"Wait, wait," you say. "You're supposed to be resting!"
Somehow, I knew you were going to say that.
I've tried to come up with a few excuses you might accept to justify why I'm getting ready to spend most of this week working.
The best one I've come up with is: I want to.
Yes. That's right. Plain and simple.
Six weeks away from these children and my arms just ache for hugs.
Two weeks ago I drove through the streets of the neighborhood I have come to love. I drove through on a Tuesday night just to show a friend from out of town why I had chosen to stay in Lexington instead of leaving for the Race. I turned onto Second Street with a subtle tinge of apprehension. I was afraid the east end, on some level, wouldn't want me back.
But my car was bombarded by small children -- hands came through windows, my name was shrieked. They asked me to come with them to a baseball game the following Friday. And something in my heart resonated with their request. Yes, yes. I could do that. Not only could I do that... I wanted to.
They still wanted me. After a month of being gone they still loved me. Perhaps this time I believed in the authenticity of their love more than ever before. In that moment I knew the love I have for them trumps almost all else.
Over the last six weeks God has been exposing the unhealthy aspects of my ministry, the areas from which I need to continue to rest. I have worried I would forget a lot of what I've learned over the past few months. I was afraid these children would lose their respect and affection for me. I didn't abandon them. But I bet they feel like I did. I would be mad at me too.
Another boy told me to quit trying to make Marcus talk to me. "He doesn't like you anymore," Ehmaud ruefully pointed out, shrugging. Marcus punched him. The first words to come out of his mouth all night were, "I did not say that". Then he turned and looked at me, "Miss Anna, I didn't say that."
I've been accused of a lot of things. I have a laundry list of names I've been called, negative qualities which have been attributed to me, accusations thrown my way. I have a longer list of the things about myself I want to change. There is a short list too, of ways I have changed. A short, but growing list of what I have learned and what I have overcome and what I have to offer.
At the very top of that list, is Love.
Is it enough?
Is the living, breathing Love inside my heart enough to make up for all the ways I fail?
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I pulled into the parking lot at Broadway yesterday. Ironically, the camp is called "Can-I-Go". Verbatim the prayer I lifted up to the Father on Monday. "Father God, can I go? I want to go to camp. Can I go?" For the children it was the second day of camp. For me, it was the first. An SUV pulled into the spot beside me and I caught a glimpse of small, dark faces behind the windows. One of the little boys caught my eye and a grin split his face in two. My spirit swelled inside me. I had never seen that smile before. But my heart immediately belonged to him.
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I call them "my" kids.
I do it subconsciously. I'm sure it comes from a not-so-subliminal desire for my own family. I think it also comes from avoiding the impersonal "the" (the children, those children, the kids). I know it comes from a love; rooted deep in my belly and intertwined in my heart and the very marrow of my bones.
You may not see or understand, because I don't express this love the way some others do. I'm still very unsure of myself. I am still very wary of grown ups and I often forget boldness is required for the risk taking.
I've told you this story before. About sitting on Kat's front porch and having the five boys run past us on the sidewalk. They were on their way home at midnight. Home was five blocks away in the wrong direction. I was overcome then, with my mission (the mission God had imprinted on my heart at 15 years old).
Since then, I've struggled with a wanting. Wanting to do it all. Wanting to move, to operate, to function far beyond my abilities. My wisdom and my skill set have not been enough to tackle every single battle I have stumbled across.
Not enough to cause radical change. Not enough to break the cycle. Not enough to stop the abuse, the neglect, the stealing, the trafficking. I kick myself for not being everything they need. I feel inadequate. Useless. Unworthy.
But often I find myself in quiet moments. Bathed in all my inadequacy. Shrouded in all that is not good in me, about me. And inevitably, a gentle wind will come. Ruffle the feathers of the lies the enemy tells. Blow back the curtains of all his treacherous efforts. (Even as I write this, sitting on my front porch, a gentle wind just blew.)
I am enough.
That is what I hear.
When I find myself there: standing on hot asphalt with the same little boy with a huge grin standing with his arm around my waist, his perfect shaved head resting against my belly. That's all he does. Just stands there. Watching the others shriek and run and splash each other with cups of water and wet sponges.
His hug is enough.
My Love is enough.
And I know my story will never be about what I can do. About the way I can help. About the things I can fix or remedy.
If Ben's sweet, warm hug is enough to heal my heart, maybe, just maybe my love will change him too.
I hope so. Because it's all I have to give.
In my rest, I have heard this answer. It perfumes the wind and is like warm and sweet sunshine on my shoulders.
It is not about what you can do for them.
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I will go back to camp in the morning. What I thought I had forgotten has, in fact, grown intertwined into myself. I cannot separate this from that. As I am called, I have been created. As I am called, I am being equipped.
In humility, I will love. May every shoe I tie, every tear I wipe, every reprimand I give, every hug I share, every word I whisper make a way for True Love. For the One who is enough. May it be seen as the washing of feet. May everything I have be poured at His feet, given to them. May I reach beyond myself. Who I think I should be, who I want to be, who I can't be, who others say I am -- and live there. In that place where I can't. Beyond myself.
In that place where I am not enough.
But He is.
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Oh, what a love story.
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