Postcard Challenge #7: VIP

So this postcard came a while ago, but I haven't gotten around to writing about it yet.

The instructions were simple: Cut out the middle of the postcard to make a frame. Hold it up. Snap a picture of a very important person and then give the picture to him or her.

I started with the usual suspects.

I was planning on some grandiose schemes inspire by Kathleen (taking pictures of strangers and letting them know they are important) but this kiddo came over for homework time at our house, and I decided I had found a VIP I hadn't reflected on yet.

Meet my friend; we'll call her B: (I decided against posting her picture since she's not my child).

I had B in 5th grade, one of my favorite kiddos of all time. She was sweet, eager to learn, perceptive (she was the first student to ask if I was going to have a baby when indeed I was). 

One of my favorite moments was when I asked another girl in our ESL class what came at the beginning of every sentence and B shouted out, "A Caterpillar!" She was a delight. 

Now I have the privilege of seeing B and sometimes her little brother almost every Tuesday. They roll in after school for hot cocoa and help with the crazy stack of homework I hadn't known about from the giving end of the deal. She works hard, helps with Elisa, and the whole time, we learn from each other. 

We've had conversations about being sisters and her wanting to be a doctor. Conversations about why Christians give gifts at Christmas time and about arranged marriages. Conversations about wishing our dads didn't have to work so hard and why some kids are mean. When we read a question about who you would honor with a special day if you were president, she said, "Everyone."

She has become part of the fabric of my week.We are Christian and Muslim, mother and teenager, native-born and refugee, and every week, we break "bread" (think Cheeze-its and cookies) around a coffee table and share life. 

Most importantly, B has been a bridge to a beautiful, unexpected friendship with her family. I had met B's family during parent-teacher conferences and spoken briefly with her mother at the bus stop. 

One day, I was feeling particularly lonely and felt a nudge from God to spend some time with B's mom "S." I felt crazy ridiculous knocking on another woman's door in the middle of the day, but I so very glad I did. 

Since that day we've shared super sweet tea and flaky baklava from Jordan. We've talked about loneliness and babies and our parents being far from us. I've watched TV from Morocco and home videos of celebrating a son's engagement and Skyped with family a world away ("Collateral damage" takes on a new light when you see a couch-ful of moon-pale children with beautiful doe-eyes). 

Elisa has chewed on their prayer beads, and S has taught me to make flat bread. We shared a dinner at our table and heard stories of their orange farm, their sadness and dismay over Sunni/Shiite violence and family members who get arrested with an entire village without cause. 

The other week we were given half their box of food from a church that gives groceries to refugees. We have received more than we have given them and this is so.good. 

I have found it easier to be benefactor than be blessed. To save rather than share life. To control rather than admit I need this friendship as much as they need others to come alongside them. 

It reminded me of my friend Bethany's words about incapacity in a recent update from Thailand where she and her family are ministering to people in Bangkok: 

     "Then it hit us, that in order to bond with people, we needed to be honest about our struggles and depend on them in our vulnerability. But it is hard for Westerners; we much prefer to turn to the anonymity of google, than to swallow our pride and ask a human being that we hardly know for help. In asking, you also have to entrust yourself to them and then receive from them. But in asking our “hardware-store family” about repairs we found them eager to embrace us and love on us. When our bicycle was stolen and we asked neighbors where to get a used bike as a replacement, two different neighbors gave us two great bikes on long-term loan. When we thought we were just “visiting” churches to get to know people, we stumbled upon a strong church family right in our neighborhood who showered us with encouragement, visits and prayers. They actively started caring for our needs. It was humbling to receive, but so good!

     Reflecting on these months, we realize that being incarnational is anything but being “with it.” It's about being completely powerless and dependent, kind of like a baby. We found ourselves stripped of any pretenses, and ready instead to receive and be received. (Ok, it is still very uncomfortable!) But along with mortification comes freedom to live in the overflow of God's grace... One day while feeling utterly weak, we read the Beatitudes and received God's reassurance that if we can embrace God in our weakness, then we are right where we should be. “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

It also reminded me what we've been learning about "people of peace" (more about this here). We've learned that those who are open to hearing about Jesus are often those who want to serve us in some way, to share life instead of just receive. 

We are learning about meekness and humility and culture and welcome, all because of one VIP with cool glasses and a winsome smile. We're deeply grateful for this friendship and pray one day we won't just share around a coffee table but that they will accept the invitation to the supper of the Lamb. 

Who are your VIPs? Have you told them lately? They might be in your home but they might just be in your classroom or down your street. Open your home and knock on a door. You might be surprised who you find when you receive and more importantly, allow yourself to be received.

Mr. Rogers Had It Right

Yesterday, my friend threw up all around our neighbor J.'s taxi cab.

Granted, my friend is 18 months old and was very upset about being left with a babysitter (me :)), but the whole situation got me thinking about the people who live on my street. As we left the "scene of the crime," I kept thinking how I knew whose taxi cab it was, and how I cared if it would bother him. Now, I know that doesn't sound too profound, but it has taken me over two years to get to this place. God has been teaching me that our presence in this neighborhood matters far more than I realize.  For a teacher, I can be a pretty slow learner.

Here are some other facts I know about J.: he is from New York; he has a tattoo of the Virgin on his arm and some pretty massive gold rings; he has one working Cadillac and three resting on rims in the back because "Caddies never die." It's not much, but it's a start. Here's how I learned even this much.

I had been working on the computer all day and had just learned to knit, so I was switching back and forth between a screen and two slippery sticks. Thrilling. I was bored enough to start knitting again when I felt like God was whispering, This is not what I have for you right now. Grumpy at not having any better ideas myself, I asked in my head, Well, can I at least walk to the mailbox? Would that be okay with you?! Ignoring my attitude, I felt like God gave me the thumbs up, so I slipped into the heat. On the way back from the mailbox, I noticed my two neighbors J. and P. chatting in P.'s driveway. They invited me into the conversation and what followed was a gift.

We spent the next twenty minutes as an unlikely trio in the hot July sun. We talked about interstates and my grandfather's GM days. We talked about truck driving and Detroit and the school system in town. We talked about our baby and their jobs. I listened as P., a man I had thought of with distaste (we've a few suspicions he sells things a little stronger than Girl Scout cookies :) ), share how he has "hopes for this city." We entered into each others' stories. This, this entering into the stories of my neighbors, is something beautiful, something biblical, and something worth devoting the rest of my life to.

I think one of the reasons why Jesus is hard to find in our neighborhoods is because we go about sharing him so differently than he shared himself. I have avoided neighbors who smoke or drink or yell too much. I have hoped neighbors would find Jesus so they wouldn't smoke or drink or yell so much. I have made mercenary friendships where I've seen conversion as the main goal of our relationships. I  have felt like a benefactor of goodness. It's a good thing we moved in or who knows where they would be. Jesus was not like this!

Jesus shared wine and bread and heated conversation. He sat and got down to some deep heart issues while people did their daily tasks, like drawing water. He told stories of enemies paying for medical and hotel costs for someone banged up by a rough neighborhood crowd, of one house in heaven with many rooms instead of a million mansions with manicured lawns. He let people host him, touch him, banter with him, cry with him.   He entered into the stories of those around him and in doing so, revealed the Father's heart. It is the same for me. Since it is no longer I who lives but Christ in me, when I give and take from my neighbors, Jesus will be shared as a matter of course. No sophisticated outreach or system will transform my neighborhood. A few potlucks just might.

Donald Miller shares in his book Blue Like Jazz about a time when he heard another author, Brennan Manning, speak about Zaccheus. Manning had shared that the anger of an entire town did nothing to change Zaccheus' exploiting his neighbors and selling out to the empire that was oppressing his people. Jesus came and ate with him, and Zaccheus paid back everyone he had ever cheated.

This week, may we all be a little less like rugged individuals and a little more like Mr. Rogers. The kingdom could come in some small, powerful ways as a result.

On Naming and Claiming...

At lunch on Sunday, Patrick and I played the Baby Name Game while waiting for our food to arrive. Sorting through the "yeses," "nos," and "maybes," I was reminded of the power of naming, a concept I'd wanted to explore in writing/speaking for a while now. Since according to my "summer-is-here-I-need-some-structure schedule" Tuesday is blogging day, I thought I'd try to work out some of my thoughts.

The first meeting of the school year, we were handed copies of an article by crime prevention and youth advocate Jack Calhoun called "Who is Naming and Claiming Our Kids?". It outlines how our most vulnerable children are those who are anonymous, those who have not been given an identify by anyone close to them.  He tells the story of a jailed girl who experienced her name being used in a positive light for the first time when she worked with special needs children. Another story, one that has stuck with me the entire year, was about a young murderer who said, "I'd rather be wanted for murder than not wanted at all." Calhoun goes on to say that if we don't name the children in our world, they will find those who will give them names/identities, often gangs.

Later in the year, I received one of my favorite Christmas presents ever, a slim volume of poetry by Lance Odegard called At the Pool We've All Got Bodies.  One of my favorite poems is called "Songbird." In this poem, he describes a homeless woman who visits their church, quiet and nervous and refusing to give anyone her name. "Who or what had/turned it against her, I wondered -- and what is a person/without a name?" Odegard decides to gift her with the name Songbird. The poem ends, "Shifting her feet, she said, You can call me by that name." 

Both of these have stayed with me this year and made me think, How am I naming those around me? How am I living out my responsibility of naming as one made in the image of God? 

For our God is the God who names. He names all things good. He changes Jacob's name. He reveals himself through the names he gives his people to use for Him. He calls Israel by name. He names Simon "The Rock."  At the end of all things, he'll give us a new name on the belly of a smooth white stone.

Humans have followed suit, image-bearers naming from the beginning of time. Adam named the animals, even Eve. The Israelites would name their children, their wells, their lands to reflect their interactions with God. Saul received a new name when he was filled by a new Spirit. To this day, some are given new names as they commit to life in faith-communities like convents and monasteries. Naming is POWERFUL for naming reflects and shapes reality.

How are we naming those around us? Are we naming our enemies Cursed instead of Somehow Beloved? Our children Failures instead of Full of Incredible Potential? Difficult coworkers as Obstacles instead of Opportunity? Our spouses as Frustrations or Sanctifying Gifts?

Am I naming my neighbors In Need of My Benevolent Help or as Able to Receive and Bless?

You see how we name determines how we act. If I see my neighbors as the first, I will feel superior, safe, and self-satisfied. If I see them as the second, I will have to be vulnerable, to listen, and to receive my rightful place as human just like them. I will act upon the identity I bestow. You will act on the identities you bestow! 

May you reflect on who and how you are naming these days. May you name with love, grace, and hope. We have great power; may we name well today.

Getting Smaller...

Lately, I've been feeling like Alice. Alice in Wonderland to be exact. I didn't know I was Alice until I was lying in bed with a cold, thinking over how to put into words what God has been teaching me lately. A picture came to mind of Alice shrinking and growing, growing and shrinking, before a door in a tree. "Paging" through Sparknotes and Wikipedia (further evidence of lying in bed with a cold), I confirmed what I remembered from growing up: Alice had to get smaller before she could ever enter Wonderland.

I shouldn't be surprised. Jesus himself used this "shrinking" language when he speaks of a kingdom that can seem at times as absurd as Wonderland: ^"And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." (Matt. 18:3-4). He takes it a step further when talking with Nicodemus, claiming we need to be born again, become spinning cells turned gasping newborns. Apparently, getting smaller is no new idea I've stumbled upon. However, it is an idea that feels important, forgotten, and nourishing to me in a way I've only begun to understand. 

 Before we found out we were expecting, Patrick and I had planned on becoming foster parents. We had  remodeled our guest room to accommodate a kiddo in order to be available for a student of mine who was removed from her dad's home because of some pretty horrific abuse. When she was placed with her mom, we decided to keep with the plan, since it didn't seem like a baby of our own was in the works. It seemed something meaningful, something needed, something "kingdom worthy."  It certainly felt good to be those "giving Weavers who were going to welcome troubled kids." Ahh, significance. We continued for several weeks after I learned I was pregnant, struggling to incorporate the training into our schedules and the competing visions for our future that now emerged. The striving and guilt over wanting to "pull out" left me weary. Finally, during one of our Monday night prayer times, we felt the release to let go of what we had felt was our "duty for the kingdom." That week, I turned in my letter of resignation at school and called the social worker to say we'd no longer be attending training.I didn't know it yet, but God was calling us, especially me, to "get smaller." 

I always knew the kingdom was full of paradoxes: suffering brings glory, the first shall be last, the meek shall inherit the earth; the books I was reading helped flesh this out. I had just finished Grace Matters, a fabulous memoir of Chris Rice, one of the co-founders of Antioch, a racial reconciliation community in Mississippi. After 12 years of wearied work, a spiritual mentor suggested the community focus less on what they were doing for God's kingdom and more on the love of God for them, no matter what they could provide. What followed was a revolution of everything they believed about who they were, a release from significance that brought significant freedom and grace to battle-scarred hearts. Later, as Rice mourned the loss of his yoke-fellow, Spencer Johnson, he had to learn to "live the Sabbath", doing more for the kingdom by doing less, in fact nothing visibly for the kingdom, except to experience the coast with his family.

This resonated with me as we said goodbye to our glamorous plans of foster-parenting. Even as I lamented the loss of a great conversation starter ("Did you know we were thinking of foster care? Yeah, we hear it's difficult..."), I felt something truer than any impulse I'd felt before: to grow big in the kingdom, you need to grow smaller.  

Growing lettuce with our neighbors (who might just throw the seeds every which way), eating dinner on the front porch, sharing Peeps with the kids wrestling on our front lawn, eventually raising one newborn instead of loving on 54 babies at school, these things might seem small, insignificant really in the face of tremendous need and horrific evil in this world. However, in the backwards way of the kingdom, it might be we are right in the center of God's will for our lives. We are slowly letting go of the illusion that God needs us, slowing grasping that knowing God's love and embodying God's love might be the most important "kingdom work" we ever do. 

God has elaborated on this with another book, Grace and Necessity by Rowan Williams: a recommendation from my friend Bethany and the most difficult book I've read in a very, very long time. Williams explores the nature of art and making art through the beliefs of French Catholic philosopher Jacques Maritain. Maritain believes that what is seen as beautiful is most often the work in which the creator took care to seek the good of the work itself above all other goals, whether the goal to gain money or fame or even to benefit humankind. Isn't that true of parenthood? A loving parent seeks the good of her child, not because of the child's potential for fame or even because of the child's potential to change the world, but because of love.   

Could it be that the most beautiful families and communities, the most beautiful relationships, the most beautiful lives are filled not with desires for significance, nor desires to do/be great for the kingdom of God, but with simple desires for the good of those in them? 

The idea is in Scripture, too. To his people living in exile, God spoke, ""Build houses and make yourselves at home. Put in gardens and eat what grows in that country. Marry and have children. Encourage your children to marry and have children so that you'll thrive in that country and not waste away. Make yourselves at home there and work for the country's welfare. Pray for Babylon's well-being." (Jeremiah 29: 5-7, The Message)

God doesn't say, "Work to do great and significant things so my kingdom can come in Babylon." He doesn't say, "Better get busy building friendships so you can add to your tally of converted neighbors." He says to work for the country's welfare. Ask for its well-being. Seek its good. And because Jesus is the Good God, if we are seeking the good of those around us, we will give him and be him by default.


I can't pretend to understand this mystery yet. It goes against every desire I've ever had to do something worthwhile for God. But as I grow smaller, I feel like I'm getting bigger glimpses of Wonderland. May I keep shrinking until I can enter in. Will you come, too?