I think I have discovered a song I could handle having stuck in my head permanently.
I just got the new Shane & Shane CD, Pages, and after playing it a few times, I'm ready to say it's some of their best work yet. I'd been waiting for this CD to be released since I heard some of their new music in concert last fall, and now it's finally here.
These lyrics are captivating; I'll say nothing more.
Awaken what's inside of me.
Tune my heart to all You are in me.
Even though You're here, God come.
And may the vision of You be the death of me.
And even though you've given everything, Jesus come.
- "Vision of You"
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Safe (Also revisited)
WARNING: You will notice that under my blog title, "Carefully Chosen," I have written, "Perhaps this blog will make someone think differently. I hope that someone will be me." The following post is purely self-serving, so I won't make any apologies here for toes stepped on or feathers ruffled.
I wrote the following piece two years ago around this time, as a fresh-faced new suburb-dweller:
I have only lived in Birmingham, Alabama for about a year, and though that is not an excuse for ignorance or over-simplification, it somehow makes it easier for me to call things like I see them, more so than I can in a place like the Twin Cities of Minnesota, where I grew up. According to my cursory observation of the Birmingham area, the rich white people live around Highway 280, a major thoroughfare known for ridiculous traffic jams and a wealth of retail establishments, while everyone else – the poor, the black, and the Hispanic -- lives within the city limits or in one of the working-class suburbs. This polarity is evident whether one is driving, shopping, or dining out in one of these areas, or reading education and crime statistics in the Birmingham News.
I spent my first eleven months in Birmingham living with a few friends in an inner-city neighborhood called Ensley, a predominately lower-class African-American neighborhood. The street I lived on was a tree-lined boulevard, with beautiful large homes that had once been owned by members of upper management at the nearby steel mills. This once-prosperous neighborhood is now characterized by crime and poverty. When people heard that I, a young white woman, lived in Ensley, eyebrows were occasionally raised so high they blended into hairlines on both black and white foreheads. People immediately questioned my safety, and a few questioned my sanity.
The events and conversations of everyday life in Ensley quickly made it feel like home to me. Many a morning was spent drinking coffee and reading the paper on our front porch, waving and calling out greetings whenever a neighbor passed by on their daily stroll. Warm afternoons coaxed my housemates out to the front yard for a game of touch football with our neighbor boy William. Catching up on the six- and twelve-year-old lives of sisters Hope and Elvira from down the street was always entertaining, as were the frequent visits of David, a man with developmental disabilities who promised to stop by again the next day, but only “if it’s the Lord’s will!” And once the sun went down, neighborhood dogs carried local news through what surely must have been the “midnight bark” portrayed in 101 Dalmatians. The beauty of those small, ordinary moments countered the picture of ugliness that many had conjured up in their minds about a place like Ensley.
Considering my love for that neighborhood, I questioned my own sanity when it came time for me to move out and I decided to live with two other young women in Cahaba Heights, just off of 280. I didn’t think I would mind living there, since I would still be spending time in Ensley and in Fairfield, a neighboring community where I attend church and have many friends. But after only a couple of days living in my new place, I found myself wanting out. On a Saturday when I didn’t have any plans, the thought of staying close to home to do some shopping at The Summit or even sit at a nearby coffee shop was too much for me. I opted instead to drive to a coffee shop downtown, feeling much more at home among a diverse group of students, professionals, and the occasional homeless person than I did being surrounded by upper-class suburbanites. When my old neighbors in Ensley or folks in Fairfield ask me where I’m living now, I hesitate to tell them. I want to say, “I’m not one of ‘them,’ I don’t want to live like ‘they’ do, I don’t really belong in Cahaba Heights. I’d rather be here with you.”
A week after my coffee shop excursion, my roommates and I had some friends over for dinner, two of whom happen to live near us. The conversation turned to the perks of living in Cahaba Heights, but the talk wasn’t about the people, nor was it even about the beautiful surroundings of our woodsy neighborhood. Evidently, the best part of living here is that one can fulfill almost every consumer need and desire imaginable without even getting on the highway. Sitting and listening to this conversation made the fried chicken and baked beans in my stomach do a somersault. I will be the first to admit that I enjoy being less than a mile from the grocery store (especially after having to drive a good fifteen minutes for a decent one last year), and having Panera and Barnes & Noble so close will certainly benefit my mind and my stomach (though perhaps not my bank account), but I was dismayed to hear someone suggest that they get such joy from buying stuff with such ease and convenience. I was further disillusioned to realize that many of my neighbors would probably share her enthusiasm.
The next night, some friends were driving me home after a concert. All four of these friends grew up and now live in what I would classify as the “rich white suburban” areas of Birmingham. As we turned onto my street, one asked me, “Is this a safe neighborhood?” I tried not to laugh – and wasn’t entirely successful in that endeavor – as I wondered aloud, “Are you serious?” Apparently, it was an honest question, but one that seemed completely ridiculous to me, since I can’t quite imagine anything or anyone being un-safe in Cahaba Heights (I still find it slightly amusing that my roommate sets our security system every night before we go to bed, just so she can sleep better). Besides that, I just hadn’t expected to hear such a question again after moving out of Ensley.
On its surface, Cahaba Heights is the epitome of a safe place. It’s quiet, there’s not much traffic, and it’s a good distance from the inner-city, where poverty and desperation frequently lead to crime. My roommate’s dad takes comfort in knowing that the police and fire department here are one of the best in the area. It’s a cozy, familiar neighborhood for those who are from here, but unwelcoming to outsiders, with many winding roads, few clearly marked intersections, and barely any streetlights to help one find their way in the dark. Protected. Insulated. Children and families, most of them white and fairly well-off, nestled safely amongst the trees on mountain roads, out of harm’s way.
Yet for some reason the question nags at me: is this a safe neighborhood?
Is God’s creation safe here? Magnificent, tall trees are cut down one by one for new housing and retail developments. Residents drive to and from work in their cars and SUVs– most families have at least one per driver – sitting in traffic on 280, the only way to get to and from downtown Birmingham. Air quality alerts are a common occurance through several months of the year. Public transportation is not accessible enough to be a viable option for anyone commuting into the city from the suburbs, and narrow, poorly lit streets without sidewalks mean that walking and biking are out of the question for many. I doubt that I am alone in my selfish reluctance to make carpooling a habit. Rising gas prices may convince us to think twice about how much we drive, but we rarely consider the way our driving and living here leave a mark on the environment.
Are children safe here? Ask most parents in Cahaba Heights, Mountain Brook, or Vestavia this question and their answer will most likely be a resounding, idyllic “yes”. But would my children be safe here? Physically, yes, I know they would be. But their mental, emotional, and social development would suffer the effects of homogeneity and their impressionable young minds would fall victim to the persistent fear and judgment of the “Other” that is born of ignorance and so well incubated in a community like this one.
Are Christians safe here? When Jesus told his disciples to “Go,” he meant more than, “Leave your house in Cahaba Heights, go to work downtown with people from Cahaba Heights, go to church with people from Cahaba Heights, then go have some fellowship with people from Cahaba Heights.” Throughout the Bible, we are called to minister to the sick, the poor, the marginalized, the stranger. We are taught to pray that God’s Kingdom will come on earth as it is in Heaven, and that Kingdom will include people from every tribe, tongue, and nation; most of them, however, lack the social and financial means to ever inhabit or even visit a place like this. The Kingdom will not come to Cahaba Heights unless people from Cahaba Heights truly GO to serve and love as Jesus did, and as he commanded his followers to do. And there are some who do this – who lovingly and willingly give of their time, talents, and resources to serve those in Ensley, Fairfield, and places beyond. But few seem willing to really lay down their lives, to let go of their own safety in all its forms and identify with the mud and muck of someone else’s life. In the earthly sense, Christians are very safe here in Cahaba Heights. There are numerous churches, and plenty of fellow believers. But this brings me to another, more troubling question: should Christians be “safe” anywhere? Living as a follower of Christ means identifying with Christ in his sufferings, carrying our cross along with him, losing our life for his sake. None of that sounds safe to me. Christians are safe here, and that is a problem.
Finally, I have to ask, am I safe here? The truth is, I feel more at-risk here than I ever did living in Ensley. Granted, I would never go walking by myself at night there, nor would I leave my front door unlocked if I were home alone, but my soul felt safe there. Here, I risk so much: I risk giving into the temptation of running to the store for one more thing, or buying one more book, or going out to eat one more meal. I risk joining so many of my neighbors in working to earn money and living to spend it. I risk becoming comfortable and complacent here in this neighborhood, enjoying the convenience of having everything I “need” close to home. I risk neglecting the people I have grown to love so much, many of whom have never even traveled the fifteen miles across town to shop or see a movie at The Summit. I risk ignorance and losing touch with what I care about. I risk being lulled into the belief that safety and prosperity is the goal in life.
As I list these risks, my pulse quickens with a holy anger and the words come faster and faster. I want to turn around and run from the life to which the symbolic Cahaba Heights beckons me. But the truth is I don’t honestly believe that I am at risk here. The Cahaba Heights version of a “safe” life does not appeal to me. My Birmingham roots are planted deep in Ensley and Fairfield. Stretching beyond that, my roots stand firm in a diverse, humble neighborhood in St. Paul, Minnesota, in a backyard playground next to a crack house in Chicago, in a bustling orphanage in Oaxaca, Mexico, in a sidewalk-chalk-covered school parking lot in St. Louis, in the dusty roads of an overcrowded township in Cape Town, South Africa, and in an extended family that has never had enough money to try to buy away its troubles. My humanity, my very lifeblood, is dependent on those seemingly uncomfortable, unsafe communities in which I have lived and traveled, and on the relationships established there – whether they lasted for moments or a lifetime. I cling to a Gospel that commands me to live with these people and places in my heart and my mind, that calls me to hurt with them and for them, and that demands no less than the risk of going deep enough to love and be loved by them.
By the grace of God, I realize that I don’t belong here, that I am safe from the kind of life my new neighborhood wants to sell me. I pray that my actions will make that evident, so that when I tell people where I live, they will know that I am not about what my address represents. I hope that this year will also allow me the opportunity to invite those around me out of their safe lives and into something greater – to take up their Cross rather than live in their own comfort, to put down roots in soil that may be rocky or even tainted, and to seek the Lord not for safety but for sustenance.
Since I wrote this, I've become increasingly comfortable in my suburban surroundings. As I ran errands close to home today, I found myself relishing the ease and convenience of it all. I drove past a house for sale and a fleeting thought passed through my mind: "This would be a nice place to live. I could get used to this." I quickly batted that thought away as if it were an annoying fly.
A conversation tonight (which came about in a most unexpected way) led to talk of moving out of the suburbs to do incarnational ministry in the inner-city: living in the city, building relationships, being present to play ball and bake cookies, truly living out the sacrificial, Christ-filled life to which we are called. That was what I loved so much about my first year in Birmingham, and what I wanted so badly to hold on to even as my location changed the next year.
But now, I am ashamed to admit the truth with which Derek Webb's words ring in my ears:
poverty is so hard to see
when it’s only on your tv and twenty miles across town
where we’re all living so good
that we moved out of Jesus’ neighborhood
where he’s hungry and not feeling so good
from going through our trash
he says, more than just your cash and coin
i want your time, i want your voice
i want the things you just can’t give me
- "Rich Young Ruler"
Oh, Jenilyn, where have you gone? Why have you strayed so far from that which you care about most?
LORD, would you wake me from this all-too-cozy slumber? Remind me that I don't belong here. Bring me back to that most beautiful and paradoxical Gospel which I love so dearly. Make me willing and able to give all I have.
I wrote the following piece two years ago around this time, as a fresh-faced new suburb-dweller:
I have only lived in Birmingham, Alabama for about a year, and though that is not an excuse for ignorance or over-simplification, it somehow makes it easier for me to call things like I see them, more so than I can in a place like the Twin Cities of Minnesota, where I grew up. According to my cursory observation of the Birmingham area, the rich white people live around Highway 280, a major thoroughfare known for ridiculous traffic jams and a wealth of retail establishments, while everyone else – the poor, the black, and the Hispanic -- lives within the city limits or in one of the working-class suburbs. This polarity is evident whether one is driving, shopping, or dining out in one of these areas, or reading education and crime statistics in the Birmingham News.
I spent my first eleven months in Birmingham living with a few friends in an inner-city neighborhood called Ensley, a predominately lower-class African-American neighborhood. The street I lived on was a tree-lined boulevard, with beautiful large homes that had once been owned by members of upper management at the nearby steel mills. This once-prosperous neighborhood is now characterized by crime and poverty. When people heard that I, a young white woman, lived in Ensley, eyebrows were occasionally raised so high they blended into hairlines on both black and white foreheads. People immediately questioned my safety, and a few questioned my sanity.
The events and conversations of everyday life in Ensley quickly made it feel like home to me. Many a morning was spent drinking coffee and reading the paper on our front porch, waving and calling out greetings whenever a neighbor passed by on their daily stroll. Warm afternoons coaxed my housemates out to the front yard for a game of touch football with our neighbor boy William. Catching up on the six- and twelve-year-old lives of sisters Hope and Elvira from down the street was always entertaining, as were the frequent visits of David, a man with developmental disabilities who promised to stop by again the next day, but only “if it’s the Lord’s will!” And once the sun went down, neighborhood dogs carried local news through what surely must have been the “midnight bark” portrayed in 101 Dalmatians. The beauty of those small, ordinary moments countered the picture of ugliness that many had conjured up in their minds about a place like Ensley.
Considering my love for that neighborhood, I questioned my own sanity when it came time for me to move out and I decided to live with two other young women in Cahaba Heights, just off of 280. I didn’t think I would mind living there, since I would still be spending time in Ensley and in Fairfield, a neighboring community where I attend church and have many friends. But after only a couple of days living in my new place, I found myself wanting out. On a Saturday when I didn’t have any plans, the thought of staying close to home to do some shopping at The Summit or even sit at a nearby coffee shop was too much for me. I opted instead to drive to a coffee shop downtown, feeling much more at home among a diverse group of students, professionals, and the occasional homeless person than I did being surrounded by upper-class suburbanites. When my old neighbors in Ensley or folks in Fairfield ask me where I’m living now, I hesitate to tell them. I want to say, “I’m not one of ‘them,’ I don’t want to live like ‘they’ do, I don’t really belong in Cahaba Heights. I’d rather be here with you.”
A week after my coffee shop excursion, my roommates and I had some friends over for dinner, two of whom happen to live near us. The conversation turned to the perks of living in Cahaba Heights, but the talk wasn’t about the people, nor was it even about the beautiful surroundings of our woodsy neighborhood. Evidently, the best part of living here is that one can fulfill almost every consumer need and desire imaginable without even getting on the highway. Sitting and listening to this conversation made the fried chicken and baked beans in my stomach do a somersault. I will be the first to admit that I enjoy being less than a mile from the grocery store (especially after having to drive a good fifteen minutes for a decent one last year), and having Panera and Barnes & Noble so close will certainly benefit my mind and my stomach (though perhaps not my bank account), but I was dismayed to hear someone suggest that they get such joy from buying stuff with such ease and convenience. I was further disillusioned to realize that many of my neighbors would probably share her enthusiasm.
The next night, some friends were driving me home after a concert. All four of these friends grew up and now live in what I would classify as the “rich white suburban” areas of Birmingham. As we turned onto my street, one asked me, “Is this a safe neighborhood?” I tried not to laugh – and wasn’t entirely successful in that endeavor – as I wondered aloud, “Are you serious?” Apparently, it was an honest question, but one that seemed completely ridiculous to me, since I can’t quite imagine anything or anyone being un-safe in Cahaba Heights (I still find it slightly amusing that my roommate sets our security system every night before we go to bed, just so she can sleep better). Besides that, I just hadn’t expected to hear such a question again after moving out of Ensley.
On its surface, Cahaba Heights is the epitome of a safe place. It’s quiet, there’s not much traffic, and it’s a good distance from the inner-city, where poverty and desperation frequently lead to crime. My roommate’s dad takes comfort in knowing that the police and fire department here are one of the best in the area. It’s a cozy, familiar neighborhood for those who are from here, but unwelcoming to outsiders, with many winding roads, few clearly marked intersections, and barely any streetlights to help one find their way in the dark. Protected. Insulated. Children and families, most of them white and fairly well-off, nestled safely amongst the trees on mountain roads, out of harm’s way.
Yet for some reason the question nags at me: is this a safe neighborhood?
Is God’s creation safe here? Magnificent, tall trees are cut down one by one for new housing and retail developments. Residents drive to and from work in their cars and SUVs– most families have at least one per driver – sitting in traffic on 280, the only way to get to and from downtown Birmingham. Air quality alerts are a common occurance through several months of the year. Public transportation is not accessible enough to be a viable option for anyone commuting into the city from the suburbs, and narrow, poorly lit streets without sidewalks mean that walking and biking are out of the question for many. I doubt that I am alone in my selfish reluctance to make carpooling a habit. Rising gas prices may convince us to think twice about how much we drive, but we rarely consider the way our driving and living here leave a mark on the environment.
Are children safe here? Ask most parents in Cahaba Heights, Mountain Brook, or Vestavia this question and their answer will most likely be a resounding, idyllic “yes”. But would my children be safe here? Physically, yes, I know they would be. But their mental, emotional, and social development would suffer the effects of homogeneity and their impressionable young minds would fall victim to the persistent fear and judgment of the “Other” that is born of ignorance and so well incubated in a community like this one.
Are Christians safe here? When Jesus told his disciples to “Go,” he meant more than, “Leave your house in Cahaba Heights, go to work downtown with people from Cahaba Heights, go to church with people from Cahaba Heights, then go have some fellowship with people from Cahaba Heights.” Throughout the Bible, we are called to minister to the sick, the poor, the marginalized, the stranger. We are taught to pray that God’s Kingdom will come on earth as it is in Heaven, and that Kingdom will include people from every tribe, tongue, and nation; most of them, however, lack the social and financial means to ever inhabit or even visit a place like this. The Kingdom will not come to Cahaba Heights unless people from Cahaba Heights truly GO to serve and love as Jesus did, and as he commanded his followers to do. And there are some who do this – who lovingly and willingly give of their time, talents, and resources to serve those in Ensley, Fairfield, and places beyond. But few seem willing to really lay down their lives, to let go of their own safety in all its forms and identify with the mud and muck of someone else’s life. In the earthly sense, Christians are very safe here in Cahaba Heights. There are numerous churches, and plenty of fellow believers. But this brings me to another, more troubling question: should Christians be “safe” anywhere? Living as a follower of Christ means identifying with Christ in his sufferings, carrying our cross along with him, losing our life for his sake. None of that sounds safe to me. Christians are safe here, and that is a problem.
Finally, I have to ask, am I safe here? The truth is, I feel more at-risk here than I ever did living in Ensley. Granted, I would never go walking by myself at night there, nor would I leave my front door unlocked if I were home alone, but my soul felt safe there. Here, I risk so much: I risk giving into the temptation of running to the store for one more thing, or buying one more book, or going out to eat one more meal. I risk joining so many of my neighbors in working to earn money and living to spend it. I risk becoming comfortable and complacent here in this neighborhood, enjoying the convenience of having everything I “need” close to home. I risk neglecting the people I have grown to love so much, many of whom have never even traveled the fifteen miles across town to shop or see a movie at The Summit. I risk ignorance and losing touch with what I care about. I risk being lulled into the belief that safety and prosperity is the goal in life.
As I list these risks, my pulse quickens with a holy anger and the words come faster and faster. I want to turn around and run from the life to which the symbolic Cahaba Heights beckons me. But the truth is I don’t honestly believe that I am at risk here. The Cahaba Heights version of a “safe” life does not appeal to me. My Birmingham roots are planted deep in Ensley and Fairfield. Stretching beyond that, my roots stand firm in a diverse, humble neighborhood in St. Paul, Minnesota, in a backyard playground next to a crack house in Chicago, in a bustling orphanage in Oaxaca, Mexico, in a sidewalk-chalk-covered school parking lot in St. Louis, in the dusty roads of an overcrowded township in Cape Town, South Africa, and in an extended family that has never had enough money to try to buy away its troubles. My humanity, my very lifeblood, is dependent on those seemingly uncomfortable, unsafe communities in which I have lived and traveled, and on the relationships established there – whether they lasted for moments or a lifetime. I cling to a Gospel that commands me to live with these people and places in my heart and my mind, that calls me to hurt with them and for them, and that demands no less than the risk of going deep enough to love and be loved by them.
By the grace of God, I realize that I don’t belong here, that I am safe from the kind of life my new neighborhood wants to sell me. I pray that my actions will make that evident, so that when I tell people where I live, they will know that I am not about what my address represents. I hope that this year will also allow me the opportunity to invite those around me out of their safe lives and into something greater – to take up their Cross rather than live in their own comfort, to put down roots in soil that may be rocky or even tainted, and to seek the Lord not for safety but for sustenance.
Since I wrote this, I've become increasingly comfortable in my suburban surroundings. As I ran errands close to home today, I found myself relishing the ease and convenience of it all. I drove past a house for sale and a fleeting thought passed through my mind: "This would be a nice place to live. I could get used to this." I quickly batted that thought away as if it were an annoying fly.
A conversation tonight (which came about in a most unexpected way) led to talk of moving out of the suburbs to do incarnational ministry in the inner-city: living in the city, building relationships, being present to play ball and bake cookies, truly living out the sacrificial, Christ-filled life to which we are called. That was what I loved so much about my first year in Birmingham, and what I wanted so badly to hold on to even as my location changed the next year.
But now, I am ashamed to admit the truth with which Derek Webb's words ring in my ears:
poverty is so hard to see
when it’s only on your tv and twenty miles across town
where we’re all living so good
that we moved out of Jesus’ neighborhood
where he’s hungry and not feeling so good
from going through our trash
he says, more than just your cash and coin
i want your time, i want your voice
i want the things you just can’t give me
- "Rich Young Ruler"
Oh, Jenilyn, where have you gone? Why have you strayed so far from that which you care about most?
LORD, would you wake me from this all-too-cozy slumber? Remind me that I don't belong here. Bring me back to that most beautiful and paradoxical Gospel which I love so dearly. Make me willing and able to give all I have.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Now what? (Revisited)
To my YouthWorks friends,
At long last, we've reached the finish line. Another YouthWorks summer is in the history books. How does one recover from such a race?
A few summers ago, I sat down to really think about the answer to this question - it was one I had not answered well in summers prior. Exhausted from the race and unsure of how to get my life back to a normal pace, my bed often claimed the victory, with the couch and remote control coming in a close second. My journal and my Bible collected dust, and my phone sat idle as I wondered how to start a conversation that would allow me to really talk about my summer. Those were dry times, empty times, but not for lack of water -- only because I chose not to drink.
After running such a race, our bodies, minds, and souls desperately need a chance to drink, to breathe, to slow down. There are some simple - and some not-so-simple - ways to make this happen. The following may or may not closely resemble a to-do list, but I won't apologize for that. These things have certainly helped me, and I hope some of you may find them helpful as well.
SLEEP. By all means, sleep. You've done a number on your body with the hours you've kept this summer, and you've earned some quality time studying the backs of your eyelids.
DO NOTHING for a while. Give yourself permission. Trust me, it'll be okay.
PINCH YOURSELF. Yes friends, it may seem distant and surreal, but you did, in fact, spend your summer in a completely random place, hanging out with even more random people, doing things that might make some question your sanity (let's face it -- if people don't look at you funny when you tell them you slept on an air mattress on a school or church floor all summer, I might question their sanity). It may sound like bad reality TV, but it was reality. In fact, you probably came face-to-face with reality more often this summer than most people do in their "normal" lives. The past ten weeks were not a crazy dream, nor a nightmare, but simply another piece of your journey, appointed and anointed by our very gracious God.
PICK UP THE PHONE. Call someone who will get it -- someone from your staff or your area or around YouthWorks who will certainly understand how you're feeling. We've all just finished running a long hard race. Once you've done that, call someone who doesn't get it. Part of cooling down after a race is stretching. Stretch yourself here -- take the risk to share a bit of your summer with someone who may not understand or appreciate what you've experienced. You never know how a story you share might plant a thought or a question in someone's heart. This is an awesome opportunity to honor what the Lord has done this summer.
PRACTICE WHAT YOU PREACHED. Remember how we all admonished junior and senior highers to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God? How we encouraged them to serve with willing hearts and to be like Jesus? Those words don't just apply to them, nor do they lose value or importance when we're not in "mission trip mode." This might be another one of those stretching exercises for you.
PRACTICE WHAT YOU PRAYED FOR. You prayed for your participants, that their experience wouldn't end on Friday morning, that their YouthWorks week wouldn't be about emotion but about real life-change, that they would take lessons home with them and put them into action. This was your honest hope and desire for them -- how is this happening in your own life?
Most importantly, no matter what you do or how relaxed you may be, let there be NO SPIRITUAL VACATION. What did Jesus do when He had a break from the crowds? He spent time alone with his Father. Satan would love to get a hold of you right now -- to make you neglect the disciplines of prayer and Bible reading you established this summer, to lull you into complacency and make you forget how God changed you and how real and alive and close he was this summer. Know that God is as real and alive and present today as he was on any Thursday night this summer. He is just waiting for you to seek him out. As you do, ask him for what you need right now: help in processing this summer, guidance in preparing for what's next, wisdom for how to live today -- indeed, that's all you really need. Ask him for your daily bread, and come hungry.
Walk it off… that means you must keep moving forward. Stretch out, take a deep breath and a nice long drink, and when all is silent, listen for that still, small voice that will always be your best coach and your biggest fan.
At long last, we've reached the finish line. Another YouthWorks summer is in the history books. How does one recover from such a race?
A few summers ago, I sat down to really think about the answer to this question - it was one I had not answered well in summers prior. Exhausted from the race and unsure of how to get my life back to a normal pace, my bed often claimed the victory, with the couch and remote control coming in a close second. My journal and my Bible collected dust, and my phone sat idle as I wondered how to start a conversation that would allow me to really talk about my summer. Those were dry times, empty times, but not for lack of water -- only because I chose not to drink.
After running such a race, our bodies, minds, and souls desperately need a chance to drink, to breathe, to slow down. There are some simple - and some not-so-simple - ways to make this happen. The following may or may not closely resemble a to-do list, but I won't apologize for that. These things have certainly helped me, and I hope some of you may find them helpful as well.
SLEEP. By all means, sleep. You've done a number on your body with the hours you've kept this summer, and you've earned some quality time studying the backs of your eyelids.
DO NOTHING for a while. Give yourself permission. Trust me, it'll be okay.
PINCH YOURSELF. Yes friends, it may seem distant and surreal, but you did, in fact, spend your summer in a completely random place, hanging out with even more random people, doing things that might make some question your sanity (let's face it -- if people don't look at you funny when you tell them you slept on an air mattress on a school or church floor all summer, I might question their sanity). It may sound like bad reality TV, but it was reality. In fact, you probably came face-to-face with reality more often this summer than most people do in their "normal" lives. The past ten weeks were not a crazy dream, nor a nightmare, but simply another piece of your journey, appointed and anointed by our very gracious God.
PICK UP THE PHONE. Call someone who will get it -- someone from your staff or your area or around YouthWorks who will certainly understand how you're feeling. We've all just finished running a long hard race. Once you've done that, call someone who doesn't get it. Part of cooling down after a race is stretching. Stretch yourself here -- take the risk to share a bit of your summer with someone who may not understand or appreciate what you've experienced. You never know how a story you share might plant a thought or a question in someone's heart. This is an awesome opportunity to honor what the Lord has done this summer.
PRACTICE WHAT YOU PREACHED. Remember how we all admonished junior and senior highers to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God? How we encouraged them to serve with willing hearts and to be like Jesus? Those words don't just apply to them, nor do they lose value or importance when we're not in "mission trip mode." This might be another one of those stretching exercises for you.
PRACTICE WHAT YOU PRAYED FOR. You prayed for your participants, that their experience wouldn't end on Friday morning, that their YouthWorks week wouldn't be about emotion but about real life-change, that they would take lessons home with them and put them into action. This was your honest hope and desire for them -- how is this happening in your own life?
Most importantly, no matter what you do or how relaxed you may be, let there be NO SPIRITUAL VACATION. What did Jesus do when He had a break from the crowds? He spent time alone with his Father. Satan would love to get a hold of you right now -- to make you neglect the disciplines of prayer and Bible reading you established this summer, to lull you into complacency and make you forget how God changed you and how real and alive and close he was this summer. Know that God is as real and alive and present today as he was on any Thursday night this summer. He is just waiting for you to seek him out. As you do, ask him for what you need right now: help in processing this summer, guidance in preparing for what's next, wisdom for how to live today -- indeed, that's all you really need. Ask him for your daily bread, and come hungry.
Walk it off… that means you must keep moving forward. Stretch out, take a deep breath and a nice long drink, and when all is silent, listen for that still, small voice that will always be your best coach and your biggest fan.
He is faithful; may we be full of faith
But for me it is good to be near God; I have made the Lord GOD my refuge, that I may tell of your works. Psalm 73:28
If you talked to me, got an e-mail from me, or read my blog any time during the first half of 2007, you know that the search for YouthWorks housing in New Orleans largely consumed my work and my prayers during that time. Many of you joined me in those prayers, and for that I am grateful. Now, as my summer has come to a close and I've been reconnecting with people I haven't talked to in more than two months, the question has been asked several times: "What ever happened in New Orleans?" I answer that question here now, so that you will have the opportunity to join me in praising and thanking God for His faithfulness and provision, and in hopes that your own faith will be bolstered as mine has been.
After more phone calls, e-mails, and meetings than I could count (I can safely say that more than one hundred contacts were made in the process of looking for housing), we accepted an invitation from a small Evangelical Presbyterian church in Covington, Louisiana, which is on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain. We knew that this church would not be large enough to house all of our participants and staff, so were incredibly blessed to find a Lutheran church and school willing to house half of our groups, our staff, and our meals. I found myself amazed that God would provide not only one church, but two, and that these churches would not open their doors grudgingly, but with great joy and thanksgiving - even telling us that YouthWorks was an answer to their prayers! When we needed to leave the Lutheran church for a week while they ran VBS, the nearby Baptist church opened its doors to our groups. My staff joked about going from having no where to lay their heads to having three different churches where they and their groups could do so.
At Faith Presbyterian, Holy Trinity Lutheran and First Baptist (even though our stay there was short), my staff team found more than just a place to stay and do their work. They found friends and encouragers, people willing to do their laundry, bake them cookies, invite them into their homes. It didn't take long to realize what a warm, welcoming place Covington was. It also didn't take long to discover that this, too, was a place of brokenness and need. A police officer was killed during our first week in town. On the way to the cemetery for his funeral, another officer was killed when a tree fell on his car. This shook the small community deeply. As the summer went on, our staff learned of struggles in the church congregations they were quickly coming to love; perhaps the biggest blow was learning that one of our dearest friends in Covington had been diagnosed with leukemia. It is a strange thing to come to care about a place and its people so quickly, but it is indeed a privilege to be able to stand alongside these people and lift them up in prayer during their time of need. It was a gift, too, to be able to befriend communities on both sides of the lake.
Every day, staff and participants would pile into their vehicles, pay a $3 toll, and cross the 24-mile bridge over the lake. During the 45-minute drive into New Orleans and back, there was time for group bonding, reflection on the day, naps, and the chance to see a few beautiful sunsets. The drive was certainly not ideal, but more often than not the time on the road proved fruitful, and it also gave us a chance to remind our participants that doing ministry in New Orleans these days rarely happens in the most ideal, easy, or convenient way.
Across the lake, our staff and participants came to love a very broken city. Though we initially thought that most of our groups would not get the chance to do demolition work (as most organizations require skilled laborers now), by the end of the summer almost every participant who came through New Orleans had the opportunity to wield a crowbar and sledgehammer for a couple of days. A Kids Club that started with five kids the first week ended up with 40 for the last week of the summer. Our groups spent each Tuesday night touring the Lakeview district of New Orleans, hearing stories from a few of our friends who had been hit hard by Katrina, and imagining what it would be like if their families and neighbors lost everything.
Another unexpected blessing and provision this summer was the New Orleans Mission. Since we would be spending many evenings in New Orleans before going back to Covington, we needed a place for our groups to shower after their workday was done. I called the Mission three days before our first groups arrived in town. The director willingly opened his showers for us. I was concerned at first - how would our groups feel about taking their showers at a homeless shelter? Would they be uncomfortable, scared? My fears were alleviated almost immediately on the first day our groups showered there: the guys who live and work there greeted them warmly, pulling out snacks and bottles of Gatorade from a large stockpile of donations. The next day, the snacks and chilled drinks were ready and waiting upon our arrival, and the guys welcomed us like old friends. As the days went on, this continued, and our staff got to know the guys at the Mission well. Imagine my joy when I talked to one of my staff a couple of weeks later and heard, "It rained last night, so we had our cookout at the Mission instead of the park. It was awesome!" A place that I had been hesitant to even use as a shower facility had become a home-away-from home for our groups.
So, you ask "What ever happened in New Orleans"? To put it briefly: God provided. He didn't provide as quickly as I had wanted. He didn't provide the convenience I had wanted. He didn't make things as easy as I had wanted. None of that matters, though. God provided, and when God provides, He gives what is best, and there is no doubt in my mind that He provided the best for us in New Orleans (and beyond) this summer.
Thank you to those of you who prayed for that provision. Few things in my life have been prayed for so much and by so many; know that your prayers were not in vain. I trust that you will join me in praising God for all that He has done, and I hope and pray that His gracious faithfulness in this situation will be a reminder to you of His constant faithfulness - even in the face of our unbelief.
Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus, throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen! Ephesians 3:20-21
For those of you who would like to join me on a walk down memory lane, please see the following links for my New Orleans story:
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