I was nineteen years old. I was in a place where community was just desperately lacking. Ironically in community college, working in an office with middle aged women, and recovering from the first real heart break. It all started so simply, without me realizing it. Later a suppressed memory of seeing him sitting on a stool with one of my hometown friends would surface. But for the longest I just didn't even remember how the rest of my life got started.
We built a community. We did meals together, played music, and celebrated holidays. We waded our way into the poorest hubs of the city and settled there, sinking and settling in a way only people who love people can do. We took trips and we made church, practically wherever we went. I remember late nights in the backwoods of rural counties. I would be dragged, practically against my will, down to a veteran's memorial park in the center of the city. I would be taught how to see. How to feed the hungry and how to protect myself. Learn when to walk away. I would make statements I already have renounced -- about where I wanted my story to take me, the way I would raise my family. Life just began there. In the simplest way. And the lessons learned, I took with me when the chapter folded over on itself.
I looked for community again for years.
I lived in a corner of a room in a small apartment by the park and one autumn a group of twenty-somethings serendipitously gathered together within walking distance. We'd talk about risk. I would show up for one reason, walk through the door, and know certainly I'd stay for another. I would make best friends and learn how to pray. And we would feed each other. And we would serve together. We would go to church together; in essence, it would never be as organic as my first community experience. But they were my family and we protected each other. I got my heart broken there, because protection doesn't mean we don't get hurt. And I left, to return to the poor.
Obviously, I am the most stubborn. And I was dragged, practically against my will, back to the hub. To the streets lined with shotgun houses and forgotten trash cans and downed power lines and broken concrete. Chained up dogs and plastic lawn chairs on front porches and dirty windows covered with sheets.
To gifted loaves of bread and kickball games and an overabundance of hot dogs and pizzas. Dirty faces and braided hair and greasy hands. And the most joy and purpose I had known.
I had traveled, laterally and slowly, from barns with bluegrass music and campfires and flannel shirts and church in kitchens, to the deepest ghettos I could find. To spoken word and tight beats. To line ups and a brand new perspective on what diversity means, what trust means, what competency and leadership means. What it means to give well, to invest, to listen, and to make the bold, brave decisions. To protect each other.
But listen.
Life happens and with it comes so much hurt. And a broken heart stayed broken for a while. And people I trusted to be trustworthy hurt me. Secrets were revealed. And I was chased down dark streets and pinned up against cars. I gave up on what I knew because what I knew had failed me.
And we are here now.
Living in one of these hubs of poverty and violence and grayness. Raising my little boy and working with the elderly and navigating relationships, which have failed to flourish. There's a lot of emptiness here, yet so much growth and more trust than I had ever known I could muster.
There are words and scripture intertwined throughout my entire story. A common thread, winding through each chapter, providing the sense and congruency I need to keep pressing. There's a church sign. And there's Don. There's words about Boaz, words about Esther. And a word on the fringe of my memory, about trusting God to do what He said he would.
The common message is serving and culture and I just have to get myself back to a place where I can begin building again.
And I've been praying about where.
I've been praying about the man who will one day join our family.
I've been praying about the culture in which I will raise Judah.
And while I was praying, I was connecting dots. My heart craves the simplicity. The minimalism. The art. The artist I am has been starved. But the last few years have not been wasted. As I pick up the rocks, the bricks, to build what comes next I know I have been equipped.
I have been rounded out, fleshed out, built up in the ways of community and culture. I have something new to give, because of my experience.
Thinking about reaching out has my palms sweaty.
I require a lot of grace. Might even demand it, because I know the truth. We all require grace. I want to teach people to serve, to create, to love unconditionally. I want outreach to look like all the meals I've cooked and like a village helping to raise my child, among others. I want community to look like music and beer and no street in this city left unloved. Like reconciliation, integration, partnership, and development.
Today, positive steps toward this include blocked telephone numbers and sitting down to write out these words under the lit Christmas tree while Judah naps on the couch. It looks like asking for help and showing up, especially when it scares me. It looks a hell of a lot like purging and about speaking worth over myself and my gifts and the family I have. And looking for the people who don't have to be convinced.
But, it also looks a lot like the simple sharing of meals. Recognizing my gift of hospitality looks different than the perfect housewives'. The ability to open my home, my heart, and share. I've come home, in my heart, to this place.
"Everybody has to leave, everybody has to leave their home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons." DM
No comments:
Post a Comment