a new timing belt for your Buick. When driving from One-Stop-Shopper to Moffett Drive, you'll see the porch people. It's a rare occasion, indeed, that you'll pass by this house and not be greeted by their affectionate waves and charming front yard décor, including a fully functional bathroom toilet and a pilfered 6 x 6 sign declaring in tawdry blue print—"Welcome to Lowe's Home Improvement Warehouse." Moffett Drive itself is nestled between Darlington Lake and the Beaver River. Venturing down a steep driveway, you will come upon its four, lone houses, surrounded by brush and a high river bank. By virtue of its geography, the area often floods in the spring, bringing untold joy to "Peanut," a neighbor's granddaughter, who swims cheerfully in the "pool" that has just been created in the sunken part of her yard. The neighbors, Butch and Bobby, own a collection of various automobiles with permanent residence in their yard, each of which Butch is "working on," none of which actually run. We might have complained about the eyesore, but we've learned to pick our battles. Butch once cut down a beautiful flowering dogwood tree to replace it with the back of a bread truck, which he had cut in half, to create a shelter for his motorcycle. Despite his uncanny resemblance to a bearded Charles Manson, Butch is mostly harmless. Bobby, his wife, is really the more personable of the two. Butch took a swing at her once, and she proceeded to carry a revolver in the back of her cut-off jean shorts for five years subsequent, just to underscore the sincerity with which she hoped he not do that again. The pair have several sons, all named "Charles." To cut down on the obvious confusion, they go by Charles, Chuck, Chicken-wing and Char-girl. Chuck and his wife finally moved out of Butch and Bobby's a few years ago, Charles is currently incarcerated for attacking someone with a chainsaw, Char-girl is in and out on various drug charges, and I'm pleased to know nothing of Chicken-wing. When we first moved to Darlington, it was clear that Butch and Bobby were the good neighbors. Before we purchased the house at 106 Moffett, we rented the house at 104 Moffett—situated directly between Butch and Bobby's and our current home. 104 was owned by a young man named Sam who, until we moved in, had used his house as a 24 hour shelter for partying and illegal drug use. 104 was commonly know in the area as "The Mad House," it's insides covered solid with various, drug-inspired grafitti. Sam gutted and remodeled the place before attempting to rent it out. This endeavor was mostly successful, but for a few places where someone failed to use primer before painting. My bedroom, at first glance, seemed completely normal, even quaint, and free of substance abuse—except for the one small section of wall hidden behind my door when it stood open. Here, where the thick, black, magic marker had bled though the new paint, read the cryptic message: there's something bout the feel of the ice, and the weight of the potato salad, that lends itself to healing of, gonna gonna, gimme gimme your moutha. To this day I'm curious as to what this might have meant. It was during our year long stay at The Mad House that we first became acquainted with the neighbors opposite Butch and Bobby. I remember pulling into the driveway that morning, a truck full of furniture and miscellaneous household items behind us. The setting itself was nothing short of idyllic. Pampas grass bristling with rabbits and groundhogs, trees with flowers planted in their hollow knots, the crooning of the bordering river. It was not an altogether unappealing place to live. This bucolic scene, however, was soon to become a point of stark juxtaposition. We exited the car, and began the tedious process of unloading the first truck load of our house. In a gruff and caustic voice, neighbor called to us. "Ya'll need any help?" The inquiry had come from a beast of a man who, in my memory, most closely resembles "Haggrid" from the Harry Potter movies. Standing six foot five, easily 300 pounds, this immensity of a man stood facing us in a shirt laden with holes and soot, his face barely visible behind a mass of sinuous, auburn beard. I tried to suspend my immediate judgment, as he had, in fact, asked us if we needed any help. My mother, torn with much the same apprehension as myself, I am certain, muttered out a dubious, "ahhh… sure!" The beast-man nodded his head, turned to his wife, and called to her, "Lila! Go help them unload!" This slight of a woman, gaunt in a way that made her appear like a skeleton in flesh-colored under armor, made her way over to our truck obediently. If we were appalled, we did not dare show it. Hoss, as we soon learned, was too large to fit into regular folding chairs. For this reason, the lawn was freckled with various living room furniture. A reclining chair here, a loveseat there, an end table with a missing leg. Hoss had three brothers, Paunch, Hippie, and Stinky. Little Ronnie was a nephew who also made his home at 106 Moffett. If I had seen deliverance at the tender age of 13, I would have promptly purchased a bow and arrow upon encountering this disparate crew. To say we lived in fear of these people would be grossly inadequate. After a month or so of careful observation, mom devised an ingenious plan. I arrived home from school to come upon my mother cooking roughly 20 chicken patties in the oven. I loved chicken patties as much as the next child, but this seemed, in a word, superfluous. I observed, nonplussed, as she took the patties out, put them on buns and arranged them on a platter, complete with aesthetically placed condiments. This she handed to me, pointed me to the door, and with a pat on the head commanded, "feed the neighbors." Genius. Things were much less tense after that. I began to hang out with Lila's daughter. I kept my distance from the men, but I kept an ear to them as well. They were a curious amalgam of contradictory principles. Each night they burned a tire in the front yard, Jack Daniels in hand, proceeding to and from the house for the intermittent use of crack cocaine. The tires were infinite, as they collected these for money, and dumped them there on their own property, accumulating a mound nearly ten feet high. They recounted tales of general deviant mischief, of outsmarting the authorities, darker stories of murder—stories I hope to this day were just a false display of raffish testosterone, meant to impress one another. But at the same time, Hoss knew the very day that report cards were meant to arrive home with the students—a trait I came to resent, for his obnoxious habit of sharing this information with my mother. He would ask Jaime for it promptly when she arrived home that day. He or Lila checked her assignments consistently to be sure she was keeping up with her work. She was not allowed to participate in the evening's carousing. Discipline was strict in the household. I was positively confounded by the lot of them. What I did not understand, I simply came to accept: working hard in school and smoking crack were two things our neighbors believed ought be taken very seriously. It was a little over a year into our residence in The Mad House when Hoss came to my mother with a proposition. "Listen Mary," he began, "This is the first time in 17 years that me and my brothers are all legal to be driving in 45 of the 50 states. I'll sell you my house for $5,000 cash, plus back taxes." Our house had recently sold in Pittsburgh, and mom jumped at the chance to own a home so cheaply. We bought it. After further review, I'm not convinced it was such a bargain, though having the neighbors gone added thousands to the property value, I'm certain. The bathroom had to be gutted. We had well water in Darlington, and the land was high in Iron content. The water left rust stains behind almost everywhere it dripped. It was necessary to clean the bathroom constantly in order to prevent the solid, orange buildup. Since the neighbors had come to own the house, it had not once been cleaned. The rust could be chipped off with a chisel. It was gutted and redone. Providentially so, I might add, as we discovered a few other anomalies in the process. The bathtub drained directly onto the ground underneath the floor. Also with regard to plumbing, the toilet was connected to a downspout. (A downspout is a rain gutter. That thing attached to your roof that helps water run off to the sides. Not an excellent choice for confining poo.) Stinky had built an addition onto the house, which was to be split in half to make mine and my mother's bedrooms. There was a ladder nailed to the addition. We didn't understand this until the first heavy snowfall, when the roof had to be shoveled so it wouldn't cave in. We removed the barn door that had been separating the addition from the living room, and replaced it with a normal door. My mom asked the contractor to add a footer around the addition, and to check to see if it was insulated. This is my recollection of their conversation:Contractor: Well, Mary, I have good news and bad news.Mom: Okay, give me the good news.Contractor: It's insulated.Mom: Okay, what's the bad news then?Contractor: It's insulted with old, dirty clothes. Mom: I see. I refused to move in. I'm not sure how long I held out for. I remember having been quite adamant, though. The water smelled like eggs. That's rough for a thirteen-year-old. To return back to the central point, all of this to say, 106 Moffett Drive was not a house that anybody would have voluntarily spent a lot of time in or around—which is what made the appearance of the Trout fishermen so alarming. Funnier still, is that we would consistently forget to mark this momentous occasion on our calendars, thus perpetuating our annual A.M. ambush. It was a delightful voicemail to receive this Saturday morning, pregnant with nostalgia. This is not a blog in which I'll eventually come around to some object lesson, so I apologize if you've come this far, waiting for it. I just wanted to share this unusual history while I can still remember it.

on dumpsters...

2008-07-10T12:57:00.000-07:00

I struggle with dumpsters. I feel my frustration mounting even as I'm tying the bags off inside the house. It's as if I'm conditioned to experience presentiments of frustration that I know I'm doomed to encounter, only minutes later, as I attempt to take my trash where trash should be rightfully taken. I carry the bags to the dumpster. I try to hold the lid up off the dumpster and toss the bag in. This works—sometimes—provided that the bag is filled mostly with paper towels and junk mail. But on those I-just-cleaned-out-the-refrigerator days, the weight of the resulting trash bags increases exponentially. On these days, I am frustrated. I try to lift the bag while holding up the lid. I can't lift the bag one-handed. I attempt to lift the lid off the dumpster first, with the hope of then having both hands free to toss the bag in. This never works. I lift the lid, but the weight of it, coupled with it's proximity from the ground and my own insufficient 5' 2" reach, prevents me from lifting it all the way over to an upright position. I give it a hearty shove up into the air. It goes half way. It falls down. It spashes mysterious dumpster dew in my face. I know this, and yet I try it anyway, every time. At this point I often attempt to lift the lid with one hand and toss the bag with the other again, as if, by some miracle, my sheer will to lift the bag has actually affected physical law. It's a peculiarity of man that we continue to try the things we've tried before, expecting different results. After resigning myself to the fact that neither of these approaches will work, I kick off my sandals, shimmy up the fence post, bracing myself between the post and the metal ledge of the dumpster. I lift the lid and pray I don't fall and break my leg. On this day, I'm successful. Then begins the free entertainment for the neighbors—spinning around like a discus thrower, trash bag flying, working up enough momentum to actually get the bag into the dumpster. If I'm lucky, the bag doesn't break during this process. On Thursday, my perspective on dumpsters was changed. That evening, for reasons I won't explain, I found myself on the roof of a very large building. I sat perched on the edge, looking down at the street below. A man came out of the building carrying some cardboard boxes which he promptly tossed into the dumpster beneath me. In all my struggles with dumpsters, I had never seen trash from this angle. It was fascinating, really, as far as looking at trash is concerned. I looked into the dumpster, and I noticed how recognizable the items inside seemed to be. A bit of a chair. A two liter of diet coke. Cardboard boxes. The man carrying trash to the dumpster was, much like myself, not tall enough to see inside of it. Indeed, my perspective on the trash was positively unique in this way. Once released, he could no longer see the trash. He thew it in. It disappeared. I can't imagine he wanted to see it again.On the stoop of my front door, with two dear friends, I listened in silence to the sound of the April rain tapping with fluid rhythm on the roofs overhead. We had been discussing times and events in our lives toward which we, for whatever reasons, felt regret or bitterness. We discussed how many of these experiences had been redeemed and become a powerful part of our testimony. How many of the worst experiences we'd ever had, the most painful, would become the one thread to connect us with someone else, somewhere, sometime—in desperate need of someone else who understood. There, with our liquid cadence, I recalled the man and the dumpster. I recalled looking down, seeing it all so clearly from above. Is this not how God sees us? We related tales of broken homes, divorce, depression, alcoholism, self-hatred—the trash in our lives—which we never seem to see clearly but through God's graceful retrospect. But God sees from the beginning, sees now, sees always. Looking down from above, the intricate and delicate connections—our trash for what it is, and for what it was meant to be. The beauty that our dumpster is common. The beauty that our trash connects us. The beauty that we may all come to the dumpster to throw away that which we want to forget, but instead, through his profound design, find our fellowship there.

on beach baptisms...

2008-07-10T12:56:00.000-07:00

The grassy shoulder of the road is thick with oddly angled cars and SUV's as we approach the end of our trek from Winter Park. Two women stand side by side, shielding their eyes from the sun, holding spiffy, orange Summit Frisbees high above their heads to signal our arrival. They guide us into what may or may not be an actual parking space, but no one cares. I grab my juggling balls and SPF 15 chapstick, and we set off up the hill, sunscreen and blankets in tow.We near the pavilion, and the smell of sizzling hot dogs mingles with the taste of sea salt in the wind—an ambrosial mélange of spring simplicities floating along waves of animated background chatter. Three little boys engage in clamorous struggle over a nerf football. A couple adjusts a blanket on the grass beside us, and proceeds to unload their son's stroller. A friend applies sunscreen to another's back and shoulders. Groups congregate near the grill, some dressed in shorts and flip flops, some dressed like they've recently stepped out of some hipster store window. An amorous couple sits cross-legged on the grass, picking and pulling at individual blades, flirting innocently through the windows of large sun-glasses. I sigh at this portrait contentedly and I realize—this is my first trip to the beach since moving to Florida last July. I'm so glad. We make our way down to the beach, and Isaac takes his place in the ocean, surrounded by several men to help keep each other safe. The waves are cresting and agitated, unmercifully wrestling each person who dares cross them to the group of men in the distance. They rail against each fragile body, spitting foam their faces, pushing them back towards the shore. I see my friends, one by one, fight their way out to be submerged—to re-emerge, to be absolved, to make their statement here, before God and man, in all this wet and quaking violence. It's beautiful. And they find the walk back to shore is so much easier. My heart is filled to overflowing. Is there anything more beautiful to behold than this exchange? Is there anything else that takes the ordinary—the splashing of water, the singing of songs, the throwing of a football—and makes it something so much more? There, on the beach, in the grass, in the sun, in the presence of a most jubilant throng of heaven—in everything, right down to the tossing of a orange Summit Frisbee—was found an act of worship.

on Mohammed...

2008-07-10T12:55:00.000-07:00

9:32 Thursday night. I am pouring endlessly over an aggregation of fragmentary lists—a few organized sheets, and several small scraps of improvised paper, reminding myself of things like, "bring bedding props, pick up 9 volt battery for CD player, buy candy, bring a pair of pliers and get more duct tape." My solicitous examination and re-examination of everything I've already written down for the sake of retaining does nothing for my ability to relax. Tomorrow, 40 high school seniors will be delivered to the doorstep of my place of employment with the expectation that I will teach them something valuable, and show them a good time in the process. I am preparing for Friday's high school field trip in the only way I know how—restlessly. My temporary idée fixe is interrupted by an instant message. Heidi asks if I'd like to go downtown and hear a band. Immediately, I recognize that I won't sleep tonight if I go, but this thought is seasoned by the knowledge that I'm unlikely to sleep if I stay. In the grand scheme of things that are good for my psychological well being—on this day—hearing a band seems a brilliant idea. We leave for downtown, speaking loudly over a chorus of latter-era Switchfoot, weary and enthusiastic. I feel free for the first time tonight. We pull up to the curb and exit, careful to park on the side of the road not subject to a constant blitzkrieg of pigeon droppings. We wander through the faint sizzling sound of late night sprinklers slaking nearby lawns, delivering clumsy, calculated steps to avoid the trails and puddles of accumulating water. We approach a parking meter, not at all unlike every parking meter we have already passed, but for the lone and pensive old man leaning his arm overtop to rest. As we draw close enough, he begins to speak to us. He tells us that he has no money. He tells us that he is from Somalia, but has lost his papers. He tells us that he needs enough change to stay at the homeless shelter, or he'll have to sleep under the bridge. He tells us that God knows that he is in need. He scans our faces for recognition. Heidi's eyes are transparent, and I see her struggling. "I'm sorry," she tells him, "but I can't give you cash. If you want to come with us I can buy you something to eat." His eyes brighten, tangibly, and he says, "over at Subway sandwiches?" "Sure," Heidi replies, and we're off. I ask the man his name, and how he came here from Somalia. His name is Mohammed, and he tells us of how he traveled from San Diego to Jacksonville with the carnival. How his bag was stolen with his social security card and working papers. How the carnival abandoned him without pay at their last stop. The story of how he came from Somalia is lost in dialogue, but we have already arrived at Subway. "Get anything you'd like," says Heidi, and Mohammed orders a twelve inch roast beef sub, with a chocolate chip cookie. Heidi approaches the counter to pay for the order, and the cashier eyes our trio with what I can only describe as a semblance of disgust. He swipes her card, and she begins to sign the receipt. The cashier looks at her, looks at Mohammed, looks at her again. "You know, he was just in here eating fifteen minutes ago." Heidi looks up at the cashier, nonplussed, but does not respond. She looks down and finishes with the receipt. The three of us walk out of the restaurant in silence, and when we arrive outside, Mohammed thanks Heidi. We shake hands, and he says that God will bless us. I am so conflicted.I feel anger—I've felt it from the moment the cashier revealed that Mohammed was eating at Subway only 15 minutes prior. And yet strangely, or not so strangely, I am not angry with Mohammed. I am angry with the cashier. I'm certain, scam artist or not, this weary old man had no idea when or where his next meal was arriving. It doesn't matter if he was choosing this path, or if this path was thrust upon him. Why do so many people believe that choosing to live off the charity (or naivety) of others makes for an easy life? A thing is not easy by virtue of being a choice. Perhaps he was an addict. Perhaps he was a liar. Perhaps he picked out these two credulous girls a mile in the distance. So what.I can't blame Mohammed. I am Mohammed. There are days when we are all Mohammed. There are days when I am so subject to my appetites, such a slave to my own desires, that I am numb to God's faithfulness. There are days I cannot wait on my manna from heaven, so I trick my neighbor out of his. And the cashier—perhaps even meaning well in all his condescension—becomes my accuser, too. I cannot begrudge him his twelve inch sub and chocolate chip cookie. Heidi choose to love this man as best she knew how, and it was beautiful. Perhaps there is something that gives me hope to know that humanity can still be scammed.

on spilling your mulch..

2008-07-10T12:54:00.000-07:00

On Tuesdays, I water the plants at the church. I set aside my work clothes in the ladies room, and change into a t-shirt. I bring the hoses out of the storage room, and starting with the farthest plant, work my way back to the spigot. I pick out the cigarette butts and the gum wrappers left atop the mulch inside their pots, grooming them affectionatley. It takes several minutes to water each one, and I am left alone to inspect them. I have come to know their leaves and branches well, and I am happy to have them to tend to. The first day that I came to water them, watering novice as I was, I made a few mistakes. I did not bring a change of clothes. I returned from my lunch hour that day decidedly soggy, and a bit muddy around the edges. I also did not understand the dynamic of watering a potted tree. The pots are deep—filled with soil up to about 6 inches of the edge, and then another 2 inches of mulch covering the dirt. On my first attempt, I simply held the hose over the mulch. This did very little for the plant, might I add, except to cause it's blanket of mulch to overflow onto the ground, before the soil had absorbed any water. On my second attempt, I thrust the hose more deeply into the soil, and I was pleased to note that the mulch did not begin to overflow. It took only a minute, however, for the top layers of soil to become saturated, and the mulch began to rise. I was frustrated. I just wanted to water this plant. That's a good thing to want, right?I wasted a good deal of time that day, running from plant to plant, giving this one a little water until it started to overflow, running back to water that one a little more. "We are all tempted, at some point, to pursue a good thing at the wrong time or in the wrong way." —Pastor Isaac (a.k.a. pastor miyagi)This might by the defining statement of my life. The following Tuesday I returned to my plants with a new strategy in mind. I took time to change my clothes, I unraveled the hoses as usual, I took my wrench to the spigot to turn on the water—half speed, this time. I thrust the hose into the soil, and by the time the mulch began to rise, I could see the water trickling out of the overflow hole in the bottom of the pot. Success.It took almost the entirety of my lunch hour to water the plants in this manner, but I was delighted to lavish them with this attention. They taught me something valuable, and I knew I owed a debt to them. I would not be so familiar with their leaves and branches now if I had not learned to take the time to tend to them properly. I had wanted to bring them good things in abundance. I had wanted to fill them in an instant with life-giving water—but, in effect, I just spilled their mulch. I find that there is a similar dynamic in relationships—friendship and otherwise. As one who loves to see things happen, it is almost painful to move slowly. It feels good to invest with intensity. It feels good to pursue something without being confined by patience and scrutiny. It feels good to overflow.But it isn't. Even that which is life giving—like water to a plant—in excess, can bring death. In the end, pieces of yourself are left spilled and scattered like mulch on the pavement. I cared more well for them, and they loved more well of me, when I moved slowly. My plants taught me that it is better to move at half-speed, than to be about the work of overflowing. May God grant me the grace to never spill my mulch again.Or yours, for that matter.

on things I didn't know existed...

2008-07-10T12:36:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday night, at approximately 11:47pm, Melissa and I tried to order pizza from my house. The transaction proceeded thusly…
Melissa: Look, the number is right here on the refrigerator, just call Pizza Hut.
Me: Okay. (dialing…)
Pizza Hut Man: ThankyouforcallingWinterSpringsPizzaHutsorrywe'reclosed. (click)
Me: … I think they're closed.
Melissa: (leafing through the phone book.) Okay here's the number for Dominos.
Me: Okay. (dialing…)
Dominos Man: ThankyouforcallingWinterSpringsDominossorrywe'reclosed. (click)
Me: … I think they're closed, too.
Melissa: I bet all the mom and pop places are closed then, too.
Me: Let me try directory assistance. I just don't know what's around here. (dialing…)
Directory Assistance Lady: City and State Please?
Me: Winter Springs, Florida.
Directory Assistance Lady: What listing?
Me: Yeah, I want any pizza place that is open.
Directory Assistance Lady: …
Me: Hello?
Directory Assistance Lady: Ma'am, I can give you the phone number of pizza places in Winter Springs, but it doesn't show their hours.
Me: Okay. Well, just read me whatcha got.
Directory Assistance Lady: Pizza Hut…
Me: No.
Directory Assistance Lady: Dominos…
Me: No.
Directory Assistance Lady: Oh! Here's one that lists 24-hour service under "pizza." Would you like this one?
Me: Yes!
Directory Assistance Lady: Thanks for calling 411… (ringing…)
Some Man: Thank you for calling Consumer Services, this is Bill speaking, how may I help you?Me: Yes, do you deliver?
Some Man: Um… this is not a pizza delivery service.
Me: You were listed as 24-hour service, under "pizza."
Some Man: Yes.
Me: But you're not a 24-hour pizza service.
Some Man: No.
Me: …
Some Man: Yeah, we're a customer service line dedicated to making sure you're happy with your pizza delivery service.
Me: But I can't order pizza from you.
Some Man: No.
Me: Oh. (long pause...) Well… Then I'm not happy with my pizza delivery service. (click…)

on movement...

2008-07-10T12:35:00.002-07:00

I couldn't sleep tonight. At 12:47am, I went for a drive. I decided this might be an excellent time to buy a rug for my bathroom floor, as I had been meaning to all month.Driving in the middle of the night is therapeutic for me in much the same way that driving in rush hour is not. There is something to be said about movement. Any movement, really. To avoid stagnation—even for a brief few moments. To know your destination. Alone with my solitude, the rush of wind against my face, I long for motion in the deepest parts of my heart. I long to be going somewhere.Two nights ago I stood on the front step of Altamonte Lanes, waiting for my friends to come join me. There were ants on the ground where the pavement met the sidewalk. Thousands of ants. They marched back and forth from a line of discarded food, clutching, lifting and carrying away to some hidden place. Not a single ant allowed for a moments rest, but marched on to see this task to completion. On and on they marched, silently, tenaciously, purposefully—content to do that which was set before them. They did not question their objective, but flowed like waves to and from someone's rejected meal. Who's to say when there will again be food so readily available. Perhaps this has occurred to them, perhaps not. I wondered to myself if ants can have things that "occur" to them. As I sat and watched, I realized that I was jealous of the ants. They move with a purpose I have not yet come to understand. Pastor Isaac spoke a most profound sentence a few sermons ago. "The important question of 'what does God want me to do with my life?' should not overshadow the more important question of 'what does God want me to do with my day?'" How this sentence speaks to my very soul. I long to know what business I should be about for the rest of my life. To discern my calling, to see my goal, to know and embrace my task as the ants embraced theirs—how seductive a prospect. And how easily this becomes an idol. Faith is so hard. To push on towards a goal I cannot always understand, to persevere without the knowledge that I am where I ought to be, to struggle on through the minutia of everyday life without the satisfaction of knowing my destination—it's excruciating. And it's necessary. How can I be trusted to carry out the calling of my life, if I can't even muster the discipline to be faithful with each of the small decisions I encounter each day? The ants move tirelessly, faithfully—their artful movement a living manifestation of their commitment. They press on without the knowledge of what's to come. I crave that kind of discipline. And still, though I long to be like the ants, I have yet to muster the faith of a mustard seed.Perhaps I've set my aim to high.

on profanity...

2008-07-10T12:35:00.001-07:00

I cursed today. Several times, actually. Cruising down 436, windows down, basking in the odd winter warmth, relaxed. Soaking in the scent of vanilla air freshener and a Starbucks Chai Tea Latte—and this IDIOT pulls a U-turn out in front of me from about 50 yards. I slam on the brakes, but I still have to swerve into the next lane to avoid an accident. Latte everywhere. I am livid. Profanity erupts from my lips like fizz from a can of coke that's been run through a Laundromat dryer. I'm from Pennsylvania. People drive very differently in Pennsylvania. More logically, I feel. Most of the PA highways I drove on were only two lanes each direction—but two lanes utilized more efficiently than the three or four lanes per direction in Florida. Here, people will drive at the same (sub-speed limit) pace, side by side, three lanes across, so that no one has the opportunity to pass. I am reduced to trailing slow-driver-No.1, impatient, angry, stewing. Only in the unusually fortunate circumstance that one of these drivers should exit onto a turning lane do I have the opportunity to make my move. In this way traffic moves, in waves, from clump to intransigent clump. It is excruciating in the way that draws forth prospective titles from my head—"Zen and the Art of Using a Passing Lane," "The Chronicles of Road Rage," "Dante's Inferno: the lost chapters." My small group gathered tonight, as is our Monday custom, but somberly this evening. Tonight we chose to commit to one another for the next year and a half. The playful banter and light-hearted jesting that usually begin our meetings were overshadowed by the profound gravity of our decision. It was not without joy that we made our commitment, but with sound and prayerful acknowledgement of our responsibility. Issues were addressed, wounds were mended, and this is how we chose to proceed—intimate, grounded, transparent. One made the statement, "we have to commit to bringing our issues to the table. If we have a struggle with another group member, we can't hide it. We're just giving the devil a foothold. This group, our love and honesty—it's good. It's so good. Satan wants to tear it down, and he'll try. We need to prepare for whatever spiritual warfare is ahead of us." We prayed for our direction. It occurred to me as we sat, eyes closed and encircled, that the warfare was not simply manifest in our undisguised struggles with one another. Sin is crafty. Crafty enough, perhaps, to not announce its presence as we focus so aggressively on suiting up for battle. Perhaps our battle is in each decision, each emotion, moment by moment—each thought that we choose or choose not to capture to Christ. Perhaps my battle is here, endlessly traversing 436—choosing to erupt like fizz, or choosing, simply, to leave 15 minutes earlier. How's that for removing a foothold.

in dubious sanctity...

2008-07-10T12:34:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had the feeling that you're being watched? Brittany shaves her head. You-tube is buzzing. Tabloid sales soar. Like an elitist club to which I will never gain entrance, I, like most others, observe celebrity lifestyle with a certain measure of malevolence. There is a morbid part of ourselves that desires to see others fall. Not just any others, mind you, but those in (what we view as) unjustifiable possession of the Turkish delight we so clandestinely crave. There is a covetous part of ourselves that wishes to forbid to others that which we will never attain. But elitism doesn't end with celebrity. How often we dig in to our per diem trenches to create a place of status for our lives. In Christian community, we indulge in this very folly. We have a lingo, a creed—a secret pledge to hide from others that which would bring us back to earth from our lofty, heavenward endeavors. How difficult we make it for others to gain entrance. How they must long to see us fall. We all have our struggles. How cliché. Let's be honest. This is the type of phrase someone uses in a conversation that they wish to end before it becomes too personal. Christians isolate certain struggles, and they amplify the stigma associated with them. It is a poor attempt at self-deception. The thought of addressing the sin in our own lives is at once such a daunting and overwhelming task, that we have collectively chosen to point out the sin in others instead—thus, effectively diminishing the degree of our own sin and guilt. They point to abortion and homosexuality and say, "This. This is real sin." And the exciting, consuming work of ministry begins. How many people can we save? We become focused on ministering to those with real sin in their lives, and this façade allows us to hide our own sin from ourselves and the rest of the world. Why are we so afraid to let the world see us struggle? Through our own devices, we have created a world that sees us fall, and equates our behavior to Christ. Anytime we struggle, stumble, or fall publicly, we effectively invalidate our faith--we are forced to reconstruct our claim to heaven from the ground up. To pretend that we are perfect, to pretend that we are sinless, to pretend that we don't struggle in very real ways everyday, serves no purpose but to make our faith inaccessible to the rest of the real people in the real world. "How many people can we save?" Let us not forget that we, too, are dirt. We should ask, "how many people can we love?" To how many people can we manifest our joy, but also invite into our struggles? How many fears can we allay with the knowledge that Christ does not require a walk devoid of stumbles, but a walk that presses on unto the end. A walk that is weary, broken, blind and human. A walk in which He has the opportunity to carry our burdens along side of us. A walk of struggle—to be sure—but a walk of hope. A walk that calls from the elitist club entrance, "come, you are welcome, find your rest in Me." I cried tonight. My roommates came in to comfort me. There are acts that one simply cannot fathom how to repay—indeed, the world knows no currency valuable enough. This. This is real ministry.

on being the gatekeeper...

2008-07-10T12:33:00.000-07:00

1:47 on a Sunday afternoon. Clusters of shops and condos race by in a blur, small and large pockets of capitalism concentrate. In the backdrop of the cloudless sky, the undulating trees, the warming rays of sun, a construction orange sign screams, almost audibly, "Easy One-Stop Self-Storage!" It looks obscene. My friend sits with her gaze fixed more on the windshield than on what's beyond it. I shift into 4th. Her brow is wrinkled slightly in the way that suggests a struggle, though she remains quiet. On this winter's afternoon, the A/C disseminating slowly from my car vents is a pleasant reminder of the finer points of life in Florida. My friend turns to me, and with the very essence of tortured indignation, speaks these words: "Kailey, I am… so… fucking sick… of having to be the one to say when." In one single sentence, my friend illuminated a mysterious inconsistency of feminine self-expectation—an ambivalent inner dialogue for which we cannot achieve resolution. I would like to explore why this is. Women have long been considered the gate-keepers of physical intimacy. Since it is FEMALE promiscuity that carries with it such destructive social stigma, the weight of the choice to stop or proceed has been placed on the shoulders of women. If a man has had several partners, he is not reduced the way a woman would be if the same were true of her. In this way, physical intimacy is a win-win situation for most men. If she says stop, he has the chivalrous integrity to obey. If she says it not, he cannot be held responsible for his actions. After all, men are "hard-wired" to behave this way. In the heat of the moment, it's the girl who has to say when. Bullshit. What an absolutely cowardly display of blame-shifting. To say that a man is respecting a woman's wish when she says stop, is to concede that he has the right to move forward with physical intimacy at all. Be a man. Take responsibility. The "man" stands idly by as we choose to misstep. We are back in the garden with Adam—our partner, our one flesh—who stands idly by as we choose to eat the fruit of which God has commanded, "do not eat, for you will surely die." It was Adam to whom God gave this command, before Eve was ever formed from his rib and given the breath of life. How I long for Adam to say, "Stop, my love. This will be the death of you."

on my earliest memory...

2008-07-10T12:32:00.000-07:00

when i was growing up, i was stung by a bee. this is probably my earliest memory. our modest back yard at 91 beltzhoover was fenced in on both sides. on the right, a chain link partition stood before a sheer 3 foot drop into a neighbors back yard. on the left, a tall picket baricade against a not so busy side street, painted a shade of brown one might refer to as dysentery. yet, modest or not, our yard was remarkably level for pittsburgh--a gently sloping oasis amidst a sea of grassy wedges. most yards were 6x6 patches of grass reminiscent of upscale movie theatre seating. each row of grass observed the road below from an increasingly higher level. if paved, they could serve as a skate board ramp leading up to your front door. perhaps one of the only places in the world that children, if they so chose, could sled ride from thier porch directly to thier bus stop. but not MY yard. no, my yard was a titan among mortals. by virtue of it's (mostly) level plane, my yard was a gem amidst the rocks. a haven. a sanctuary, if you will. if i had been a viking, my back yard was valhalla. and it was in this back yard that i learned an important lesson. i loved all things living. crawly things, jumping things, slimy and slithery things, and, for this occasion, buzzing things. my black and gold friend hummed lazily, happily, to and from flowers, and i was smitten. my impregnable desire to "make friends" with creatures great and small emboldened me to offer my index finger in a gesture of friendship to my pollenating neighbor. "here mr. bee!" i called out in all of my four-year-old innocence, as i chased the little buzzing thing around the yard. when i finally caught up with him, he responded by burrying his stinger deep into my hand. i ran into the house screaming from both pain and shock. how could this creature scorn my friendship? how could it want to repay hurt where i offered only love? i did not understand. and to some (albeit more experienced) degree, i never will. at least the concept, not the bees.how can we live through the pain of being rejected by those to whom we offer our vulnerability? it seems so cosmically unfair. there are many lessons i learned from this experience--caution, self-control, and unforseen uses of baking soda, to name a few. but the most valuable lesson, the most enduring lesson, was scrutiny. i made assumptions about the bee, and i was misled. it's the same relationally. a young man in my small group made the statement that dating is backwards in the united states. people make a committment--and THEN they get to know one another. they soon find out that they have nothing in common but by that time they're already too emotionally invested to escape the relationship without feeling or causing a significant amount of pain. why do we put ourselves through this? if i had used scrutiny--if i had researched my flying friend, if i had observed from a safe distance, if i had familiarized myself with his habits and behaviors before i engaged--perhaps i would not know what it feels like to be stung. it remains, as of now, the only be sting i've ever had.

on singing...

2008-07-10T12:31:00.000-07:00

There are few times when I feel as free as when I sing. Indeed, it seems such a felicitous endeavor to my very soul, that I might go so far as to say that I am most happy while in song. In my perfect world, I would perhaps inform the aproned barista, in nothing short of operatic foofaraw, that I prefer soy milk in my grande chai tea latte. In my perfect world, approbation would mimic a serenade. In four-four time, students would proclaim from the corners of the cafeteria a request for more ketchup. In my perfect world, little children would declare in a chorus of angelic harmonies, "more Ovaltine please!" Thank God we don't live in my perfect world. My love to sing also manifests itself in a deep appreciation for the voices of others. There is a young woman who sings with the worship team at our church. Her gaze is fixed, always, with steadfast tenacity on the floor of the stage—at which one might even suppose a lack of enthusiasm for the act itself. But then she sings—brilliantly—her voice betraying the very hint of this façade. It is no lack of enthusiasm at all, but the preservation of intimacy with the One of whom she sings. I praise God for each note—for His beauty, His creativity—which is simply reflected in her voice. Singing is an act of intimacy. In worship, it is an act of intimacy with God. To sing is an invitation to share intimacy; to fulfill a most profound desire in the presence, and for the benefit, of another.

on Christmas...

2008-07-10T12:30:00.000-07:00

Gate A3 of the Pittsburgh airport is filled with people tending to thier impatient children, talking on thier cell phones about bad presents from thier crazy relatives, and browsing complimentary brochures about heightened airline security. An instrumental version of "Santa Clause is Coming to Town," is humming faintly in the background. Across the hall, strangers are flirting in a TGI Fridays to pass the time until thier flights. I am so sad to be returning to sunny Florida. Five nights ago, Austin said to me, in all his child-like innocence and sweetness, "may chris-pus kay kay." We took him to the Beaver Falls Coffee and Tea Company, where I swept up a bag of colored gold-fish crackers, which he had dumped all over the floor. Four nights ago, over pumpkin cappucinos, Dr. Matts told me the story of the first time he noticed his wife-- the corners of his mouth upturned in genuine joyful nostalgia. Mom and I, who cannot help but talk for hours, whispered and laughed quietly into the night, so to not wake the baby.Three nights ago, a good friend shared with me the familial perils of becoming an ex-catholic. Two nights ago, dad and I set up and decorated two christmas trees, all because i forgot my yams. I baked endlessly into the night, so that my brother could have a week's supply of sweet potato pie.Last night, I listened to Charlie play a brilliant Modro original. There was suddenly an impromptu band; My brother was completely consumed with bells and maracas, John on the bongos, and Austin shook his walnut stick in time with the music. Anne gazed at her musical husband adoringly, and Heather sang along to a Dave Matthews tune. I smiled quietly as I watched my friends and relatives laugh and sing and play.These are the times I will miss tomorrow.Merry Christmas.

on mistletoe...

2008-07-10T12:29:00.000-07:00

It seems to me that there has been a consistent drop in the amount of mistletoe I see hanging about dooways and ceilings around Christmas time. Why is this? What could be more delightful than embarassing your opposite-sex friends in this manner-- and REALLY embarassing your totally homo-phobic same-sex male friend-- by hanging mistletoe all around your home? If you happen to be married, you could each hang mistletoe at random intervals in your home, and play fun games like "how many times can i get my spouse to unknowingly stop with me under the mistletoe?" You could even keep score like it was Jeopardy. Mistletoe can also prove for high entertainment when you or one of your friends happens to stop under the mistletoe with a family pet-- particularly a really old, drooly dog type. Nuances like species should, in no way, warrant cause to break tradition. You can also use strategically placed mistletoe to sabotage your unsuspecting parents (especially if said parents are divorced). Mistletoe can also serve to satisfy that little curiosity that has been in the back of your mind for years, "how WOULD it be to kiss my neighbor steve?" Rules for Mistletoe usage:Persons who stop, pause, or pass very slowly through an area of mistletoe should be made to stay. They are stuck there until all of the following stipulations are observed.1. Related persons should never be made to kiss, or even be made aware of the presence of the Mistletoe.2. Same sex persons, particularly men, should be told that they must kiss-- and then let off the hook at the last moment, and made adequate fun of after they get mad.3. Generally, un-related people of the opposite sex should not escape the Mistletoe with a cheap, cheek-peck. These people should be adequately sabotaged and embarassed, until one or both of them is visibly blushing. 4. It doesn't bother girls to kiss each other on the cheek. Therefore, as a rule, girls can be expected to kiss under the Mistletoe.5. You should hide a "get-out-of-Mistletoe-free card" somewhere in your house. Someone will find it, and it may be life-saving to that person. Also, the card-holder may sell it to any person currently stuck under the Mistletoe for a price determined solely by the card-holder.

on nostalgia...

2008-07-10T12:28:00.000-07:00

there are few things i enjoy so much as remembering the past fondly. even not so fondly-- there is something life giving about self-reflection that has had a good deal of time to accumulate. equipped with the knowledge that the events in life are not haphazard-- that they are in fact ordered and ordained by the one true God-- i can recognize that some trials and experiences have positively shaped our character, however difficult to endure at the time. regardless, one cannot help but reflect on things that might have gone differently. here are a few of mine...1. i would have not stolen that pink watch from the store when jason and i were children, ESPECIALLY becuase it sucked soooo bad when mom caught us and made us return them to the manager.2. i would not have eaten cookies.3. i would not have dressed mo-mo up in all those little doll outfits. poor cat. :)4. i would have gotten on rollercoasters while i was young enough not to fear them. 5. i would have taken gymnastics.6. i would have kept in touch with heather, the first friend of my young life. i would have also kept in touch with krista keeling, the best friend of my young life. 7. i would have done my homework.8. i would have continued to play the original "street fighter" arcade game.9. i would not have dated in high school or college.10. i would have made more time to keep in touch with erin.11. i would not have majored in history, but chosen a career where i could work with snakes or large mammals.12. i would have saved everything i'd written.13. i would have stuck with those piano lessons mom forced me to take.14. i would never had dated cliff murphy. (i mean, holy cow, what was i thinking?!)15. i would have learned to be on time.16. i would have spent more time with gan before she passed away. 17. i would have flossed.18. i would have gone sled-riding more.19. i would have taken more of mom's advice, particularly in high school.20. i would have learned to type numbers on a keyboard without having to look at them.21. i would have done all the reading for geneva's humanities classes on time.22. i would not have gone down to the beach that night with my cousin and those other kids, and hence not have gotten two weeks of horrible, full body poison ivy. this would also have saved me from getting completely busted by mom that night. 23. i would have told mike hladio what i really thought about things.24. i would have sung "bye bye, black bird" at pap's funeral.25. i would not have withdrawn from the musical in college.

on imitation love...

2008-07-10T12:26:00.000-07:00

I saw a dear friend of mine yesterday, whom I haven't seen for quite some time. Anne and I met and became friends in college, but have never had the opportunity to live near one another since. Neither of us have indulged in the obligatory friendship maintenace calls or letters of post-college pals, and yet, neither have we chosen to indulge in an once of guilt for that neglect. On a moments notice, we are reclining on the nearest couch, tea in hand, laughing the kind of laughs which emanate sincerity. Time has not passed, only words unspoken, now erupting from us both as if there were not enough hours in the day to say it all. And I feel the magnitude of the glorious normality of it all. No matter how far you've gone, no matter how far you'll go-- you just always know what feels like home. I observed, for the first time, my dear friend with her new husband Charlie. Knowing Anne so well, and knowing Charlie from afar, they seemed to me an unlikely pair until I felt for myself the warmth of thier love and friendship-- enough to rival even pennsylvania's winter chill. Watching the two of them, and hearing of thier devotion to one another, I felt the confirmation of a thought that had already become clear to me in the last few months. Of all the cheap imitations our generation has chosen to embrace, the most destructive has been the embrace of imitation love. How is it we have missed the parallel. Big Lots furniture will never be real oak. Wal-Mart shoes will never be real leather. Yet we are so quick to accept these things for thier convenience, at the expense of thier quality. I remember college love. It was like being on a sitcom. All the emotion with none of the reality. I remember how I treated the occasion of dating in college, so completely honest and unreserved. It was not a wise treatment. I remember late night converstions with Rob, in which we both confessed the every fiber of what we felt and hoped and dreamed of-- a stunning act of vulnerability best left undone. A premature vulnerabililty. There is an intimate part of the heart that should be gaurded with the same ferocity as any intimate part of the body. There is an emotional intimacy more sensuous than sex, and ineed, more damaging. I listened with a joyful heart as my friend shared with me her excitement about her new husband. It was clear that she had learned so much about Charlie even after they were wed. She spoke with the most transparent joy about her new discoveries. Parts of himself he had once held reserved, but now shared so completely with his wife before the Lord. It is no imitation love-- and refreshing to behold. It is a lesson not lost to me.