Whose world is real: Theirs or ours?

Buckaroo (not his real name) and I are engaged in a conversation about the government. It’s getting heated, not because we’re in opposition but because the subject gets him riled up.

I’m getting uncomfortable, thinking I best change the subject to something less volatile.

But then he says something that shakes me.

If the world as we know it ever comes to a halt, whether it be by our own government (Buckaroo’s presumption) or by outside forces, he says he knows who the survivors will be: his kind.

His people—the homeless—know how to survive.

I believe him. They prove it every day.

They are survivors. How else could they live day after day with the substandard food they eat, the poor sanitation they have, the diabetes and cancer and alcoholism and drug addictions and mental illnesses that many endure?

Some do die, of course. Many do die. And eventually all die, as we do.

But many live. And live long. They’re survivors.

Sometimes I’m not sure whose world is the real one: theirs or ours.

My world feels comfortably real on my smooth drive on the Parkway overpass, singing worship tunes from my USB stick, bottled water in my cup holder, a packed purse by my side.

But underneath that same overpass is their world, a different world. It houses tents, a fire for cooking and warming, and people with few possessions.

Their world feels brutally real as I stand among them Saturday morning and chat with Buckaroo.

After we drive back to our church building, back into the world as I know it, I close ranks with those like me and we hold hands and Norm words a prayer from all of us, for all of them—the survivors. Thanking God for the lessons those survivors teach us. If they can keep going on, so can we. 

I want Buckaroo and his friends—now my friends, too—on my side not if, but when, the worlds we both know ever come to an end.

Because they will come to an end.

So for now, I’ll take another step into Buckaroo’s world and pray it makes mine a little less plastic and a lot more authentic. That it makes his a little less lonely and a lot more loved.

That it blends both our worlds, making them less about us and more about God. After all, only God’s world is truly real, the only one that will last forever.

I want us both to be survivors in that one.

* * *

RELATED:

• Your grace looks different than mine
• When you don’t know what to say
• I’m still prejudiced

Questions you ask

“Before you go, can I ask one more question?”

I knew Gary wouldn’t mind. Even though we’d only met an hour earlier, he’d already shared so much. This final question would be a pleasing one to him. And the answer would mean much to me.

The first question had come easily. He’d exposed an obvious opening, reading his Bible as he waited for the food we were serving the homeless.

I asked, “So what are you reading?”

That was all it took. If I remember right, he was in Isaiah, but he seized the moment and flipped over to other related passages, giving clear explanations for each. His Bible was heavily colored with highlighters and ink.

I asked, “Are you a student?”

No, he said he was actually a Bible teacher. (My bad. I’m still learning: Never make assumptions about the homeless, well, about anybody.) I asked him if he’d always known Jesus, even as a child, and again he answered no.

He used to be a witch.

Oh. So I asked, “What changed that?”

He said he’d walked through the desert. 

He told me about his journey on the road from Texas to San Francisco. About his friend and about LSD. Then about reading his Bible for a whole year. And about finding truth. And finding Jesus.

His life was new. He learned then taught at a Bible school for eight years in California. He was recently released from the position when they decided he was too mystical to teach there.

He said he was big into spiritual warfare. He flipped to underlined verses and margin notes he’d scribbled around Ephesians 6. We talked about wearing the armor of God and what each piece meant and how important it was.

But he was almost out the door to catch the bus back to wherever he came from (and eventually back to family in North Carolina, hopefully) when I caught his attention one last time to ask my final question:

“Hey Gary, would you share with me your favorite Bible verse?”

I knew it’d tell me the most about Gary. The truths we treasure the greatest, reveal our greatest treasures.

“It’s Matthew 24:13.” And he quoted it,

But the one who stands firm to the end will be saved.
Matthew 24:13 (NIV)

That’s what Gary was most about. Just standing in Jesus. Against the devil’s schemes. Firm to the end (Ephesians 6:11-13).

I don’t know all the warfare that’s come against Gary. That comes against him still.

And I don’t know if our paths will ever cross again. Sometimes one intersection is all we get, and this may have been ours.

But at that junction and for that moment, hearing that answer from Gary about what counts most may have been enough for a lifetime.

So Gary, wherever you are tonight, I pray you’re doing what matters the most. Stand firm to the end, my brother.

* * *

Do you have a favorite Bible verse? Why is it special to you?

When you don’t know what to say

I’m never quite sure what to say.

I don’t know what to say this Saturday morning either when I walk up to their makeshift table shaded under the overpass where they are eating biscuits and white gravy and ham brought to them by another group of Christ-followers and eating hot Krispy Kreme donuts brought to them by the group in our van.

I ask a question or two to get us going, nothing important, just chit-chat stuff, like conversations I would have every day with people who live under bridges and sleep in tents every night.

Except that I don’t have those conversations every day because until a year ago I couldn’t have even called one person by name who lived without a working refrigerator and who did all their cooking unplugged and who didn’t use a real toilet one more time before turning out the lights at night.

So when I don’t know what to say, I don’t say much and I just listen more to what somebody else has to say.

~ * ~ * ~

Today the Lord was giving me ears for Kristi’s voice. 

At first she doesn’t say too much either but the more she’s heard, the more she talks so I borrow Matthew’s chair (well, sort of a chair) and draw in closer to listen to Kristi.

• She tells me she was a daddy’s girl which made it all the harder when he died a few years ago and I tell her my daddy is gone, too.
• She talks about why her new boyfriend is so much better than her last one because this one treats her with respect and doesn’t try to control her and he lets her have conversations with everybody in their camp without getting mad at her. I amen a respectful man anytime, anywhere.
• She says her baby girl was stillborn last December and she named her Allie (and I tell her about my sweet baby Kali) but before she has another child (she wants a boy next time) she wants to be in a better place in her life and she says how her other daughter is growing up so fast and how she’d like to go visit her mama in Tennessee one day soon but her step-dad isn’t so easy to be around.

And I throw in a “yeah, I get that” when I can and when I can’t, I ask another question to try to understand or at least to let her know I’m still here and still listening and still wanting to love on her in some tiny way in this very real space in the Kingdom.

~ * ~ * ~

Then before I know it, time’s up and I need to walk back to the heated church van with a tankful of gas that will transport me back to suburbia and big screen TVs and wi-fi and toilets with a handle.

~ * ~ * ~

But now I can’t stop talking, not just yet.

Because I have a bit more words in me now that we’re friends and all, and so I ask Kristi if I can pray a blessing over her before I go and she says yes (why am I always surprised when almost everyone answers yes?).

We hold hands and I beg God in my head to spill the words out of my mouth that he wants to say to Kristi in this moment and so I voice what I hope I’m hearing right, then I say amen in Jesus’s name, so be it.

Before I walk away she says maybe next week her boyfriend will be here and she’ll introduce us.

And I say I’d love that because I really would love that.

I smile on the outside and on the inside too because her offer means she knows I was listening to her.

And maybe my listening more than talking was just what she needed, this beautiful creature named Kristi made in the image of God just like I am even though she lives in a tent near the railroad tracks and I live in a three-bedroom house with two baths.

~ * ~ * ~

Sometimes I don’t have much to say.
I hear it’s by the grace of God.

* * *

See photos here by Eric Schultz of the annual Point in Time homeless count, January 2013

When you can’t keep the rules

Some people have the gift. Some don't. Fran does. She runs Manna House, a soup kitchen of sorts. (Well, she and God—she gives God all the credit so God gets all the glory.)

When the poor and homeless come to Manna House, Fran sees the person hiding underneath the need, underneath any scam. She loves. She listens to sob stories then says, “Sure we can help. Let’s see what we have.” Especially when kids are involved. Fran has the gift of mercy.
 
But others aren't so generous. . . .

I’m a rule-follower from way back. I like to do things right, in order, as they should be. (Even filling out my brackets for March Madness, I struggle with ranking a 9 team over an 8.)

So when the rules at Manna House are one toothbrush, one shampoo, one deodorant per family representative, that’s what I *try* to give out on the Wednesdays I volunteer.

But sometimes I just can’t.

A few Wednesdays ago two people side by side asked for a roll of toilet paper each. But a fellow rule-keeper handing them out got suspicious. Perhaps these two people were in the same family, she thought, in which case they should only get one roll, not two. She questioned the couple, “Aren’t you two together?”

Really?
It bothered me.

Even if they were together, there stood two bottoms that would need wiping, two bodies that had already stood in a long line in the cold to get help, so hand over two rolls, woman! (It's one reason I started buying extra toilet paper myself to give away. If somebody asks for tissue, I want to be able to say, “Yes!” even if it’s only for an hour until we run out again.)

I need to remember this lesson:
People are more important than policies. That’s what Jesus teaches me. He chose people over the Sabbath. Relationship over rules. Love over laws.

The only reason we have rules and policies is to better love people, right? But if occasionally those need to be broken to keep the greater law of love, then break them.

And if that means now and again giving away two rolls of toilet paper to two people even in the same family, I think Fran would approve. Because I know Jesus would. May I remember to do likewise. 

* * *

Do you ever struggle with knowing when to break a rule, too?

Related:

• grace drips, drips, drips
• Just one roll (I must have a thing about toilet paper)
• I got the note

grace drips, drips, drips

I make the largest strides forward in life not when I am the most comfortable, but when I am the most alive.
- JEFF GOINS

it wrecks me. i can’t explain it. but i feel it.

i finish and i feel helpless. exposed. unguarded. i helped a little and a little is good. it’s more than nothing.

but the need is heavier. i see it, i hear it, i touch it.
i know it.

and i feel it.
compassion slays pride. it squeezes out, Lord please? we need. they need. now. here. amen.

and His reply? rarely in the bulk I request.

i don’t behold buckets of financial healing pouring on the poor
or physical healing on the injured
or mental healing on the disturbed
or chemical healing on the addicted
or emotional healing on the wounded.

not that He can’t. or won’t. or doesn’t. or hasn’t.

but i rarely spot full-blown miracles.

what i catch are sprinkles.
drops of grace.
one by one. 

drip, drip, drip.

sometimes they make a mess.
sometimes they seem too few.
sometimes they fall unnoticed.

but the drizzle keeps falling.
again.
again.
again.

they’re ripe to bursting.
in faith. in hope. in love.

and where they splash, the hungry sponge them up and thirst for more.
more grace. more Him, if understood.

and the wrecked? we walk away splattered with sprays of grace as we pray for buckets.

but the drops never stop and wet we return, open mouths aimed heavenward for a refilling.

to do justly. to love mercy. to walk humbly with our God (micah 6:8).

even if it wrecks us.
it’s real. it's right. it's redeeming.
it’s alive.

and i feel it.

* * *

this is often how i feel when i walk away from a night at manna house, a food and clothing distribution center for the poor and homeless near my town. wrecked. yet eager to come back quicker and share more fully the next time than i did the last time. Lord, continue raining grace.

Love at Table # 12, please

The twenty-five round tables were already clothed in soft black when we arrived, eight chairs neatly circled round each.

Like the other duos dressed in black pants and white shirts on this shiny Saturday morning, Jenna and I gathered napkins, plastic cutlery, and peppermints from the main serving table to set up our Table # 12.

The church lobby was being transformed into holy ground. No longer a space just to mill about and greet your neighbor, it was becoming a proper sit-down restaurant, awaiting more than a hundred special guests. The annual Kings Banquet.

The first bus rolled in. Then another. Our guests unloaded. Six of them—men of various sizes, outfits, and personalities—quietly took a seat around Table # 12.

Homeless men. Men accustomed to standing in a food line. Or gathering scraps to throw together. Or grilling over a campsite fire.

But not today. Today, these men and women were about to be treated like kings and queens.

Granted, Jenna and I lacked the serving credentials necessary for royalty. Nevertheless, we properly pestered our patrons with, “Can I get you some sweet tea? More coffee?”

And when the catered food came hot out of the ovens, we served up six plates piled high with ham and turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, vegetables, rolls, and a separate plate with carved roast beef. “Second helpings, anyone? Chocolate cake? Banana pudding? Both?”

I tried not to cry.

Not out of pity for the men. But out of gratitude for the opportunity to make friends with them.

To swap things around for a couple of hours. To override our differences. To see we were more alike than you’d assume.

• To learn the pony-tailed gentleman has a 23-year-old daughter like me, and he doesn’t get to see his either as much as he’d like because she’s in California and he’s in Alabama
• To ask the man with the book who his favorite authors are (he named three, including Terry McMillan), and discovering he loves reading as much as I do, and that we may have crossed paths at the same public library
• To talk with the big-smile guy about visiting different churches, and inviting him to come to ours when he can, and watching him smile again when I said that

Sure, we had some obvious differences, too. They were dressed in heavy coats and warm hats, critical gear for outside sleeping. Some were exceptionally quiet, reluctant to participate in casual dinner conversation. None were constantly checking cell phones or pulling out iPods.

But the more we talked, the more the similarities surfaced.

And the empty chair at Table # 12?

I wondered if it wasn’t quite the fullest seat of them all. By someone more like us than we knew. Someone who’d fit right in with the least of these, himself knowing homelessness for a season.

Had Jesus been here in the flesh, he’d have looked these brothers in the eye when he talked. Smiled when they responded back. Penetrated to their very souls with hope and grace and forgiveness.

With love.

But now he partnered to do it through us. Through me. Me—the one doing a lousy job with any of those. I didn’t even get everyone’s first name.

After a few praise songs, a short talk, and prayers, the men stood up to go back to wherever they had come from. They left us with thank you’s. Smiles. Hugs. The greatest tips we could receive.

Table # 12 was now empty. We threw away the plates. Stacked up the chairs. Put the centerpieces away.

But the love from Table # 12 lingers full on my insides.

Maybe I’ll see one or two of these men around town—at the library or Manna House or on the streets. Maybe we’ll share another smile. And if the circumstances are right, maybe we’ll have another conversation.

And that other guest at Table # 12?

May his royal presence continue reminding us we’re all made in his image, so we’ll judge each other less and love each other more. Be less critical and more caring. Notice fewer of our differences and more of our shared humanity.

Even if poorly and only for a moment. On a wintry Saturday morning. Around Table # 12.

* * *

Where is God’s house?

I worry about what happens when we build a house for God.

...Do we build God a house so that we can choose when to go see God? Do we build God a house in lieu of having God stay at ours?

What happens to the rest of the world when we build four walls—even four gorgeous walls—cap them with a steepled roof, and designate that the House of God?

What happens to the people who never show up in our houses of God?
- BARBARA BROWN TAYLOR, An Altar in the World

Here is the church
Here is the steeple
Open the door
And see all the people

But what about when there are no doors?
No steeple?
Where are the people?
Where can God live?

It’s Saturday morning. It’s cold.

But it’s the first Saturday of the month and that means Outdoor Church behind Manna House. A gathering for those who believe (and maybe don’t but want to) who don’t feel comfortable and/or welcome inside the “houses of worship” sprinkled throughout the city.

I can’t say I know how they feel. I’ve generally felt welcome wherever I’ve visited.

But then again, I can play the part. Clean clothes. Showered body. Arrival in a heated SUV.

These folks mainly come by foot. Maybe with alcohol on their breath. Many with cigarettes in their pockets.

(Shouldn’t they give those up?
Their lives would be better if they did,
but aren’t there things I need to give up, too? 
God can’t wait on us to get it all together.
He kicks down the door, Come! Just as you are.)

And today, once again (almost always?), I question my part. 

I stand in the bedroom, after putting on three layers of shirts and a couple pairs of socks, and ask Jeff, “Tell me again why I’m going?”

I’ve caught him at a weak moment, too. The pull to spend the day on our personal projects at home is strong this morning for both of us.

But he conquers his and answers, “Because there’s somebody there you can love on.”

I buy it. I get in the car. We drive into town.

My 2013 One Word is Jesus. My January focus is “The practice of waking up to God.” So I want to wake up to Jesus in Outdoor Church this morning. I want to be Jesus in Outdoor Church to those who need to see him.

But when we get there, we’re alone.

No volunteers’ cars in the parking lot preparing a hot meal for the hungry after the service. No chairs set up outside for the guests. No guitars set up for the worship band.

No people.

This is why I came? For nothing?
Where is this person I was supposed to love on?

But does God let anything happen for nothing? I know “no.” Maybe he knew I needed a push out the door so I wouldn’t mourn all day that Jenna went back to Auburn that morning. Maybe he knew I needed to prepare my heart to serve even if there would be no one there to serve.

Maybe, just maybe, he wanted me to pleased with his presence alone, to “have church” with him, to know he is enough.

To realize he is the one I’m to love on.

So Jeff and I drive on. Drop a few books off at the library. Meander the back roads home. Take off all the extra layers. 

And feel satisfied.

The Outdoor Church will gather again another day. But this waking up to God, discovering yourself in his house—it can happen anytime, anywhere. Without doors, without steeples. And sometimes even without people. 

Where is God’s house?

It’s here.
It’s now.
And it’s full.

* * *

Where have you seen God lately?

Until God is finished

Sometimes God tells you, “Move along now.”
Other times, “Stay where you are awhile.”

And yet other times, he says, “Go back to this.”

Violet and I go back a few years. We were part of the same church for over a decade. We were friends enough, just like she was with several people (except Kim; count Kim as a super-friend and champion for Violet, but that’s another story).

But after awhile Violet stopped going there. I switched, too.
And that was that.

Until now.

God has me running into Violet again. She pops in periodically where I volunteer and we hug and chat and catch up.

Last Saturday we both showed up at Outdoor Church. She wished me a happy birthday—she’d remembered it was last Sunday, and Jeff’s the week prior to that. As always she asked about Morgan, about Jenna.

Together we listened to a guy give his testimony. About drugs. Alcohol. Jail. And how he threw away a Bible when someone gave it to him.

But it showed up again months later—the exact same Bible, he claims—while he was in jail in another town.

And this time he kept it.
   And read it.
      And Jesus changed him.

The story hits home. I wouldn’t say I threw Violet away months ago (or ever, I hope), but now that she’s shown up again in my life, I hope to notice more. To be open more. And to be changed by Jesus more.

Maybe God still has things he wants me to see through the person and presence of Violet.

Because sometimes one time around isn’t enough.

God sends us back through for more lessons, more opportunities, more transformation.

So I had someone snap this picture of Violet and me on Saturday. I’ll get it printed for her and stick it in my glove compartment for when I see her. Next time.

Because until God says, “We’re done here,” I hope to keep hanging around.

* * *

Does God use the recurring presence of someone in your life to teach you lessons, too?

I got the note

It was a late Wednesday afternoon. Cold outside, slightly warmer inside. She stood in a long line wrapped around the building for a long while.

But as she twisted her way through the line inside—to collect bruised bananas, days-old bread, a freshly-made PB&J, leftover chocolate cupcakes—she finally made her way to my station. The end of the line.

She didn’t know me. I didn’t know her.

But she handed me her note. 

It was a list of items she needed: shampoo, body wash, toilet tissue, . . . .

But the sentence at the bottom was what she really wanted me to see. Somebody to see. Because that’s where her heart was. That’s what she needed to say, and needed someone to hear.

“Thank you for helping today
  Many people are alive because you care.”

It didn’t have to be my eyes. She told me it was for everyone. To share it around. I did.

But I’m the one getting to keep it. On my dresser. In my heart. To look at and re-read and to remember that when you think your little act of kindness is nothing to you, it could be something to someone else.

And when that someone says thanks—even if you’re not the one who deserves it—you can be the one to accept it.

In Pastor Mark’s sermon Sunday morning, he thanked “us” for years of hard work and flexibility and faith. I had to take it. Even though I’ve only been there a few months.

Because one way to love others is to let them love you.

It’s okay to say “you’re welcome”—to accept the blessing—in order to give a blessing. Even when you don’t deserve it.

You never really deserve it.

It’s the way God’s economy works. Sometimes I think it’s crazy. But that’s grace. And I’m thankful for it. 

So I keep the woman’s note. Not as a boost to my ego, but as a testimony to my God. Because he always loves first and he shares the benefits of giving. And receiving. 

* * *

Have you ever been thanked when you didn’t deserve it?

I’m still prejudiced

And as they continued to ask him, he stood up and said to them, “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.”
John 8:7

I’m still prejudiced.

Sometimes I get this false notion I’ve outgrown it.

Oh, how wrong I am.

It doesn’t take much to prove it.
How about a Saturday breakfast at Waffle House?

Two white customers at the counter in front of us were dressed immodestly. Anybody would say so. One had tight, black yoga pants with a short shirt, belly oozing out every opening it could find. Scuffed, red, very high heel shoes on her feet.

But she was decent compared to the other. I don’t remember the second woman’s shirt; I couldn’t get past her skirt. Or, piece of cloth, I should say. Pink, tight, short, and see-through. Black thong underwear underneath.

They were sitting beside a man, slightly older, buying the morning meal. At a minimum, this meal.

All that was bad enough. Or so I thought. Until they stood up to leave.

When the woman in the “skirt” got up, her small amount of clothing had shifted. This was bad. (The lady beside us covered up her son’s eyes. If I’d known it was coming, I’d have covered up Jeff’s.)

I blossomed into full judgment mode now.

What was this trashy woman thinking? Why was she bringing her prostitute self into a Waffle House where families were trying to eat breakfast? Did she have no other clothes to wear in public? 

Then she said something. To us.

She apologized.

It was short, granted, and I can’t vouch for her sincerity, but in one short statement, she acknowledged who she was and acknowledged who we were.

“I’m sorry, ladies; excuse the skirt.”

Sigh.

And I was sorry, too. Maybe she saw no way out of her mess. She looked ragged. I’d noticed her feet had sores, and when I looked at her face, I saw a band aid covering a cut near her eye.

This was a broken woman.

That made two of us. Broken in different ways, to be sure. But nonetheless, here we were, two women made in the image of God, intersecting at Waffle House on a Saturday game day in Auburn, Alabama. Both with hurts. Both with sin.

And both with hope?

I know I have it. I thank God for it. Whatever life throws at me, I can throw it back (eventually anyway) and claim, “Better is on the way!”

But this woman? What hope is she holding on to? Does she know Jesus?

Instead of jumping to judging, I wish I’d passed through praying when I first saw this woman. But as Grace covers my indecent prejudice, Grace also helps me outgrow it.

And Grace wants to cover her, too. Grow her some hope. Grace can do that.

I pray she’ll let him.

   Jesus stood up and said to her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”
   She said, “No one, Lord.” And Jesus said, “Neither do I condemn you; go, and from now on sin no more.”
John 8:10-11

* *

What helps you pray before judging?

your grace looks different than mine

i don’t know what to do with larry.

when it’s 42° tonight and i put my pampered head on my contoured pillow, my mind will turn over what larry said.

he's from tennessee and hopes to move back to pulaski in april if he can get his checks coming in again, so says his lawyer man, and i wonder where he’d pick them up if they came.

i tell larry it’s cold today! and larry says, “cold? cold is when snow is up to here and you’re throwing hay out to feed the cows; this ain’t cold,” but he smiles when he says it so i smile back even though i feel all wimpy inside with my red nose and without thinking i pull my gray scarf a little tighter around my neck with my gloved hands to keep the goose bumps from showing.

i ask where he spends his nights. he has three choices, he says. salvation army is one, the rescue mission is another, but his favorite? see that bridge over there? i see it. that’s the one. (the one i drive my air-conditioned and heated car over when i'm going from here to there doing this and that for me and mine.)

i ask him why because even though my mind can’t fathom sleeping at the salvation army or rescue mission it sure can’t imagine stealing a wink under a bridge. so larry tells me. at the other two places you gotta room full of men and when you get a room full of men...well, with a twinkle in his eye, he waves his hand in front of his nose...and laughs. i understand what he means and i laugh too.

wouldn’t i rather sleep in the open air than in a room full of smelly men even if i were one of them? i get that as much as a princess can.

but how do you stay warm at night, larry? i stay plenty warm, he says. i have two thick blankets and a mattress because i'm not gonna sleep on this hard ground.

oh.

and i zip up my jacket a little higher trying not to shiver too noticeably.

he pulls something out of his pocket and offers me a cigar from his box of 3 for 99 cents. but i tell him no thanks because that’s one habit i never started and i hear it’s real hard to quit so i don’t want to start now. he knows and says they’re good anyway but the only bad thing is the label says “good times” when it should say “hard times,” and i don’t doubt larry.

but if grace doesn’t play favorites i wonder why larry’s grace looks so small compared to the blessings i rake in every day?

i can justify and say (in my head) larry made bad choices and that’s why bad things happen to him and why he sleeps under a bridge while i sleep in a king-sized bed with an electric blanket and i'd be partly right.

but i don’t want to feel superior about my good choices and think secretly i earned these things i have because i worked hard walking through three stores to find the right shade of green for my bedding to match the sage green on my walls.

maybe grace looks different to different people and i don’t have to feel guilty about mine but just pass it along when i can, even when it doesn’t make sense, even when all i'm doing is putting a top on a bowl of chili for larry to take back to the bridge. it doesn’t seem like much grace to show a fellow journeyman.

maybe grace is bigger than a network of clean people with decent jobs and garaged homes in the ‘burbs and kids on scholarship at the university.

and maybe grace is even bigger than cigar-smoking men on dirty mattresses in fresh-air homes that cars drive over all night under the stars.

i want to look around me for God’s sake and see he shows grace to all his creatures except in different ways and grace flows from one to another and back again and we’re never the same in the crossing.

by grace let me touch and pray and thank and question and wonder and ache and laugh and praise and do it all again tomorrow.

and larry...i still don’t know what to do with larry except to know he’s there and he’s real and my God is showing him grace too, through us but also to us, even though his grace looks way different from my grace and i'd rather keep mine, thank you very much.

our grace in common is more than i know because God loves not one more than the other and he intersected our journeys on a cold saturday morning to show us both his love the same.

i don’t know. i don’t have to. may grace be grace.

* * *

Day 15 of . . .

Look grace in the face

Annie (not her real name) is indignant, “I can’t believe he just asked me that!”

I’d stepped into the back of the warehouse to get a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo for the lady asking for them. Annie had been refilling the bins that held each, but she is on her feet now.

“What did he ask you, Annie?”

“That boy wanted to know if I’m a boy or a girl! I should have told him it depends on which day you ask!” she answers, adding a few choice names she wished she’d called him.

What I reply out loud is, “Wow. That was pretty rude of him. I’m sorry that happened.”

But what I reply in my head is, “Lord, forgive me!” And “Thank you, Lord, for this second chance!”

Here’s why.

Rewind two hours.

Jeff and I are driving to the warehouse that is Manna House. We see a person on the sidewalk waiting to cross the corner of the Parkway and Governors Drive. Early 20s; thin build; short black hair; black t-shirt; skinny jeans.

“Boy or girl?” Jeff asks me.

“Girl,” I say. “Boys’ jeans aren’t that high-waisted.”

A flippant little exchange just between two people in a car, right? We laugh. Drive on. Forget about it.

Uncaught.

Until 20 minutes later.

Caught. I’m face to face with this very girl from the street.

A real girl. With a heart. With a name. A girl deserving respect as a unique creation of God.

I introduce myself to my co-worker for the night: Annie. We talk about our names. She says hers is common among Catholics. I ask if she grew up Catholic. Yes. And now? She says she doesn’t go to church; she’s more into non-religious spirituality.

She doesn’t ask me about my faith. But if she did, if I were honest, I’d have to say I’m an imperfect believer, still troubled by bad habits (like flippantly disrespecting others, even if only behind their backs) but trying to be more like Jesus. Give away more of his love. Give away more of his gifts.  

Like grace.

~ *~ * ~ * ~ * ~

My little interchanges with Annie, about Annie, were reminders to me of my need to receive grace. Even as I was judging Annie on the side of the road in a way that would have been hurtful to her if she’d heard, grace had me covered, undeserving as I was.

But I was given double-grace Thursday night.  My second dose came in an opportunity to get it right—by meeting Annie in person. To look her in the eye. To look grace in the face. 

The more grace we see, the more grace we’ll give.

It feels good to give grace. It feels right. It feels loving.
It feels like something Jesus would do.

* * *

Think about how you’ve received grace from God.

Then about who could receive a dose from God through you.

Day 8 of . . .

Are you quiet enough to listen?

Maybe one of the biggest ways you can love somebody today is the quietest . . .

We’re already sweating.

No white tent is up today. Jenna and I take a seat in row 2 of the folding chairs. We scan the crowd. We wait for the unknown.

Then he strolls in. In a clean, crisp shirt today. I smile to see him. He's the one known I was waiting for.

Will he remember me? It's been two whole months. I wave, “You're looking good today, Walter Baby Love!”

I smile even more inside when he steps into the second row. I feel special (proud? is that weird?) to be the one he chooses to sit by. Gifts are hidden in his homelessness and I want to be near.

It’s Outdoor Church, the first Saturday each month when Fran & crew invite the homeless to come break bread in every way. (I want to be a Fran, but, alas, I am definitely not. Too timid. That I know.)

I like to listen to Walter, this aged yet ageless man with a brand of wisdom I could never generate. His smarts are from hard living, not from pecking keys on a laptop in a bedroom with a/c. 

He starts talking. About his singing audition at the Von Braun Center. He then pulls out a brochure to show me about the Rescue Mission event he would sing at later today. I feel pride for Walter and say I'm glad he uses his gifts for God's glory. He knows.

What are you teaching me, Walter? What? I want to learn.

When I ask if he's singing for us here, he tells me his song choice (I’m sorry I’ve already forgotten it). “A good one, Walter.” He will teach through that one. I believe.

It’s suddenly not as hot. Clouds roll in—You'll rain us out, God? Really?—but Walter keeps talking, teaching me that getting wet won't hurt anybody this month, but in another month it might make you so sick you'd never recover.

On stage now is the worship team—a small white woman in denim capris and her black husband on the guitar, his shirt flapping open at the bottom as the wind picks up. They launch into their set.

I don't know all the words—no lyrics are PowerPoint-projected on the outside of this warehouse sitting on hot pavement. But I make do and harmonize with Jenna on one side and Walter Baby Love on the other, all of us aiming to praise the same God for providing (while I wonder if he's provided more for me and shouldn't my praise reflect it, if so?).

Walter leans in and mumbles, “I wish she'd stop that,” when the nothing-but-bones lady pushes around a cart of water bottles during the prayer. I hear him. (But I take a bottle and give thanks.)

Am I feeling rain? I look at Jenna. She nods. But nobody gets up. They know it's fine to get wet in September. I know, too; Walter told me.

Then something changes.

At the first thunder and far-off lightning, Walter gets fidgety. He whispers to me, “When God is doing his work, I gotta find a dark corner and wait ‘til he’s finished.”

And he does. Walter walks away—he’s scared of the thunder. His confidence gone.

I’m ashamed. Have I never considered how terrifying it would be to live outside in a thunderstorm? Shelter under a bridge would be little comfort. Even if Walter now lives in a room somewhere (I regret I didn’t ask), he’s bound to have bad memories from bad weather.

But the storm blows north this time, so Walter blows back in. He sits. Then he gets up and sings. We tell him Jenna got his picture. That makes him happy. It makes me happy, too.

And so we leave.
Smarter for the listening.

If we’ll get quiet enough to listen,
everyone—everyone—has something to teach.

* * *

Who can you listen to in the next 24 hours?

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Not just another day in church

Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
Matthew 6:10

I arrived at church a few minutes before it started. Several seats were already taken. I walked to the back and an older gentleman said, “Hi.”

We shook hands and I said, “I’m Lisa.” He told me his name, then suggested some seats where we could all sit together.

Although we were first-time attendees, he obviously was not. He knew how to welcome visitors.
It was a hot morning, so he asked if Jenna and I would like some cold water. Before we could answer, he hopped up, cane in hand, and brought back two bottles of water.

He told me he was singing at today’s service. He liked to sing. For the glory of God, he said. I believed him.

The service began. My new friend knew the words to all the songs. Then it was his turn for an acapella solo. Could he sing? Oh yes, he could sing!

He sat back down, leaned over, and grinned, “Didn’t I do it?”

Oh, yes, Walter Baby Love, you did it.

He said he had a name like that for a reason; now I understood.



After the sermon, I got in line for communion with Walter Baby Love and other poor and homeless brothers and sisters gathered on the hot asphalt for this outdoor church service. Maybe some didn’t understand—couldn’t understand—but some did.

We took the bread, dipped it in juice, and took it in.

I took it in.

And took it in. And took it in. Kingdom living.

• Sounds of praise
• Goodness of our Jesus
• Grace from his veins

Jeff was grilling when we rounded the corner after church was over. Following this feast of worship, he and the other volunteers of the Manna House served a feast of hamburgers, hot dogs, and all the fixings for the guests.

All free.
Until full.
Among friends.

The kingdom has come.
I’m glad to be in it.
And I’m glad brothers like Walter Baby Love are in it, too.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound  
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost but now am found
Was blind but now I see

[Click here if you can't see the 30-second video]

* * *

Where have you unexpectedly seen the kingdom come lately?

Just one roll of toilet paper

In the desert he fed you manna—something your ancestors had never seen. He tested you to make you humble so that everything would go well for you in the end.
Deuteronomy 8:16 (ERV)

It’s called Manna House. I thought I got it, you know, manna...basic needs...God provides...every day. We all know the story (Exodus 16).

But until last week, I never really related the only-one-day-at-a-time part to the Manna House. 

Until one roll of toilet paper. 

I’m not sure where all these things come from to give to our city’s poor—I suppose some are leftovers from restaurants; some are mislabeled cans that can’t be sold; some are donations from individual companies.

I just know it’s a lot of stuff.

But there’s a lot of people.

So while they can distribute a variety of goods to everybody that comes in, the quantities per person are limited.

Thursday night I was helping give out toiletries. It’s typically the last stop before the exit. After going through a food line, people can ask for extras like shampoo and deodorant. Baby wipes and four diapers per child. One regular bar of soap or three bars if they’re small.

And one roll of toilet paper (as long as it lasts—we ran out Thursday night).

All are welcome to come back another day and get another roll. And many do. But for that day, that’s it. Enough for a day for a family. Manna.

My first thought was I’d love to bring in tons of 12-roll packages and pass them out whole. “Here, take ALL these home and enjoy all week!” Because if there’s one thing I never want to run out of it, it’s toilet paper. (I vowed after I moved on my own that I never would. And rarely have I.)

Yet...yet...there’s something about them receiving only enough for the day—and us giving only enough for the day—that keeps them coming back and keeps us coming back (I use “us” generously—I’m an infrequent volunteer)...and keeps us all dependent on the mercy of God.

Now that’s not to say God wouldn’t want to bless someone with a 12-roll. Or that he wants us all to live life on the edge of one roll at a time.

But if one roll a day is what he gives—with hope for another roll tomorrow—it is enough. For them.

But is it for me?

Am I satisfied with my manna? (And I’m not necessarily talking toilet paper anymore.)

• My manna of energy?
• My manna of time?
• My manna of knowledge? Is it enough that I know today how I can glorify God? Or do I want a week’s supply of knowledge to store up? A month? A lifetime? (Would I feel differently if every morning I opened up my closet I found maggots in my 12-pack of knowledge?)

One day enough.

There’s something about receiving only enough for the day that keeps me coming back for more. It keeps me dependent on the mercy of God.

If he chooses to give me more than a day’s supply—and in many things he does, I eat often of the fruit from Canaan (Joshua 5:12)—I’ll take it and be grateful.

But when he supplies me only day by day, I still want to give thanks. For humility. For provision. For enough.

It’s all grace.
He will provide.
He can be trusted—one roll at a time.

* * *

What do you have a fear of running out of? 
I’m thankful his grace is bottomless!

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Rip out the carpets

Here's another way to put it: You're here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world. God is not a secret to be kept.

We're going public with this, as public as a city on a hill.
Matthew 5:14 (Msg)

Every Christian we meet is a person in whom Jesus lives;
every lost soul we meet is a person for whom Jesus died.
- Warren Wiersbe

White on Black

They were desperate.
Their drugs were all that mattered.
They didn’t want to waste a single rock.

So the contrast had to be sharp. They ripped all the carpets out of the room. And painted the floor black.

When they dropped the white, it’d show up best on black.

Bobby Hayden was telling his story yesterday in the chapel at the Rescue Mission.

...to men and women who understood—the homeless, the hopeless, the drug addicts—the ones trying to break free.

...and to men and women who wanted to understand more—the sheltered, the filled, the employed—the ones wanting to live even more free.

What contrast?

I felt the outward contrast. Even though I was in blue jeans like many others, I knew I still stood out. My clothes weren’t dirty. My hair was washed. I drove up in a car; I would leave in one.

I didn’t know all that Bobby was talking about.

• I’d never been a rock star in L.A.
• I’d never looked for fresh veins to shoot heroine in. (Sugar is my self-medicating drug of choice, through the mouth.)
• I’d never spent even one night in a cardboard box, and certainly not ten years.

There’s a depth of darkness I’ve never seen.

But I do know the light Bobby talked about. 

Dead or alive

I wondered if the man on the third pew knew.  I watched him as Bobby spoke. He was a stone statue. His head was shrouded in a black hoodie. His heart was covered in a dingy flannel shirt.

He didn’t sing “I’ll Fly Away” when the others did. He didn’t lift a hand in praise. He didn’t sit close to friends.

He seemed dead.

Yet he’s the one. One that Jesus died for, still lives for. Jesus wants this man to see the contrast between dark and light.

As we say, Jesus didn’t come to make bad people good. He came to make dead people live.

He came to turn corpses of stone into breathers of life.

Light on dark

I’ve spent the last 4 months living in Romans 8. Day after day I’ve noted the contrasts: Flesh and Spirit. Death and life. Debt and freedom. Slavery and adoption. Against us and for us.

I know which side I’m on. Yet I want to breathe deeper still. I don’t want to be another suit and tie on a Sunday morning pew, sitting quietly by another suit and tie.

I don’t want to settle comfortably between good and better.

I want to rip out the carpets so I’ll be a bright light to a dark world.

Alive. Not dead. That’s the biggest contrast. That’s the one Bobby discovered in Jesus. That’s the one he was testifying about.

That’s the one he was preaching to the man in the black hoodie. And to the woman in the silver necklace.

Jesus is the light on dark. Rip out the carpets and see.

* * *

As a baby cried in the back of the chapel, and a mother put in a pacifier, I wondered if it was one our girls gave months earlier. And so it goes...

When have you seen Jesus the brightest?

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Church, where are we?

Two arrested in the last meth bust. Back page news.
The 20-something-man slits his wrist. He fails to die. 

Lord, I need You, I cry aloud
My heart is low, my head is bowed

The teen girl feels unloved. She awaits 18 to leave it behind.
The mom has a death wish. Her plans are mounting.

Please come find me, I am here
I need to know that You are near

A wife stays jailed in her own home. She can’t leave her man.
The girl says this cut will ease the ache. No pain this time.

The sin is harsh and tries to stay
Kick it off, I plead, I pray

And the church in the city
keeps its doors locked at night and
its hearts busy by day and
its rules binding ever tighter.

Where is the Light?
Where is the Love?
Where is their Jesus?

Who has time for coddling slippery slopes when
souls are ripping and
marriages are breaking and
kids are wondering why mommy cries all the time.

Church, where are we?
Church, where are we?
Church, where are we?

I’m here, I’m here, My grip is strong
My grace is deep, My reach is long

Who will hear Him...
Can they tell another...
Won’t someone shine a Light on the dark?

* * *

When things bubble up, and I can’t catch the overflow, I lay them out in words. Sometimes words only in prayer. Sometimes there and here. Today, both.

What are you trying to say? Katie and Stacey say put your hearts on the page and offer them to the One who gave them to you in the first place. Link up here.

I need a miracle

You recognize them. The signs of the homeless. Those needing help.

But this sign was different. Jeff saw it last week. Driving under the overpass of E470 in Denver, he spotted the man in dirty clothes and a cap.

And his sign.
It said:
     “I need a miracle.”

That was all.
I need a miracle.

Yes.
I do.
You, too?

If you’re in Christ, you’ve already received a huge one.
The miracle of life. A rescue straight from the mouth of destruction. A deliverance that never ends.

But God doesn’t stop there.

He brings fresh miracles every morning. Maybe we don’t recognize them as such, but how many unexplained and supernatural gifts have we unwrapped by nightfall?

• The sarcastic outburst I had last night?
       Washed away. Miracle.
• The friend I meant to check on but ‘forgot’?
       Second chance. Miracle.
• The attitude I harbored that “I would never do that!”?
       Forgiven. Miracle.

Miracles of grace.
Recognize them. They’re the signs of the saved. Those receiving help.

I need them. Every day.
He gives them. Every day.
So I thank him. Every day. You, too?

We are still alive because the LORD'S faithful love never ends.
Every morning he shows it in new ways!
You are so very true and loyal!
Lamentations 3:22-23 (ERV)

* * *

How have you experienced a miracle today?

Let’s go

I was paying attention to the sermon yesterday. Really I was. David Platt was preaching Truth from Matthew 9:35-10:42, “Sent by the King.”

But in the listening, as he told each of us to go—to the diseased, the dying, the despised, the dirty—my mind wandered to Bobby (not his real name).

We had both been going—along with six or seven others—to the same Wednesday night Bible class. Bobby was a recovering addict. He was on the verge of six months of sobriety.

He was experiencing freedom in Christ, no more bondage to drugs and alcohol.

But Bobby was also nervous. Of that freedom. With his six-month graduation from his recovery program, he would go back into the real world. With more opportunities. And with more temptations.

I felt his burden heavy one Wednesday night in particular. As was our custom, we ended with a time of praying, each sharing with the Father and each other what was on our hearts.

Bobby was on mine. When my turn came, I prayed for him, verbalizing to God, to Bobby, and to myself that I cared. Many more had prayed for Bobby for years already.

That was that.

Bobby graduated and moved on. But when I asked about him several weeks later, I was told he had fallen off the wagon within days of being on his own.

What had happened to his resolve? His faith? Our prayers???

It was time to go again, to God, for Bobby.

More time passed. I saw him next at a graduation ceremony for one of his friends. He was fighting for his faith again. With the Lord’s help, Bobby did go back to God. It’s a cycle common to addicts (don’t we all relate?), but not one without hope.
 
We all—Bobby, you, me—are the diseased, the dying, the despised, the dirty, that Jesus goes to.

And he sends us out in turn to go to others.

But we never go alone. He goes with us...as he heals us and breathes life into us and loves us and cleans us up.

That’s good news. That’s the gospel. Jesus saves. All us recovering addicts.

We’re sent by the King to tell it to others.

Let’s go. 

* * *

Who is the King sending you to today?

An adventure...but...

I want each of you to take plenty of time to think it over, and make up your own mind what you will give. That will protect you against sob stories and arm-twisting. God loves it when the giver delights in the giving.
   2 Corinthians 9:7 (The Message)

What could we do to make an impression? What kind of adventure could we have? What action could we take to make a difference?

I have an idea!

For the lesson on Mary, the mother of Jesus, we’d go on a field trip with the teen girls.

We’d each bring a baby gift, then deliver them in person to the women’s homeless shelter. We’d talk to the women, watch them open their gifts, ooh and ahh over their babies. We’d bring them some love from Jesus.

I liked the plan.

But...

Why is there always a but in my adventures?

• But the women’s shelter was slow to return our calls.
• But on Sunday morning the women would be gone, attending chapel services of their own.
• But the staff wouldn’t be available at that time to even give us a quick tour of the facilities.

And then God threw in a but of his own…

• But go anyway!
  Don’t worry about seeing them opened; just give My gifts.

So we loaded the girls on the van, weighted down with diapers and baby rattles and onesies.

On the ride over, each girl held a gift. One by one, each prayed for the baby and mother who would be receiving that gift.

Lord,

• Help the mother who gets this gift see her child as a gift from heaven.
• May this baby bring much joy to his parents, and learn to love Jesus.
• Pour special blessings and extra love on the baby who receives this gift.
• Help this baby to grow up knowing Jesus loves her.
• May this baby receive enough food to eat and enough clothes for warmth this winter.
• Help the mom of this baby learn You can help her have a better life, starting now.
• Please protect this baby to grow into a great man or woman for You.

One by one, though unseen by us, these gifts will be opened.

And one by one, if the Lord so chooses, so will the blessings. 

We arrived at the shelter, handed over our gifts to the workers in the lobby, and were thanked generously before heading back to the church building.

It wasn’t quite the grand adventure I had envisioned.

But...perhaps the adventure wasn’t meant for us.

Perhaps the real adventure is meant for her—the mother with no pacifier, no baby socks, no diapers—no hope?—for her baby, then suddenly is showered with just what she needs.

And now, maybe her adventure can really begin….

And my God will supply every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus.
Philippians 4:19

* * *

2012: My year to...