It's Monday night again. I'm driving along the same path and repeating the same statistics and facts about the city. We cross the bridge allowing the stadium to come into sight, and I'm the only one in the van who knows what we're about to do. We park past the yellow fire hydrant along the curb and cross the street to the sidewalk. I begin talking about the football stadium to my left and the juvenile court building to my right. One is lined with Tennessee Titans planters while the other is surrounded by a black rod iron fence. Two different lifestyles separated by a street. Rich and poor. Advantaged and disadvantaged. I finish explaining to my group that both need Jesus equally. Both have brokenness. We talk about the value of intercession and bridging this widening gap between the groups of people represented. I hesitate as I describe how we are going to intercede tonight never knowing how the group will react. They begin to spread out among the sidewalk and lay down- some on their backs, others on their stomachs.
The warmth of the pavement flows into my chest. This week I lay with my head facing the court building and my feet hanging off the curb into the street. I take a breath ready for my weekly conversation with God to resume. My focus changes as I notice the slightest movement a few inches from my face. As I'm about to panic at the thought of ants crawling on me, I realize this ant isn't moving in the ways I would expect. This ant is stuck on its back. I watch as it struggles arching its back with all its might. I reach out my finger and try to push the ant over as gently as possible. He lasts on his feet for only a moment before struggling again on his back. I try again but get the same result. I hover my finger over his legs hoping he will grab on, so I can place him back on his feet. It doesn't work. I conclude that something is wrong with this ant that is too small and intricate for me to fix. I wonder if I should kill it- if by killing it, I will actually be ending its misery. My group begins standing up letting me know they are done praying. I decide to leave the ant to suffer and join everyone else in standing. I look down at my feet in one last attempt to decide to squish it, but the ground is still. The ant has become too small for my vision.
How often have I been the ant struggling helplessly? How often have those around me been the ant- suffering and reaching for help but unable to receive it? How often have I turned away from those in need because it was too painful to face? As I drive through neighborhood after neighborhood and see hardships and struggles, I feel helpless- too insignificant to make an impact. People pushed to the margins of society- too small for its vision.
"Sometimes, Lord, it just seems to be too much:
too much violence, too much fear;
too much of demands and problems;
too much of broken dreams and broken lives;
too much of war and slums and dying;
too much of greed and squishy fatness
and the sounds of people devouring each other and the earth;
too much of stale routines and quarrels,
unpaid bills and dead ends;
too much of words lobbed in to explode
and leaving shredded hearts and lacerated souls;
too much of turned-away backs and yellow silence,
red rage and the bitter taste of ashes in my mouth.
Sometimes the very air seems scorched
by threats and rejection and decay
until there is nothing but to inhale pain and exhale confusion.
Too much of darkness, Lord,
too much of cruelty and selfishness and indifference...
Too much, Lord,
too much,
too bloody, bruising, brain-washing much.
Or is it too little,
too little of compassion,
too little of courage,
of daring,
of persistence,
of sacrifice;
too little of music and laughter and celebration?
O God,
make of me some nourishment
for these starved times,
some food for my brothers and sisters
who are hungry for gladness and hope,
that, being bread for them,
I may also be fed and be full.
Amen."
Monday, July 2, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
It's All in the Name
Stranger danger is a common lesson taught to every child. It is meant to keep them safe, but often times instills fear into kids of people they don't know- especially those different than themselves. This fear generally follows children into adulthood making strangers people to avoid and remain nameless.
I hop out of the truck knowing I don't have much time. As I head up the hill, the eyes waiting in line turn to me which reminds me of our differences. We both know I am not there for the same reasons. I won't be standing in line for food. I push aside our differences knowing that if those become my focus I will not see these people for who they are: simply people just like me. The line wraps around the sidewalk making a square. I step into the center and begin scanning the line knowing each minute is quickly slipping away. I spot my friend, Michael, in the middle of the line and a smile lights up when we make eye contact. I walk towards him while noticing the man standing in front of Michael. His green shorts and sleeveless button up shirt attracts my attention. Only the top button of his shirt is fastened revealing the tattoos across his pale stomach and chest. He watches as I get closer, and I feel hesitant about him. I assume he will ignore me and keep to himself, so I begin talking to Michael about his week. Michael's sweet voice and genuine smile reminds me why I came that morning. He says my name reassuring me that he is just as much interested in this friendship as I am.
The man next to us interjects a comment, and I turn to him smiling happy that he is interested. Something in me quickly realizes he is not how he appears- scary, violent, rough.
"I slept under a bridge last night."
It was the first time someone had openly spoken to me about what homelessness looks like to them. Plenty of people have shared their stories with me, but his was different.
Names are valuable- way more than we often realize. Names give identity, worth, beauty. Names are something to own. They are the one thing everyone has that is theirs. A name proves that though we all may have differences, we are utterly the same- human.
I've always hated being called Mandy, and for the most part, no one ever tried using that name. But every so often I would get a Mandy as if the person wanted to mix things up a bit. I would cringe at its sound knowing that it was being placed on me. To me, Mandy is everything I'm not. It just doesn't fit.
Later in the week as I was leaving a different soup kitchen, Penny yelled out my name stopping me in my tracks. I hadn't realized she knew my name. I had met Penny many times during this past month, but just began using her name this week. She noticed and therefore learned mine.
Sleeping under the bridge was his first night of homelessness. Up until that point, he had been paying rent on an apartment. Our conversation travels back and forth between my life and his. I look at my phone realizing my time is up and I must get back to the housing site to start my day with my group. We say goodbyes and shake hands. Looking at me he says, "A stranger is a friend you haven't met yet."
His name is Grotto.
I hop out of the truck knowing I don't have much time. As I head up the hill, the eyes waiting in line turn to me which reminds me of our differences. We both know I am not there for the same reasons. I won't be standing in line for food. I push aside our differences knowing that if those become my focus I will not see these people for who they are: simply people just like me. The line wraps around the sidewalk making a square. I step into the center and begin scanning the line knowing each minute is quickly slipping away. I spot my friend, Michael, in the middle of the line and a smile lights up when we make eye contact. I walk towards him while noticing the man standing in front of Michael. His green shorts and sleeveless button up shirt attracts my attention. Only the top button of his shirt is fastened revealing the tattoos across his pale stomach and chest. He watches as I get closer, and I feel hesitant about him. I assume he will ignore me and keep to himself, so I begin talking to Michael about his week. Michael's sweet voice and genuine smile reminds me why I came that morning. He says my name reassuring me that he is just as much interested in this friendship as I am.
The man next to us interjects a comment, and I turn to him smiling happy that he is interested. Something in me quickly realizes he is not how he appears- scary, violent, rough.
"I slept under a bridge last night."
It was the first time someone had openly spoken to me about what homelessness looks like to them. Plenty of people have shared their stories with me, but his was different.
Names are valuable- way more than we often realize. Names give identity, worth, beauty. Names are something to own. They are the one thing everyone has that is theirs. A name proves that though we all may have differences, we are utterly the same- human.
I've always hated being called Mandy, and for the most part, no one ever tried using that name. But every so often I would get a Mandy as if the person wanted to mix things up a bit. I would cringe at its sound knowing that it was being placed on me. To me, Mandy is everything I'm not. It just doesn't fit.
Later in the week as I was leaving a different soup kitchen, Penny yelled out my name stopping me in my tracks. I hadn't realized she knew my name. I had met Penny many times during this past month, but just began using her name this week. She noticed and therefore learned mine.
Sleeping under the bridge was his first night of homelessness. Up until that point, he had been paying rent on an apartment. Our conversation travels back and forth between my life and his. I look at my phone realizing my time is up and I must get back to the housing site to start my day with my group. We say goodbyes and shake hands. Looking at me he says, "A stranger is a friend you haven't met yet."
His name is Grotto.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Red Light, Green Light
We rarely used the small t.v. mounted on the wall of our bedroom in the apartment, but for the next two months it lulled me to sleep each night. On the bottom of the screen was a red light, and each night I would stare at it until I couldn't any longer. In the mornings, I could never remember falling asleep- which meant I didn't relive that Thursday night.
The drive back to my apartment felt longer than usual- maybe because I was driving carefully scared of black ice or because I knew in an hour I would be returning to the other side of town. It was cold. Very cold. My truck began heating up as I pulled off the highway, one stop-light away from arriving home. I kicked off my snow-covered shoes and flicked on the lights. The apartment was empty which was becoming more and more common. I put my clothes in the dryer and headed upstairs to my room to pack for snowboarding the next day. I remember being exhausted. I didn't want to drive back to the condo that night and sleep on the couch, but I reasoned with myself saying that it would be better to go tonight then to have to wake up even earlier the next morning. I turned on the small t.v. in our room and stumbled upon a John Mayer concert on VH1. He was playing songs from his new album, Battle Studies, which I had recently fallen in love with. Knowing how much it would mean to my roommate, I went out into the loft and recorded it for her. I curled up at the foot of my bed to rest- I knew if I got under the covers I would never leave. John Mayer was slowly putting me to sleep when my phone vibrated- unleashing chaos I would have never phathomed.
"Is Corey okay?"
An old friend from high school had text me. Confused I read the message once more.
I asked her what Corey she was talking about thinking maybe she had text the wrong person. She called- probably after deciding texting wasn't the best way to break the news.
"It's all over Facebook, Amanda. Things like rest in peace, Corey Shaw."
Frantically I fumbled for my laptop, but I was too impatient to wait for it to start. I told her I had to go and quickly hung up. I knew there must have been a mistake. I called my friend who would know what was going on. She didn't answer. I called again and still no answer. I logged into Facebook and began scrolling down barely making out the words on the screen. I called another friend- no answer. Panic grabbed hold of me. The third friend answered- her voice was shaky and hesitant, undoubtedly unsure of what to say yet knowing she would be the one to have to tell me. My voice cracked as I tried to speak, and my eyes swelled with tears.
"Tell me what happened" was all I could manage.
Detail after detail, the story unraveled as I cried bitterly on my knees in shock- how he was found, what he had done earlier that day, who he had been with, how things had been hard for him lately. Every horrific detail engraved in my mind. I hung up shattered, and when the harsh reality quickly set in, I wept. I called my roommate and left a voicemail crying and begging for her to return my call. I called my old youth pastor, the one who knew the same teenage Corey that I did. He didn't answer twice. When he called back, I answered the phone screaming at him.
"You said you'd always answer! You said you'd always be there! Why didn't you answer?!" By the last line, I was balling.
His voice told me how much grief his soul was carrying. He said he was at an altar praying.
Crying I asked, "Is he in Hell?"- completely terrified of the answer I could receive.
"Murder is taking someone's life and suicide is taking one's own life, so does that mean he's in Hell?"
This night had reduced my faith to the theology of getting into Heaven meant following all the rules and Hell meant breaking them and not asking for forgiveness.
"We aren't going to talk about this tonight."
Desperately, I was searching for some kind of comfort. Someone to pick up the pieces that had suddenly been scattered across the floor of my loft. My throat dried- the way it does when you're going to throw up- I crawled on my hands and knees across the carpeted loft to my bathroom. I stuck my head in the toilet and watched my tears fall, each making ripples across the water. I sat down on the cold tile and made another call. This time she answered. I hadn't talked to her in years, but that night we cried together.
I heard my front door close and movement in the kitchen. Relieved to no longer be alone, I call out.
"Danae?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you come up and sit with me?"
She held me at the top of the stairs while I called my mom. By this time it was late, and I knew by my mom's voice that I had woken her up. We decided I would drive home in the morning once I had calmed down. I should have been at the condo by now, so I called my cousin and told her what happened. She convinced me to come stay the night with them anyways.
Calls and texts began flooding my phone from people I hadn't heard from since high school. Finally I composed myself to drive, grabbed my stuff, and headed to the other side of town. The door of the condo opened to Wendy and Nikki ready to embrace me, and I let myself fall into the comfort of their arms. Ryan and Dusty were playing Apples-to-Apples at the table, and eventually talked me into playing until bed. I laid on the couch that night staring at the ceiling stunned.
The next week or so proved to be restless. Nights were the worse. It became impossible for me to sleep because I was afraid of the images that would come to mind when I closed my eyes. I took medicine. I exercised. Joy would stay the night so I wouldn't be alone and would read the Old Testament to me before bed. Mostly I prayed for sleep- begged even. I thought God wasn't listening.
Almost two years later, everything is new. I'm in a new city, new school, new job, new friends... I'm curled up in Sara's bed crying while she holds me in silence. My fingers are tucked into the collar of my shirt pulling it away so it can't touch my neck- a discomfort I can no longer handle. It's been at least an hour laying in the dark. Her heartbeat pounding in my ear is slowing my breathing. I glance up at the ceiling, and my gaze falls upon the green light of the smoke alarm. Entranced, I'm able drift off to sleep- pushing away the memories of that Thursday night.
The drive back to my apartment felt longer than usual- maybe because I was driving carefully scared of black ice or because I knew in an hour I would be returning to the other side of town. It was cold. Very cold. My truck began heating up as I pulled off the highway, one stop-light away from arriving home. I kicked off my snow-covered shoes and flicked on the lights. The apartment was empty which was becoming more and more common. I put my clothes in the dryer and headed upstairs to my room to pack for snowboarding the next day. I remember being exhausted. I didn't want to drive back to the condo that night and sleep on the couch, but I reasoned with myself saying that it would be better to go tonight then to have to wake up even earlier the next morning. I turned on the small t.v. in our room and stumbled upon a John Mayer concert on VH1. He was playing songs from his new album, Battle Studies, which I had recently fallen in love with. Knowing how much it would mean to my roommate, I went out into the loft and recorded it for her. I curled up at the foot of my bed to rest- I knew if I got under the covers I would never leave. John Mayer was slowly putting me to sleep when my phone vibrated- unleashing chaos I would have never phathomed.
"Is Corey okay?"
An old friend from high school had text me. Confused I read the message once more.
I asked her what Corey she was talking about thinking maybe she had text the wrong person. She called- probably after deciding texting wasn't the best way to break the news.
"It's all over Facebook, Amanda. Things like rest in peace, Corey Shaw."
Frantically I fumbled for my laptop, but I was too impatient to wait for it to start. I told her I had to go and quickly hung up. I knew there must have been a mistake. I called my friend who would know what was going on. She didn't answer. I called again and still no answer. I logged into Facebook and began scrolling down barely making out the words on the screen. I called another friend- no answer. Panic grabbed hold of me. The third friend answered- her voice was shaky and hesitant, undoubtedly unsure of what to say yet knowing she would be the one to have to tell me. My voice cracked as I tried to speak, and my eyes swelled with tears.
"Tell me what happened" was all I could manage.
Detail after detail, the story unraveled as I cried bitterly on my knees in shock- how he was found, what he had done earlier that day, who he had been with, how things had been hard for him lately. Every horrific detail engraved in my mind. I hung up shattered, and when the harsh reality quickly set in, I wept. I called my roommate and left a voicemail crying and begging for her to return my call. I called my old youth pastor, the one who knew the same teenage Corey that I did. He didn't answer twice. When he called back, I answered the phone screaming at him.
"You said you'd always answer! You said you'd always be there! Why didn't you answer?!" By the last line, I was balling.
His voice told me how much grief his soul was carrying. He said he was at an altar praying.
Crying I asked, "Is he in Hell?"- completely terrified of the answer I could receive.
"Murder is taking someone's life and suicide is taking one's own life, so does that mean he's in Hell?"
This night had reduced my faith to the theology of getting into Heaven meant following all the rules and Hell meant breaking them and not asking for forgiveness.
"We aren't going to talk about this tonight."
Desperately, I was searching for some kind of comfort. Someone to pick up the pieces that had suddenly been scattered across the floor of my loft. My throat dried- the way it does when you're going to throw up- I crawled on my hands and knees across the carpeted loft to my bathroom. I stuck my head in the toilet and watched my tears fall, each making ripples across the water. I sat down on the cold tile and made another call. This time she answered. I hadn't talked to her in years, but that night we cried together.
I heard my front door close and movement in the kitchen. Relieved to no longer be alone, I call out.
"Danae?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you come up and sit with me?"
She held me at the top of the stairs while I called my mom. By this time it was late, and I knew by my mom's voice that I had woken her up. We decided I would drive home in the morning once I had calmed down. I should have been at the condo by now, so I called my cousin and told her what happened. She convinced me to come stay the night with them anyways.
Calls and texts began flooding my phone from people I hadn't heard from since high school. Finally I composed myself to drive, grabbed my stuff, and headed to the other side of town. The door of the condo opened to Wendy and Nikki ready to embrace me, and I let myself fall into the comfort of their arms. Ryan and Dusty were playing Apples-to-Apples at the table, and eventually talked me into playing until bed. I laid on the couch that night staring at the ceiling stunned.
The next week or so proved to be restless. Nights were the worse. It became impossible for me to sleep because I was afraid of the images that would come to mind when I closed my eyes. I took medicine. I exercised. Joy would stay the night so I wouldn't be alone and would read the Old Testament to me before bed. Mostly I prayed for sleep- begged even. I thought God wasn't listening.
Almost two years later, everything is new. I'm in a new city, new school, new job, new friends... I'm curled up in Sara's bed crying while she holds me in silence. My fingers are tucked into the collar of my shirt pulling it away so it can't touch my neck- a discomfort I can no longer handle. It's been at least an hour laying in the dark. Her heartbeat pounding in my ear is slowing my breathing. I glance up at the ceiling, and my gaze falls upon the green light of the smoke alarm. Entranced, I'm able drift off to sleep- pushing away the memories of that Thursday night.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Beneath the Surface
He sits down in front of the keyboard on stage, and his words of goodness and love begin flowing through the speakers. I look around and question if coming was a good idea. The Rec Room is filled with students and staff- all intently listening to him. The band begins playing a familiar tune, and the room is suddenly filled with the unison of voices. I quickly realize how out of place I am. I stare blankly at the words on the screen, but no words leave my mouth. I begin to sweat and feel my chest tightening. My eyes scan the room frantically searching for an exit, and I conclude I have two options. The door in front of me means I must walk toward the stage in front of everyone before slipping out into the cool night air. The other is behind me around the corner- sadly it is blocked by a multitude of people with arms held high singing. Everything in me says to run, to get out of there as fast as I can, but I don't. Instead I'm only able to inch my way backwards. By this point, I can see the Spirit moving among the room. I watch as an outsider as those around me sing so passionately- something I can no longer wrap my mind around. The song changes and the pressure increases. Overwhelmed, I force myself to leave.
Swimming is a part of life- how can it not be when you are from Arizona, growing up on a river, and the pool business runs in the family. By far, my favorite has always been swimming in the ocean. You must willing submit control when entering the ocean. The tides can drag you into its vastness. You are at the mercy of sea creatures. You cannot tell a wave not to crash. You are powerless- and that intrigues me.
The sun was beating down making the water refreshing as I continued to stray further from the shore diving under wave after wave. Before long, I was unable to touch the ocean floor. I glanced back to the beach making sure I was directly in front of our chairs and towels- a technique I learned as a kid. When the tides would begin to pull me, I'd swim to shore, run along the beach to where our stuff was, and then head back into the water. If they were strong, I would run past our stuff to give myself more time to get pulled before having to swim back in.
I was preoccupied with handstands and flips when the first wave of the set came by surprise. I inhaled and dove down to the floor digging my toes in the sand determined to hold my ground. I felt the wave roll across my back and pass over me. It was as if I had gone undetected. I pushed myself to the surface and instantly felt the warm air against my face. I opened my eyes only to find another wave about to crash. Before I had time to catch my breath, it fell, pulling me down with it. The wave threw my body against the floor and violently tossed me in all directions. I no longer knew which way to swim. I felt my chest tighten informing me that I would soon need another breath of air. Although I knew in a few moments the sea would settle and I would surface, panic began creeping into my thoughts. This must be what drowning feels like.
Three nights later, goodness and love are echoing through the speakers again- this time from a man with a guitar. I'm cynical as I hear his words. I can feel the bass beating in my bones as the drummer begins to play. I'm again out of place. Overwhelmed and embarrassed, I begin taking small steps backwards until my calves are pressed against my chair leaving me with no where to go. Hot tears are slowly trickling down my cheeks when Sara's arm brushes against mine bringing me back into the reality that I'm not alone. The urge to run is tugging at me, but I stay- uncomfortably immersed in the community I have chosen to be apart of and know is best for me. We are dismissed, and I walk home in silence once again emotionally exhausted.
The sea will soon settle, and I will surface- I just have to hold my breath a little longer.
Swimming is a part of life- how can it not be when you are from Arizona, growing up on a river, and the pool business runs in the family. By far, my favorite has always been swimming in the ocean. You must willing submit control when entering the ocean. The tides can drag you into its vastness. You are at the mercy of sea creatures. You cannot tell a wave not to crash. You are powerless- and that intrigues me.
The sun was beating down making the water refreshing as I continued to stray further from the shore diving under wave after wave. Before long, I was unable to touch the ocean floor. I glanced back to the beach making sure I was directly in front of our chairs and towels- a technique I learned as a kid. When the tides would begin to pull me, I'd swim to shore, run along the beach to where our stuff was, and then head back into the water. If they were strong, I would run past our stuff to give myself more time to get pulled before having to swim back in.
I was preoccupied with handstands and flips when the first wave of the set came by surprise. I inhaled and dove down to the floor digging my toes in the sand determined to hold my ground. I felt the wave roll across my back and pass over me. It was as if I had gone undetected. I pushed myself to the surface and instantly felt the warm air against my face. I opened my eyes only to find another wave about to crash. Before I had time to catch my breath, it fell, pulling me down with it. The wave threw my body against the floor and violently tossed me in all directions. I no longer knew which way to swim. I felt my chest tighten informing me that I would soon need another breath of air. Although I knew in a few moments the sea would settle and I would surface, panic began creeping into my thoughts. This must be what drowning feels like.
Three nights later, goodness and love are echoing through the speakers again- this time from a man with a guitar. I'm cynical as I hear his words. I can feel the bass beating in my bones as the drummer begins to play. I'm again out of place. Overwhelmed and embarrassed, I begin taking small steps backwards until my calves are pressed against my chair leaving me with no where to go. Hot tears are slowly trickling down my cheeks when Sara's arm brushes against mine bringing me back into the reality that I'm not alone. The urge to run is tugging at me, but I stay- uncomfortably immersed in the community I have chosen to be apart of and know is best for me. We are dismissed, and I walk home in silence once again emotionally exhausted.
The sea will soon settle, and I will surface- I just have to hold my breath a little longer.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Ready for Take Off
The engine is roaring as my seat begins to shake. I close my eyes and lean back trying to get control of my mind. Once we begin to ascend, I put in headphones in hopes of escaping into my memories for awhile. Images and videos quickly start streaming through my head. As I look out the window, I try imagining the British couple sitting next to me quietly reading or Kristin fast asleep on my lap. Warm tears begin softly rolling down my cheeks before reaching 10,000 feet, and for the next hour I quietly cry in my empty row. I can’t pretend. My heart knows that we’ll be landing too soon, that I’ll be back to where I started- no closer than I was landing in Vegas five months ago.
I’ve always had a fascination with planes. When I was in high school, I got into a ritual of sneaking out my bedroom window at night only to lay in the rocks and watch the stars. As each plane passed, I would imagine the people on it and their stories- where they were going, who they were leaving behind, their goodbyes and hellos. Planes are simply immersed in goodbyes and hellos. They are inevitable.
Occasionally I would pray for the people on the planes and their journeys- for the child going to see her father for the first time in years, the businessman who would be away from his family, the couple going to announce their engagement, the girl trying to start over in a new city. The stories went on and on in my mind. All of them had something in common- distance and nearness, separations and reunions.
My love for planes has only increased over the past five months. I’ve become captivated by them- their essence of uncertainty, adventure, escape. From the ground, I’ve watched them fantasizing that I’m one of the many stories some young girl is praying for- that in eight hours I’ll be landing in London only to board another plane.
The fasten seatbelt light turns on, and we begin our descent. We turn to the left allowing me to clearly see city lights for miles. I imagine them as stars lighting up the ground. The flight attendant begins going through our landing procedure and ends with “Welcome to Las Vegas." Back to reality.
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