Earlier this week, I volunteered at Manna House (more about Manna House here,here and here) as I often do. There is never a time that I leave there without some new insight, but on this day I left with a book in hand as well.
The book, Radical Compassion, Finding Christ in the Heart of the Poor, (Amazon link*) is by Gary Smith, S.J., a Jesuit priest who lived and worked among the poor of Portland, Oregon for nearly 10 years. It is a journal of his ministry to them and their ministry to him, a collection of personal stories about his relationships with people who have been neglected, abused, beaten down and have endured struggles and hardships that are painful to read.
But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame* the strong. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things — and the things that are not — to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him.
I Corinthians 1:27-29
Note: King James Version uses the word confound — to perplex or amaze, especially by a sudden disturbance or surprise; bewilder; confuse — instead of shame. But I think both are applicable.
Some of the stories are funny, some sad, some are agonizing to read, but the story of a man named Robert is particularly poignant — the kind of poignant that makes it difficult to see the pages through the tears. Father Smith met Robert, 38, depressed, addicted to drugs and HIV positive and for the next two years or so, walked with him through his illness and death. Toward the end of his life, Robert asked to be baptized and during that holy moment, Father Smith shared the story of the good Samaritan. His reflections on that passage are profound:
You are the good Samaritan, Robert, because you have pulled all of us out of the safe trenches of our lives. And your love — so squeezed out of you by life and history — you have claimed again and given back to us a hundredfold. What a grace it is to be present to see you commit your life to the one who is the author of your love. Your faith is healing oil for our wounds.
And so the weak shame, confound — teach, nurture, edify — the strong. May we all know a good Samaritan.
*The only thing I get if you buy and read this book is a bit of satisfaction.
Early one morning last week I checked Facebook and saw this status:
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.” — Washington Irving
I’m a crier. Weddings, funerals, books, movies, songs. The groom’s face at first glimpse of his bride. Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. The book of Psalms. The Notebook. It’s embarrassing at times, but overall I count it as a blessing; I’d rather cry than not feel at all.
I’ve seen some tears this week. A few days ago at Manna House: a mother in raw, anguished grief on the morning after her daughter’s violent death. Later that day, a daughter’s agony as she searched for her missing parents and feared the worst.
Those moments took my breath away.
The women’s tears opened the door for comfort; an outward sign of need and vulnerability that would perhaps not otherwise have been expressed. An opportunity for others to empathize and walk with them through the grief, even if only for a moment or two. And an honor for me to be invited onto the sacred ground of another’s tears.
I’m comforted by Psalm 56:8:
Record my lament; list my tears on your scroll (or in your wineskin); are they not in your record?
In ancient times, tear bottles (or wineskins) were used to catch the owners’ tears in times of grief. King David wrote this Psalm as he was being pursued by enemies who sought to kill him. Some scholars say David believed that God has a tear bottle of His own in which He collects our tears.
I love that thought. That He sees each tear as it falls and keeps them in His bottle. That every tear I shed is known to Him. And that He comes, with tear bottle in hand, into to those raw, vulnerable moments when the tears will not be contained any other way.
I just left a business networking event with accomplished entrepreneurs, consultants and more CPAs than I’ve ever seen in one place in my entire life. Although as a general rule, financial people scare me to death, these were gracious and welcoming folks and I enjoyed the event immensely.
The speaker for the evening was attorney Cary Schwimmer, who specializes in employment law. Though I’m a freelancer with no employees, there were still valuable takeways. Schwimmer outlined the top ten employer mistakes, which ranged from poor documentation of performance and disciplinary problems to the tax implications of employees vs. independent contractors. Information I won’t use tomorrow, but have definitely filed away for the future.
The top mistakes shared a common thread — a lack of integrity. Failure to treat people with dignity, fairness and respect, lack of appreciation and nonexistent or dishonest communication. In an age where technology advances almost daily, I’m reminded that there is still nothing new under the sun.
Shane Claiborne doesn’t look — or live — like an average preacher. This author, Christian activist and sought-after speaker wears no tie, not even a blazer and jeans, but casual, comfortable clothes and has dreadlocks that hang past his shoulders. Raised in east Tennessee, he now lives and serves among the homeless in inner-city Philadelphia in community with others who share resources and live frugally on about $150 per person per month. He ministered in Iraq during the bombing of Baghdad in 2003 and spent one summer among the poor in Calcutta with Mother Theresa.
My first experience humbled and overwhelmed me. With regret for the assumptions I have made. Shame for my complacency. Anger at my own indifference while I lead a comfortable life as others suffer. I ignored them. I dismissed them. I cared, but not enough.
What changed from the me-centeredness, the casual, detached concern? Caring only because I knew I should?
Faces.
Eyes.
Voices.
Of people not so different from me after all. Children of God, my equals, who happen to be homeless. Some of whom can read and speak fluently in two languages, write poetry that expresses deep emotion and pain, beat me mercilessly at checkers and play a game of Scrabble that would challenge any wordsmith. Here’s an excerpt from a poem written by Tony, one of our guests:
The Manna House is a place where you can feel safe and get some rest,
Where help is offered through all they can do but keep in mind they’re only human too.
So if you ever come here please be thankful for this place
And at the end of every prayer you will always hear them say,
“Thank you, Lord for the coffee that’s hot, the sugar that’s sweet and the creamer that takes all life’s bitterness away.”
Scrabble games, soap, clean socks and coffee may not change a life. But maybe a few hours of peace, rest, companionship and love can change that day in a life. Manna.
Do not neglect hospitality, for through it some have unknowingly entertained angels.
Hebrews 13:2
Photo credit: PhilipPoon, Homeless Person in Front of Temple
This day was different. My 16-year-old daughter, Sara Ann, five of her friends and I were in Atlanta for a church youth weekend. We left the church to get out into the city and learn about poverty and homelessness. Our first stop was an area near downtown Atlanta where the homeless live under the overpasses. We parked our cars on the street and scaled a steep, rocky hill under a bridge. At the top of the hill, we began to see piles of clothing, mattresses, furniture and blankets, all damp from the rain. My first impression was, ewww, trash; then I realized it is someone’s couch … bed … home.
We turned a corner and saw people who had made their home in the shelter of the concrete posts. Two guys named Bob and Willie, who work with a ministry called 7 Bridges to Recovery, showed us around and told us about their work. Willie, who only four months ago was homeless, pulled a few bags of food and some clothes out of the back of a minivan.
Bob explained that the mission of 7 Bridges is to get people off the streets and break the cycle of homelessness, alcoholism, drugs, sexual addictions, prostitution and abuse. I was surprised when he told us that few of the homeless accept their help. Perhaps they are afraid or maybe they have just come to accept their circumstances, or don’t want to leave the people they live with. As we walked and talked with them, it seemed that, much like the rest of us, some were angry, some had faith and some just seemed to feel hopelessly resigned to this life.
I don’t understand homelessness. I’ve never been without a warm bed or a good meal, never had to walk over rocks in worn-out shoes or put on a rain-soaked coat to keep warm. Our visit didn’t change any of their lives that day, but it did change me. It brought me face-to-face with the reality of a life that no one should have to live and reminded me that they are not so different from me, and most of all, that they are equal to me in God’s eyes.
‘ … For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’ “They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’” He will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’
— Matthew 25:42-45
Today is my 49th birthday. I can’t help but feel just a bit nostalgic for the days when I didn’t need glasses, had pretty good short-term memory and could sleep until noon without waking up with a sore neck and a tension headache. I notice the lines on my face, spend a fortune covering gray hair, and have come to accept that, no matter how little I eat or how much I exercise, I am never really going to look good in a swimsuit. I remember what it felt like to throw myself through the air, yet I know that even if it were still possible, no one really wants to see a 49-year-old woman throw a backflip.
Growing older takes many things from us that we’ll never get back. But we exchange the temporary, the superficial for a much deeper joy. For my 49 years of lessons learned, trials and regrets, I have gained a depth of wisdom that comes only from having lived. Physical beauty can be bought by those willing to pay the price of clothes, cosmetics, hairstylists, the time to pursue an exercise regimen. Wisdom is far more costly but brings more fulfillment than I ever knew on my best-hair day — even in the size 10 Calvin Klein jeans.
So I’ll think of my birthday as a celebration of what I have bought with these years. As my youth slips away, I discover the peace that comes from knowing God, walking with him through the valleys and finding Him faithful for 17,520 days.Would I go back?
One of the last photos taken of my Dad; Jim took it in the backyard of the house I grew up in, probably in late May 1993; they were cooking on the grill, which is why the dishtowel is slung over his shoulder.
The most important thing my Daddy taught me: grace
The Oxford American Dictionary defines grace as:
Simple elegance or refinement of movement,
(in Christian belief) The free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.
A divinely given talent or blessing
The condition of being favored by someone
My Dad had grace in all its meanings. He moved gracefully, both physically and socially. He swung a golf club with grace and practiced orthodontics with grace. When he drove the boat, he could bring the rope right into the hands of the skier without missing a beat.
He loved to learn and schooled himself thoroughly on a variety of subjects; it’s hard to imagine that he never knew the Internet, never had an email address.
He loved most music, especially classical, and amassed an enviable collection. Among his favorites were Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 in B minor, Pathétique, Op. 74, The Impossible Dream, from Man of LaMancha and his favorite hymn, When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.
He had a nickname for each of his patients and always remembered it. A handsome, well-dressed man, he could move easily in the most sophisticated social and professional circles, yet he could truly relate to and be accepted by those in the most humble of circumstances.
He wrote beautifully, was an accomplished and poised public speaker, he sang beautifully and just about the only thing at which he was not particularly adept was resealing a zip-top plastic bag.
His faith was profound as anyone I’ve ever known, yet as simple as a child’s. He knew that it was not our own goodness or our compliance to a set of rules that earned our place in heaven. If we could earn our own way, it would only give us cause for pride and arrogance. With a burning passion he hated the legalism that so many are willing to accept as a counterfeit for grace. Though they frustrated him, he felt for them, as he knew they would never know the true peace of the Father’s agape love.
When we chose his epitaph, we decided on one simple word — one word with several meanings that represented every facet of the life he lived on earth: grace.
This is my Daddy giving me my diploma at my high school graduation. He was president of the school board at that time and it just worked out so he could do that. And, yes, I know my hair is bad and that the white sandals are very bad, especially with the tan pantyhose.
This is my Daddy giving me my diploma at my high school graduation. He was president of the school board at that time and it just worked out so he could do that. And, yes, I know my hair is bad and that the white sandals are very bad, especially with the tan pantyhose.
So here are some more things my Daddy taught me:
“A mean-spirited person is his/her own punishment.” Daddy would always say in response to mean, hurtful behavior, whether directed toward us or others. I’m not sure it was great comfort at the time, but it has proven true. I’ve seen many miserable, hateful people in my life, and none of them are happy. Anyone who purposely inflicts pain on others is more miserable than they are making you. Don’t waste time and energy on revenge; it is unnecessary and really isn’t as much fun as it seems anyway.
God really is merciful. Daddy’s faith was the strongest, most powerful, simple, pure and most authentic of anyone I’ve ever known. He touched many people and impacted many lives for Christ. But the one thing Daddy knew that he could never bear was the loss of a child. He always said that if he ever lost a child, he would go crazy. God spared him that. Two of his children have been diagnosed with cancer, one suffered multiple miscarriages and one buried his wife of five years at the age of 30. Although I believe that Daddy’s faith would have seen him through any of these trials, he was spared and I’m grateful for that.
Love deeply, fully, unconditionally. His love never depended upon my accomplishments, outward appearance or anything but the fact that I was his child. He told me truth that I didn’t want to hear and when he hugged me he was never the first to let go. When I hug my kids, I never let go first.
Give. This might seem obvious, but it amazes me that so many people don’t get it. Stuff is not as important as people. He gave sacrificially and he gave with joy. He was generous wihout being indulgent. When I was pregnant with Elizabeth, just before she was born, we had an unexpected car repair. The charge was $1800, which may as well have been $180,000 at that time in our lives. Jim’s first call was to my dad. I know he must have been scared, he must have rehearsed how he was going to ask his father-in-law for $1800, but there was no need. Daddy sensed what he was trying to say and just asked, “How much do you need?” He sent the check that very day. He never asked when, how or if we would pay him back. We did, but we knew we didn’t have to. He knew our situation and our struggles without being told and he cared more about us than he did the money. After he died, we found several of the checks that he had never even cashed. I think I still have them somewhere, as a reminder that people really are more important than stuff.
The first week in October is always hard. My dad’s birthday was October 4 and it always makes me feel a little blue, though this is Daddy’s 15th birthday in Heaven.
He loved my daughters deeply and cherished his time with them. They are now 15 and 19, yet his earthly life with them stopped when Elizabeth was a new preschool graduate about to enter Kindergarten and Sara Ann was a happy one-year-old with beautiful dark eyes who took her first steps a mere month before he died. He was strong, with a gentle and protective way of loving my girls that is one of the things I miss the very most about him.
He taught me so much — over the next few days I’m going to share some of those things, as there are too many for just one day.
Never buy the one in front. He would get up early on our wekeends at our lakehouse in Arkansas and Elizabeth and her Dada would go to Wal-Mart. Months later, after I had bought some defective product, which I had picked up in haste, she reminded me, “I knew that would happen. You broke Dada’s rule. Never buy the one in front.” To this day, Elizabeth will reach to the far back of the shelf to avoid the one in front.
Pay attention to things. Sometimes we are so busy running to and fro that we don’t pay attention to things around us. On another one of Elizabeth and Dada’s early morning Wal-Mart trips, he had shown her how the the early morning dew sparkles on the grass. She still remembers the “sparklies,” and, at 19, still remembers the moment. Great moments often come when we pay attention to small things.
Don’t be afraid to feel. My dad was deeply emotional. He was not afraid to feel and not afraid to express it. He could never say the blessing at Christmas or Thanksgiving without choking up and making everyone else cry too. When he hurt, he hurt deeply, but his joy was deep.
Good things come to those who wait. He often drove us crazy moving slowly and taking his time making decisions or major purchases, but he taught us that the best things don’t come quickly or easily and are always worth waiting for.
More tomorrow as I remember him throughout the week.
For the word of the Lord is right and true; He is faithful in all he does. Psalm 33:4
For the past few months, I have been thanking God for His provision and His faithfulness as Jim searches for a new job. It has been stressful, scary and has worn on us as a family at times. Even so, I always felt an underlying peace that God would bring us through this and that He would use it, perhaps just to teach us to trust Him more completely.
This past Friday (April 20) Jim signed an offer letter for a new job. We are thrilled and so very thankful. It’s a great opportunity and allows us to stay in Memphis, which we all wanted very much. But make no mistake: I don’t thank Him for His faithfulness because he provided the job; He was faithful before Jim got the job, and He would still be faithful if there were still no job.
When I was growing up, and I’d ask my parents for something I wanted, sometimes (usually) they would say yes and sometimes they would say no. My Dad was a very generous person, so when he said no, there was a reason. I never got the trampoline I begged for because my Dad saw so many kids with broken bones in his orthodontic office who answered trampoline when he asked them how it happened. I wasn’t happy that I didn’t get the trampoline, but I knew that my Dad meant it only for my own good and I never doubted his love for me, or whether he cared or would provide for me. And, even if I think completely materialistically, he gave me nearly everything else I ever wanted. Not only were they faithful, they were generous as well.
I think that’s what I learned about God through all of this — that He doesn’t show Himself faithful by what he does for us — that is His generosity; He shows Himself faithful by walking through it all with us. He never promised us ease, comfort, affluence or freedom from stress, but He did promise He would never leave our side. And if He had, I know that I would not have survived with my sanity intact.
Even on the worst days, during the two-month stretch when there was just nothing to even apply for, I never doubted that He was there and that it would eventually be ok. What if His will had been no job at all — if His will for us meant that we would lose our house, cars, all the stuff? I still would not doubt His faithfulness. Though it would not have been my preference, He brought me to the point that I could be ok with that.
His faithfulness has given me comfort, peace and security, and His generosity has given extra measures of joy — some are short bursts, others are lasting, but all are meaningful. Consider:
Encouragement from friends — lunches, phone calls and emails
Friends and family who understood when Christmas was just a hug and a promise of a later gift
Retail therapy (thanks, Mom!) which cannot buy happiness but sure can lift the spirit.
Dinners out, as restaurant meals were the first thing cut from our post-employment budget
A tremendous network of caring, loving, Christian friends who diligently lifted us up in prayer.
My role at home — I have for a long time felt a call to be home full-time, and my prayer was that I would be able to continue in this role. Not only did God grant me this, He did so with complete peace on my part and Jim’s. Jim never asked me to try to find work, and God continually confirmed my decision, though to some I admit it must have seemed illogical. I’m so glad God doesn’t operate by human logic!
So now we get to return to normal. I wonder what our new normal will look like. I guess time will tell. But for now I’m looking forward to my first professional haircut since November, new glasses and getting the refrigerator fixed so it doesn’t leak all over the kitchen floor.
As a long-time United Methodist, I have always looked forward to the Maundy Thursday service, which takes place the night before Good Friday and commemorates the Last Supper and Jesus’ agony in the Garden of Gethsemane.
I love Easter, but for me to really “get” Easter, I have to think about Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. We say Christ the Lord is Risen! but there is no resurrection without the crucifixion. How can we really appreciate His resurrection without absorbing the reality of the agony in the Garden and the torment of the cross?
Nowhere is His humanity more evident to me than in the Garden, when He prayed:
“Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.” An angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him. And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground. Luke 22:42-44
Maundy Thursday inspires me to reflect on the humanity of that anguished plea and His ultimate surrender to His Father’s will as he began His journey to Calvary. He must have dreaded the suffering, but in obedience He prayed more urgently, submitted His own will to that of the Father and willingly accepted His fate on the cross.
Good Friday reminds me of the wounds.
Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we considered him stricken by God, smitten by him, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.
We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all. Isaiah 53:4-6
And, finally, Easter reminds me that not even a gruesome, agonizing death could conquer the mind-blowing, awe-inspiring, magnificent love of a God who would sacrifice His Son — for me.
