The Call: The Good Fight

**Disclaimer: This piece was written pre-deconstruction of religious beliefs and faith system. Many of these beliefs inform the sentiments of the writing and are not in alignment with my values. As this is a part of my journey and an extensive blog over years, I have chosen not to remove a majority of my posts written on faith. Please as a reader, take this into consideration and take what works for you, leave what does not. I also apologize for any harm my words from this past perspective may cause to any readers.**

Tonight while walking to my car downtown, a man approached me. Addressing me politely and seeming perplexed, he queried, "You from here? ('Born and raised!') Is everyone always this mean? And this cold - it's awful!" "I love it here, the cold's the worst part -- and the passive aggressive."

He was a week new to Minneapolis from LA, his job moved him,  and lo and behold, his car got towed tonight. He paid cash to park in a lot, but somehow got towed - his wallet in the car, and only $100 cash on him, short the towing fee by $18. He told me how everyone he tried to get help from, let alone talk to, in the last two hours was downright rude to him. A guy from LA. The police were "a-holes", yes he self-censored and then apologized. He told me how he went up to another lady, with the same gentleness and courtesy, began explaining his predicament when literally she ran away. He was perplexed and kept telling me I was peaceful, that he'd spent two hours stressed and cold,  but now he felt calm.

We passed a DID (peacekeeping) officer who seemed suspicious at the mere sight of us walking together - apparently someone who the man had sought help from earlier, ironically. I made sure to loudly imply I was walking with this man fully consensually, under no coercion.

We talked as we walked, he said he didn't understand why when he needed help, the cops treated him the way they did. I bluntly retorted, "Do ya watch the news at all - have you heard what's being goin' on around here, lately? Yeah, they're a little on edge, not to pardon it by any means, but it is probably why."

The gentleman was a tall, heavier set, likely middle class, middle-aged black man. Wore glasses. In a mellow in but lively downtown, between 6pm and 8pm, no one would help him or give him the time of day.

Before he spoke to me, I'd seen him walking, I knew I'd encounter him on the sidewalk as I intersected it. I had a moment to choose, and I let it be a small one. Not a wink of fear in me, and why should there be? I didn't notice him for any other reason than he was a person, and so I engaged him, walked with him, and helped him, because he's a person and my city did him wrong.

We're so fearful we overlook, or we jump to conclusions. We leave people in the freezing cold because of our fear. It pains me to think of how we fail each other. It appalls me that assuming something about someone without even interacting with them, rather only by their skin, is somehow justifiable!

I almost told him this was how I was raised, but - no disrespect to my parents - it's not that. It is however that my God instructs me to value each and every life, because He does. My God calls me to trust Him for my safety, not to fear for it as a means to secure it, whilst trampling His beloved.

I am astonished to hear "bible-believing Christians" perpetuating and defending their hateful fear as self-preservation. Tell me where Jesus taught that?

He did however say, "Whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me." (Matt 25, good chapter, check it out!) Earlier, He says the righteous did not ignore the least of these. This is by no means to say that others are lesser than us, but that somehow we as a society have let others become less, although their value is truly the same as anyone else's. They have inherent value and importance, as expressed by Christ himself for whom we call ourselves Christians.

I'm certainly not writing this to toot my own horn, so if you insist to perceive it this way, your ears are probably closed anyway; go ahead, quit now. This moment tonight was humbling. When these opportunities present themselves I consider it an honor to risk whatever to show someone kindness, while I lean into the Father's protection over me. To get to play a small role, and give away that which was so graciously given to me; to bring peace to someone's chaos; to bring support to someone's loneliness. This is our call. This is the good fight. This is mercy triumphing over judgment.

Dad's Trees

I gazed nostalgically at the tall, bushy pines on the hill that runs up from the freeway to the road that intersects the street I grew up on. As we drove by, I explained to my companion that when my parents first moved there twenty-eight years ago, those pines weren't there, rather it was a barren expanse of tall grass. When I was maybe about seven, I said, my dad climbed through a break in the chain-link fence which served to keep out the riffraff. He took with him some young pine trees, and a shovel. 

Those trees now served to remind of something, though I never really knew what. Often when I drive that road headed for the most familiar place I know, I admire the now tall pines and think of the mark my father has unknowingly left on something formerly drab and uninteresting. He unknowingly built me a memory, in planting those trees, and revealed a part of his heart that I hadn't fully understood for years.

Although he does have a thing for landscaping, my dad isn't exactly what you'd call a tree hugger. I even remember asking him about the pines when I was a teenager, because frankly, I'd always thought it was a little peculiar. Why go to the trouble of illegally planting trees on the side of the freeway, at least a football field's length from our home? He responded, so matter-of-fact, that that space needed something and he thought they would look nice. That answer not only surprised me, but it never quite felt sufficient. 

Recently, a neighbor who lives behind my parents went rogue, conquering their eight-foot privacy fence by ladder on either side to cut down some trees in their yard that he didn't like. Naturally this sparked conversation when my parents told me. Now, my father doesn't always seem like the most emotional person, but under a certain protective layer of toughness - which I can't rightly call a 'facade' - he is one of the most sentimental people you'd ever meet. After decades on this earth with him, I still learn new things all the time. He is a man of greater depth than he lets on, or perhaps even knows for himself. He told my mom and me a story that I found enlightening as to why he planted the pines all those years ago.

His mother had lived in the same house for many years, possibly the house he grew up in, I honestly don't know. His dad wasn't around a lot growing up, traveling often for work, so my grandma, Sally, was quite a tough little lady, by the sounds of it. I can tell by the way dad talks about her that he had a great deal of respect for her, but was also quite protective of her, as her only son. He told us how upon a return visit to his family home - some time after his dad had passed away - he was grieved to find that his uncle had convinced his mother (in some strange Canadian obsession with empty yards) to rip out the great trees that had lined the back edge of her lot for many years. Even as he gave the account, the disappointment resonated in his tone. 

He recounted that one day after school when he was young, probably about middle-school-age, his dad had called him out to the yard behind their humble rambler. There my Grandpa Joe was with a shovel and several young trees, ready to be planted. Eager to help and likely hungry for any smidgen of quality time, my dad ran over and started away at digging in his new little league uniform. His dad quickly scolded him for working in his white uniform (here my mom noted he still does yardwork in nice clothes) and told him to go inside to change. He did, and the two planted what would grow into tall, beautiful overseers of Granny Sally's little abode. 

My heart rose and fell within the span of that story. My dad doesn't often let on to such offenses having wounded him, but with the right attention the mysteries of his quirks unfold. As he explained the beginning and end of those trees in his yard, I understood him a little bit more than I had before. Those pines will now hold a different meaning for me; a new sentiment.

These are the moments I love; my dad is full of stories, and many of them seem to reveal things about him that I never knew were hidden beneath the surface. Many of these tales are tied to behaviors that have always been perplexing or curious. Many give a peek at the impressionable heart which drives him.

Now I just eagerly await the story that solves the mystery of his affinity for fake flowers...

When Death Wins

Sometimes it's hard not to feel like we're losing. The week before last, I woke in the middle of the night to awful news in an email that disturbed me as I fell back asleep. I woke again in the morning - hoping it wasn't real, but it was. A cloud seemed to float above me that morning. It's hard to approach a normal day with the dark staring at you like that. The thought so surreal, like the Cheshire cat's teasing grin. I spent a part of my day, trying to compose myself and move on, which seemed worse. Disrespectful.

It's hard when it feels like death is winning. Why does it get to win? That's how I've felt with every mass shooting over the last few years - though less so each time, the repetition numbing me slightly more with each report. It sounds terrible, I know, but to some extent it's a conscious numbing, because I can't let the weight of each death settle on me, crushing.

Then tonight, there's Paris. A city that holds a piece of my heart, from a defining time in my life. I think about people innocently going about their Friday night in the greatest city in the world, mercilessly killed. In the name of some thing no one fully understands. I have a lump in my throat, and going to sleep seems unfair. I am not numb to this.

As a Christian, this is one of my greatest theological struggles, when I want to shake my fist at the sky filled with the proverbial heavens - "Why again?"

Each age has had its own brand of darkness, certainly, but I struggle to say, "Oh death where is your victory?", for so oft it seems we see it. Then I find myself weary in the fight, even if the fight is not against death itself, rather to have hope in spite of perceived and some all-too-real perils.

It becomes clear, we live in a tension. Sometimes there it feels similar to stretching a tight or sore muscle. I know that the Lord is good, and that the fight is fixed, but the blows along the way can make it hard to get off the ground again.

Then the next question is, how do we - how do I - fight this battle? When fear has already taken such hold in this world and evil is no stranger hidden away in the shadows, what can be done?

When I feel powerless and defeated, all I can think is to say or do is mutter or tell a simple prayer, "God, where are you? Show yourself." My only hope is that He will be made known and that in Him hope and freedom will be found, in and in spite of everything. And I find comfort in knowing His heart is also grieved.

The We That Was

Pride is meaningless,
Empty.
Love remains, it resounds,
Into the empty space
of the pools of pride over my conviction.
Proud.
We sat,
unable to see eye to eye,
in more than one way.
One last kiss,
a confused and removed peck.
Maybe I don't understand how this works.
Pride is the last thing on my mind...
Or maybe it wasn't.
Either way there is a pit in my stomach
because I hate to cause hurt for the sake of myself.
I've always had a borderline naive hope in the good nature of others;
that they could protect my interest before their own.
Questioning that, I often feel untrue to myself.

You already feel so far away.
I missed you the second the words left my mouth.
It was a new silence for me, a new sting.
Dodging one another's glances,
An occasional unsure smile returned with a blank stare.
We didn't feel like us anymore,
Because we weren't.
All in an instant.
The we that was on a path together,
became the you and I at different paces.
I knew that when I needed
to let go
you would not understand.

Picking Up Our Cross & Acknowledging Him

**Disclaimer: This piece was written pre-deconstruction of religious beliefs and faith system. Many of these beliefs inform the sentiments of the writing and are not in alignment with my values. As this is a part of my journey and an extensive blog over years, I have chosen not to remove a majority of my posts written on faith. Please as a reader, take this into consideration and take what works for you, leave what does not. I also apologize for any harm my words from this past perspective may cause to any readers.**

What does it even mean to pick up your cross daily?

Some believe that means daily we fall prostrate before the Lord, thanking Him for having Mercy on us, sinners. Sure. That's an option, I'd guess. Personally, I don't daily fall before the Lord, and I don't know that I feel terrible about that. What I do feel not great about is my failure to be with the Lord daily. He is there, He is with me, but do I acknowledge Him? Do I surrender daily to Him?

Sometime in the last year or so, I had a revelation on a much used verse, it's actually my dad's favorite: "Acknowledge me in all Him in all your ways, and He will make your paths straight." I think part of my having "majored" in English helps me pull this apart - our job here is to acknowledge Him. How do we do that and what does it have to do with not leaning on our own understanding? If we lean on our own understanding, we see with only human eyes and only in part, but if we trust the Lord and recognize Him all along our path, He will guide it. Acknowledging Him in all our ways requires that we surrender our path to Him; surrendering our desire to control to Him. The reality is, we cannot make our own paths straight, and our understanding is faulty, save for the understanding that God is sovereign and always with us, preparing our path and lighting it, if we will let Him.

It's exactly what Jesus was talking about when He said his disciples would have to pick up our crosses daily. He not only said that, but that we had to deny ourselves and follow Him; that we could not find our lives, but rather must surrender them.

I think some Christians think this means we ought to martyr ourselves daily, and that again we are disciples if we earn it. I think what Jesus is saying is that to follow Him in carrying a cross, is to follow Him in being sacrificial with your life to the benefit of others out of love, and therefore you have internalized the teaching and are a disciple. It's not simply that we wake up and lash ourselves on the back for our sinfulness - no! Not even close. It's that we wake up and say, "Father, my life is yours - how do you want me to love others today?" And not just asking, but listening and doing. Because again, the example of Jesus was that even knowing He was going to excruciating death, He submitted His will to the Father's.

To carry our cross is also to acknowledge Him in everything. God is never gone, so if our faulty understanding tells us He is, we should acknowledge Him; call out to Him, in surrender and longing, that He would guide us, and make straight the way.

Writer's Block Isn't Real

Writer's block isn't real, writer's block isn't real, writer's block isn't real...

At least that's what I have to tell myself when I feel stuck. I heard someone talk about it once in a guest lecture at the U[niversity of Minnesota]. When I do feel stuck and tell myself this, it's like I only get more stuck. I hit these patches in life, dry spells if you will, in which I feel like I have nothing insightful to say. Nothing new to offer the world, and yet a hunger to write.

That's the side of writing I much prefer. I think one of the jobs of a writer is to deliver from their perspective. That's one of the beauties of writing, letting yourself come through. Literature snobs can get hung up about this, but I think it's a part of it. We as humans like to dive into the mind of another, even better if we can get lost there, swim around for a while.

Writing is a beautiful and incredibly challenging task. It feels like an ever-changing beast. Today, I feel ok at it, months ago I felt great at it. Tomorrow I might feel awful at it. Sometimes I'm driving somewhere, or walking around and a thought comes to me. BRILLIANT! I think, I'll write that later...Later then becomes forgotten, or later it comes out in much less an interesting manner than your high hopes perceived it would.

To tell a story seems easy. What are the facts? How does it arch? Who are the players? Who's your audience? Then, to make the proverbial rubber meet the road - to write. I don't think about any of that, to be honest. Whenever I was told to write an outline I went crazy. For some reason, when I think about it, it doesn't work.

Which is exactly why I sat down today, to write something of significance and somehow started writing about writing. Because I have "writer's block"...which isn't real.

In the end, I bet I have a story to tell - I think I have one in me. Maybe I'll give it a go...

Wisdom: Laying Down My Will to See His

I learned a really hard lesson once in saying no right now, in order that I could say yes later. I didn't even slightly know that that was what I was learning at the time, but as I saw it out and trusted, it unfolded...

I have written about it before, I was planning to study abroad in Paris one fall. I'd been dying to go for a while, so I started telling everyone in the early summer that I was going, (I'm still learning that lesson, I think) and almost completely believed it myself, though ignoring a small, quiet feeling that I wouldn't in fact board a plane in the coming months to fulfill my dream.

The nagging feeling clawed at my logic (thank God for giving me any at all!), eventually getting to me. The cost was so great, I could not justify it; it just wasn't right! With everything lined up but the plane ticket and signing away my eternity to the student loans to cover the trip, I decided not to go. In as much as anyone can be heartbroken over a thing and not a person, I was. I felt silly for going back on all that talk, and putting a dream on hold after leading myself to believe it was about to be realized.

Months later, as other plans and parts of my life came to a screeching halt, at this intersection I found another dream of mine: Youth With a Mission. I could not only go take a breather from my stinted life, but I could go to Paris and go to a Discipleship Training School with YWAM. That turned out to be the very best experience of my life so far; valued far beyond its cost, especially in comparison with my college experience! I cherish my time abroad as the perfect gift it was intended to be. His plans certainly did exceed my own.

It may sound mediocre to some, but to me this experience was huge. And I will never forget that God spoke to me in the midst of the pain of giving up my plans for the sake of wisdom. He told me He was with me, and that He had something far better than I had imagined. He is never wrong.

Sometimes, wisdom tugs at your pantleg until you acknowledge it. That tug is no small thing, but it is quiet and subtle, requiring faith to respond. Sometimes the things it calls us to may seem uncertain, even difficult, but surrendered in the hands of the Almighty, life will never be short on His goodness. I believe that when wisdom tells us to lay down our will at God's feet, we will get to see just how lavish His is.