sacred moments

Every now and then I take a step back and just soak in the moment. Our lives are filled with sacred moments, moments of beauty, moments bursting with God's grace and redemption, moments that we often miss...

We've started taking the kids from Generation One (the after school program we volunteer with twice a week) to a community garden every other Friday. The first week we went the kids planted tomatoes in pots they had painted the previous week. Many of them had never seen a tomato plant before, the only tomatoes they had seen were in the grocery store. So when they were given their baby plant to put into their soil, many of them asked, "Where's the tomato?"

The next time we went their tomato plants had grown. This time they had the opportunity to water the plants and put worms into the dirt. After they had gotten over their fears of touching the worms, they kept going back for more and more. I couldn't hold back my smiles and laughs as I watched them gasp and crinkle their noses and poke the worms and hold them up over their friends' heads.

Our times at the community garden are times when everything feels right. Those are moments when I step back and am amazed at God's beauty. It's an incredible experience to watch those kids learn about how things grow - the different elements that work together to create these living parts of God's world. The garden is a place of redemptive beauty in the midst of the run-down buildings and littered streets of the Third Ward.

For a while now we've been taking a volleyball and net with us to Simple Feast on Sundays. Yesterday I jumped in and played with some of the other Ecclesians and guys at the park. I had no idea a casual game of volleyball could bring tears to my eyes. It was a time of laughter, unity, joy, and fun in the middle of a park filled with stories of betrayal, loneliness, addiction, separation, and struggle.

God's presence in the ordinary - things like volleyball and tomatoes - makes them sacred and beautiful tools of redemption.

Amen.

P.S. The story from my last post got into the Houston Free Press!!

Life of a Houston Artist…

Don Collins awoke the morning of Tuesday February 9^th as he always does. He shook himself from his sleepy state and got ready for the day. After preparing for the day in his normal morning ritual he started out for his favorite coffee shop. Don does not drive; he walks. Don arrived at Taft St Coffee, the coffee shop that serves as both his studio and muse, and began to converse with his friends and those he does not know. Don draws people, places and things as they appear to him. After Don had finished at Taft St. he headed out for his next destination, a destination he would not reach.

As Don was crossing the road he heard the sound of an oncoming car so he instinctively sped up his pace to cross the street before becoming the next Houstonian to be the victim of a vehicular accident. After reaching the opposite curb Don heard the same car slam on its brakes and as he turned he saw that it was a Houston Police Department cruiser. By the time Don had turned around the passenger side officer was already out of the car walking toward him. Don is not a stranger to the H.P.D. and he knew what was coming. What followed was a horrible display of profiling by the HPD officers.

The first officer asked Don why he was walking so fast and requested to see his identification. The officer proceeded to ask Don who he was and tell him that he had never seen him in “their” neighborhood before. The next question was a forceful request to search Don’s backpack for his “crack pipe”; Don does not smoke crack. Upon searching his pack, much to the chagrin of Don’s personal rights, they discovered a bag of Crayola colored pencils (let me remind you Don is an Artist) and the officers proceeded to ask Don if he was a “pedophile”. The fact that the possession of colored pencils is enough for the police to think that someone is a pedophile is absurd, but also that they would ask such an audacious question to Don based off of the contents of his bag is overwhelmingly upsetting. Also during this absurd police investigation a mid-twenties African American man happened to be walking by and he received a harsh greeting and rude questioning as to his destination and reason for being where he was.

Upon searching through their records they found that Don had a few outstanding tickets and decided to take him in to process him through the system. The first holding cell that Don was placed in was a twenty-man cell that had about forty or fifty men in it. After several hours Don was moved to a smaller cell with three other men, one of whom was suffering from some mental ailments and had been in the cell for longer then he should have been in that situation. Don continually requested to talk with a superior officer (which is something that one of his cell-mates had for the previous two days) and was repeatedly told to talk to the next shift-captain, of which he saw about three come and go. Don finally went before a judge to deal with his delinquent tickets and copped a plea so that the frustrating madness would come to a more concise end. His tickets were written off after he spent some more time in his cell and was subsequently released.

As previously stated, Don is not a stranger to the HPD. In fact, they harass Don quite often. On top of being a wonderful artist, very friendly conversationalist and traveling philosopher, Don is also homeless. It is an upsetting fact that just because Don has the appearance of a homeless man and was walking faster than some police officer decided that he should have been, he was the subject of situational profiling and the harassment that comes with it. No man, whether he goes home to a multi-million dollar house or a pad made from cardboard and thrift-store blankets, should be subjected to such inhumane treatment. Don had not done anyone direct or even indirect harm in that situation and aside from his appearance and supposed unfamiliar presence in the neighborhood the officers had no feasible reason to “pull him over”.

This situation was upsetting to Don, but even more upsetting to those who care about him. Don is a kind and generous man to everyone both friend and stranger alike. Over the Christmas season Don sold cards based off of his paintings at Taft St Coffee and donated all the proceeds to the church that he has been attending so that they could dig fresh water wells over-seas. He is an accomplished artist, and a brilliant intellectual, nothing about him says dangerous, harmful, or even scary. This situation brings into questioning the methods by which our HPD officers are deciding who is and is not criminal. I can only hope that this situation will bring an inquiry into the police department and their practices of profiling.

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This story was written by one of my teammates, Isaac about the injustices that have affected our dear friend Don. Isaac's intention was that people would see that these things happened to a beloved friend rather than just some homeless guy.

Valentine's Prayer

I could count the ways I love You far too quickly. It takes much more time to count the ways I should love You but can't, want to love You but don't, dream of loving You but something is always in the way. I am always in the way.

If my love were pure I would love You in patience, waiting for Your timing, being slow to anger, and actually thinking before I act. I would love You in kindness, speaking truth and encouragement into the lives of others, and loving in my actions even more so than words. I would love You in humility, in placing others above and before myself. I would love You in hoping and protecting and persevering and trusting and always seeing the good and beautiful. I would put to death the self that envies, boasts, is arrogant and rude, and seeks the best for me alone.

The ways I love are minimal, the ways I should and wish to love abound.

Teach me how to love.

thoughts from the last week of january...

Warning: this post will most likely be filled with thoughts that are not well connected with each other.

One of my greatest struggles so far this Mission Year has been dealing with the fact that my life this year differs in many ways from the expectations I had. It's ironic, because I thought I didn't have many expectations - I didn't know what to expect. But they were there. I thought we would be living, working, and attending church all in the same neighborhood. I thought I would choose my service site. I thought I would be living with, at most, 5 others.

Instead, I live in one neighborhood and work and go to church in another (some of my teammates live in one neighborhood, work in another, and go to church in yet another). Service sites had already been picked out before we came to Houston and we were placed there. I live with 9 others.

I've been realising this year how stubborn I am. When things don't meet my expectations, I try to make them (but don't worry, I love my teammates - I haven't tried to get rid of any of them). Perhaps in some ways my dissatisfaction with certain aspects is valid, but this is where I am, and this is how things are, and God works all things for good.

My city director used a puzzle analogy with me. She talked about how each piece in a puzzle is different, but equally important. Some pieces are filled with colours and objects and excitement - and some are plain. Each piece alone is nothing, but together they make a beautiful picture. If any one piece is missing, there will be a gap, whether it be a plain piece or a colourful piece. The puzzle needs them all.

So instead of trying to hammer pieces in where they don't fit, or add in pieces from another puzzle, I need to accept and appreciate each piece for what it is and what it brings to the overall picture.

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On Tuesday Anton came from LaGrange and did a training with us. He was talking about immigration, but his point was applicable to all forms of oppression. He used the passage from Exodus about Moses and the burning bush. "The Lord said, 'I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out because of their slave drivers, and I am concerned about their suffering. So I have come down to rescue them...'" (Exodus 3:7-8)

Anton focused on how God said that He 1) saw 2) heard 3) knew the suffering of His people and then rescued them.

1) See - see the injustice, the suffering. See the people waiting in line all day, bundling up against the biting winds, for a loaf of bread and some onions.

2) Hear - hear the cries of the oppressed. Hear the refugee mother's frustration at not speaking English and struggling to provide for her 5 children.

3) Know - be there with them. Walk beside them. Be in solidarity with them and their suffering.

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The Mission Year board was here on Friday. They came to our house for breakfast. We thought they would be arriving at 9:30, but it turned out to be 9:00. So when they came they found us in our living room doing our morning devotions - many of us still in our pajamas. It was classic. Pretty much like an ad for Mission Year. :D

So we rushed to get dressed and tidy up. Andy made pancakes for breakfast and we talked with the board members about our experiences so far. I was really thankful for the opportunity because it drove us to look at the big picture of our Mission Year to this point, describing the beauty, redemption, and ways we see God working. It was kind of a refocusing for me, a chance to bring things into perspective. We shared struggles as well, and what we've been learning and how we've been growing. It allowed me to see how things fit together, how each piece of this year is so important - like the puzzle.

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Love to all,

Sawah

...my burden is light...

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." ~ Jesus (Matthew 11:28-30)

This verse has been coming up a lot for me lately. I guess I really need to hear it. I've been feeling very burdened lately, but God has been reminding me that I don't need to.

Last week when I went to the refugee family's home, I asked the mother about food stamps. She told me she's getting them again and then she took me by the hand and led me to her pantry and then to her refrigerator, showing me the food that she has. I guess she could see how worried I was and wanted to reassure me. She has enough. God provides her with her daily bread.

Then there was the rainbow. In the middle of my "English lesson" with her, the sun was shining through the window in such a way as to project a rainbow onto the wall. It was a beautiful moment as all of us - myself, my teammates, the mother and her children - all stopped what we were doing to look at the colors. God's promise. God's presence. God is so good.

So we do what we can, and remember that we're only human. God is great, and compassionate, and loving, and almighty.

He's got things covered. ;)

...on realising i can't be God...

Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon myself and one or two of my teammates go to the home of a refugee family. On Thursdays we take them some food that we get from helping a local church with a feeding ministry. A couple of weeks ago when we went we only had with us a few bananas, some potatoes, and a loaf of bread. When we gave it to them the mother said that she was so thankful because she was very hungry and they had no food left in the house. They literally had nothing besides what we brought to them. I almost cried right then in their living room. We brought them to our house for dinner that night and afterwards gave them all our leftovers. The next week we again took them food. I glanced in their refrigerator as they were putting it away and saw that all they had was a gallon of milk and a few onions.

My heart breaks for them.

The mother told me she has no more food stamps. I thought certainly I must have misunderstood her. Maybe she meant she was out of money for the month? But it was the beginning of January. It couldn't be that her family doesn't qualify for food stamps. In the past she had had to sell her food stamps in order to have money to pay her rent. But she has a job now and shouldn't have to do that. I mentioned this to some of my teammates and one of them did some research on the food stamp system in Houston. He found that it is terrible. I don't completely understand it but I know that it is not adequate to provide for everyone who needs it. People end up falling through the cracks while others understand and abuse the system. It isn't right. It's an injustice. And it makes me angry. This mother and her five children go hungry while others abuse the system and end up having more than they need.

I want to fix it. I want to make it right. Unfortunately, I cannot be God.

Fortunately, God is bigger than I am. God's love is deeper than I can fathom. God's grace flows freely. God holds us in the palm of His hand. God provides for His children.

I once read that ministry is often more about the one ministering than those to whom they are ministering. I've come to believe this is true. I think that Mission Year is more about God changing and transforming me than it is about me doing good things and serving others. Let me explain. God does not need me. If I had not taken food to the refugee family that Thursday, I am confident that God would have provided them with the food they needed in some other way. God cares about them more than I do. God did not need me to do Mission Year, I needed to do Mission Year. I needed to be in this place where I can allow God to change my perspective, to soften my heart, to smooth some of my rough areas, to transform me more into the person He created me to be, to draw me closer to Him.

Everything always comes down to our relationship with God and others. What He wants is for us to love Him and to allow Him to love us, to understand that He accepts us and to accept ourselves. What we do is the overflow of our relationship with Him.

Does any of this make sense? Maybe not. God doesn't make sense. I don't understand Him or His ways. That is why I can worship Him and that is why I am deeply in love with Him and want to go deeper and deeper.

Please keep the family I mentioned in your prayers. They are constantly on my mind and on my heart.

"God, I don't know"

We've been back for a week. And I feel....I don't know.

My prayer life lately has mostly consisted of "God, I don't know." The beautiful thing is that that's ok. One of the greatest treasures I've collected from my Mission Year so far is a deeper, more real relationship with God that does not depend upon spiritual highs. It's an honest relationship that doesn't go downhill when I feel drained or uncertain or simply unhappy. My prayer/communion with God does not have to be some crazy mystical experience. In this relationship I can express whatever I need to express. I can give Him my tears, thoughts, feelings, lack of words, sighs, groans, frustrations, and utter confusion.

"...the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express." (Romans 8:26). I am so thankful for this.

My heart is broken. I want to be able to fix things. I want to make things right, to make things better. I want my friend to be able to speak English, to be able to get a job that will allow her to provide for her children, I want to know that she has food in her house...

I don't understand how I feel. Perhaps I'm beginning to understand the depth of God's compassion for people. Perhaps this is a glimpse into His heart...Whatever it is, it doesn't feel wrong to feel this way.