the haves and the have nots

If you are trying to preserve a happy-go-lucky, life-is-good mentality, I have a little advice for you. Don't hang out with people who are suffering.

Last night I caught up with some of the regulars at our church's Third Tuesday Supper and I can't get them out of my head, or my heart. A few weeks ago I wrote a column for the TribLocal about these free monthly dinners and why they have become my favorite night of the month.

I stated that "No one knows if you drove up in a Lexus or a rusted-out Bonneville. And no one cares." And while this is true on one level, it's not the whole story.

A lot of neighbors come to these dinners. People you'd expect. Church members. Local families. Elderly couples. And even though some of them may be in a tight spot financially (I would even put us in that category), they are still the "haves." They have options and resources. Or at least they have access to friends and family with options and resources if things get really tough.

The supper also attracts people who truly need the meal. For the sustenance, the company and the reminder that they are not walking this earth alone. Perhaps this sounds exaggerated. I used to think so. This is Geneva afterall.

These people don't look like the disheveled homeless man panhandling at the train station. They look like the single mom with five kids who can't get out of bed in the morning, or come up with the money to buy milk and gas. Like the anxious middle-aged woman without any connections being pushed out of her home for complaining to her landlord. Like the single man who eats all of his meals alone except on this one night every month.

One ten-year-old girl that I seek out at each supper has kept me on the edge of tears today. She looked skinnier than ever and her usual luster was gone. Her mom, mired in grief over the death of her husband nine months ago, confessed that she was struggling to put food on the table. Then she shared about recent health struggles and her unfruitful visits to the emergency room. The family has no primary care physician because when you can't afford to put food in the mouths of your five children, you certainly can't afford health insurance.

I stood, holding a load of dirty plates, wanting to hand her a wad of cash. I wanted to say, my husband/best friend/sister is the finest doctor in the world and he/she will see you for free. I wanted to fly to Washington DC and slap some sense into the people who are buying $10,000 hammers. I wanted to scream. The best I could do was to find our pastor and and get a grocery store gift card to hand her instead.

Several weeks ago Andrew and I attended a World Relief dinner. The main speaker that night, professor Soong-Chan Rah from North Park University, talked a lot about suffering, and how American Christians are, for the most part, out of touch. We are positive thinking, upwardly mobile go-getters feeling pretty darn blessed by how much we've got. Most of us are generous and giving but we would not choose to invest our lives in a suffering population. And, yet, he argued, to choose not to is to miss out on the heart of God.

Listening to Professor Rah speak, one might easily respond, "We can't all be Mother Theresa." Most of us can't even afford to travel to a place where people are really suffering. Last night, however, I realized I can drive less than two miles to find this population.

Before my ten-year-old friend left the supper, I told her mother that I'd bring her family a meal this week. I love to cook for people, so while it sounds nice of me, it's not difficult. It is, however, a step out of my comfort zone to deliver it. I've stepped into this girl's home before and the memory gives me a heartache. Imagine an episode of Hoarders. Imagine teenage boys "cooking" the meals. Imagine dogs who should be let out more often.

If I really had God's heart, I would show up with a bucket and some Lysol. I would not only prepare the meal, but also stay to eat. I would leave extra time to take my young friend out for ice cream and invite her brothers, too.

Instead, I'll make the nicest meal I can, throw in some frozen pizzas and try not to cry. I'll crack the door to suffering and let a little more of God's heart seep into mine. And then, when that fuller heart prompts me again, I pray I'll be ready to do the next thing.