ashes

Last night the boys and I went to eat and help at our church's fourth Third Tuesday Supper. We sat with a guy named Carmen who I recognized instantly from dinner the month before. Carmen has presence. He's large and loud and friendly. And, from what I pieced together, Carmen has quite a history. Homelessness, alcoholism, broken relationships. His road hasn't been easy and most of it he's navigated alone.

We got our meals after Carmen did, and when we went over to sit with him, he beamed.

"I was hoping you'd sit here," he said.

As we settled into our seats and Elliott greeted our new friend for the tenth time, Carmen smiled. "I feel like I have two boys, tonight," he said. "I never got to have kids."

"Well, tonight you do," I smiled.

"Thank you, Amy," he said. "That makes me feel real good."

And, so, for twenty minutes last night, Carmen was family. It felt real good. Like we belonged at that table at that time. Like we belonged together.

Months ago pastor Bill gave a sermon about belonging. In a nutshell, the message was this: first belong, then behave, then believe. In other words, you don't come to the family of God believing, you come as someone who belongs. Then you behave as someone who belongs. And then, in a mysterious, marvelous way, belief follows.

Nowhere is this message played out as well as at our Third Tuesday Suppers. The meal is delicious and totally free, and no one knows if you parked your Jaguar outside, took the bus or walked from the nearest homeless shelter. Everyone is equal. Everyone comes as someone who belongs.

It's a poignant message on the first day of Lent, when the God of love went to the greatest lengths to show us that each and every one of us belongs. All of our posturing, one-up-manship, stuff? Ashes. They just don't mean a thing.

I wondered this morning if this is why people give things up for Lent. To prove that the things they like best don't own them. To prove that chocolate and Facebook don't hold a candle to the things that really matter. To show God that he matters more. Or maybe it's just the time to quit something unhealthy, to lose a few pounds, to stop wasting time.

In any case, in honor of Carmen, here's my list. Starting today I'm giving up judging a book by its cover. I'm giving up the idea that one person is more worthy than another. I am giving up the perception that there are requirements to belonging to the family of God.

Yesterday I was in line at the post office and a Spanish-speaking woman who I had seen park her bike outside was trying to mail a flat rate box to Mexico that she had stuffed beyond the limit. The post mistress refused to send her package but the plastic bag she had carried the box in while she rode her bike was ripped. Seeing her quandary, I quickly emptied the reusable Target bag I bought for a dollar and handed it to her. The other customers in line looked at me like I had given her a bar of gold. "Wow, that was really nice of you," one woman said.

Come on, people, it was a bag. And if I hadn't had it with me, I probably wouldn't have done anything. Because if I hadn't had an easy solution, any other option would have felt like a burden, an inconvenience, and for someone who, on the surface, didn't really seem to belong anyway. I'm nice, but I have some things to give up.

Remember, oh man, that you are dust and to dust you shall return.

In this Lenten season, I will strive to remember. That though we are nothing, because of God's great, immeasurable love for us, we are something. Wealthy, homeless, educated, disabled. Young. Old. The haves. The have nots. Carmen. The woman in the post office. Me. All of us. We belong.

So, for Lent, I am giving up laziness, ignorance, inaction, fear and selfishness as much as I possibly can. And in their place I am going to look for a way each and every day to remind someone that they are not just ashes taking up space on this planet. They matter. To God, to others, and to the one made-for-love family where we all belong.