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.

friday haiku

four days of go fish
lake swimming, monopoly
running in the woods

::

The night before we left for the woods was my favorite night of the month. My TribLocal column yesterday explains why.

what are we teaching them?

One of the best things I've read lately is an article by Catherine Newman suggesting that it's absurd how we teach our children to share and cooperate and then send them off to clamor over each other "towards the teetering heights of personal wealth." How we're teaching them Marxist and Socialist behavior (trading the corruption for fun, of course) and living as full-throttle Capitalists. The author isn't condoning Socialism as she takes some jabs at Capitalism. She's just pointing out how strange it is that we shape our kids with these very essential values that most of us hardly give a nod to in adulthood - i.e., sharing and cooperating and giving stuff up for the good of others. It's a funny piece, but it made me think.

Would I let a new acquaintance drive my new car around town just because he wanted to? Would I give some colleague half my latte just because she didn't have one? Or, on the flip side, would I cheer on my kid if he devised a clever money-making scheme at the snack table, collecting from those who could afford to purchase a snack, turning away those who couldn't and throwing the leftovers in the bin at the end of the play date?

Don't get me wrong, I'm living as a capitalist just like you, but it's something to think about. Why do we teach our kids these things when, as adults, they'll be expected to live so differently?

This weekend Liam went to a good friend's birthday party - a "bring your weapon" Nerf gun party. We love the party-throwing family and I'm not being critical, but I was kind of caught off guard by the theme as we really don't have any weapons in our house other than a play sword, a broken squirt gun and a lightsaber made out of a swimming noodle. At one time we had a small dart gun but Liam played with it for a day or two and eventually I threw it out. We never made a firm decision to keep weapons out, but we haven't encouraged them. And, truthfully, it hasn't been difficult. No toy comes before a LEGO here.

So it was interesting and slightly disconcerting to observe fifteen kids armed with Nerf guns shooting at each other and running for cover at yesterday's party. I am not a killjoy and I understand that the spirit of the afternoon was 100% fun. (Afterall, my own kid had a squirt gun birthday party last May.) But that article keeps coming back to me. What am I teaching my kids? What kind of character do I want them to develop? Do I reflect the best of what I hope for from them?

Pegging his friends with foam darts on a Sunday afternoon isn't going to turn my son into a criminal any more than teaching him to share his toys is going to turn him into a socialist. But what's the reason I'm condoning or allowing certain behaviors and activities and not others?

Several years ago I heard a speaker talk about building character in kids. The first thing he asked the audience to do was to write down the top three character traits we wanted our children to develop. Most people sitting there had never thought about it. I was one of them. Oh, I knew I wanted my kids to be nice and caring, but to deliberately write down the top three traits was a challenge. I finally landed on these: honest, empathetic, kind.

In light of the article, I'm not sure how these traits would work in climbing the corporate ladder or clamoring towards the teetering heights of personal wealth. I'm not sure my kids could win scholarships or be top of the class. I'm thinking these character qualities wouldn't make them worldly successes. But, deep down, that's okay with me. Because - gasp - I'm not grooming my sons for the boardroom. I'm not grooming them to be cunning or quick or stealthy. I am not equipping them for battle or street fights. Or to make lots and lots of money.

I hope I am equipping them to love God, love their neighbors and live big, awesome lives, which have little to do with wealth and capitalistic success and lots to do with the character traits I long for them to develop: being honest, empathetic and kind. This is why I don't mind a Nerf gun party. This is also why they are taught to share and cooperate.

But teaching is only half the equation. Sure, I can teach my kids stuff. Stuff I think is really important, essential even, but if they don't see the adults around them living it out, it won't stick.

I realize now that this is why we take our kids to Third Tuesday Suppers. This is why we make meals for our neighbors. This is why we comfort those who suffer losses. This is why we tell the truth even when it hurts.

And this, we pray, is what happens: When our kids pick up a Nerf gun, they're more concerned with helping a buddy find his lost foam dart than hitting the target. When someone wants to try out their toys, they give them a chance. When they make a bad decision, they don't cover their tracks. And when they're at the snack table, there's no question that everyone's invited. With all due respect to Newman and her excellent article, it's not socialist, it's character. And when we all try to live this way, it just might stick.

how much does one person really matter?

Lately I've been hearing a lot about how one person can change the world: help end AIDS in Africa, rid the world of poverty, you name it. A popular movement with this focus is so aptly named ONE. As is usual on the third Tuesday of the month, the earth shifts and suddenly something I thought was so earnestly good and meaningful, I don't like it anymore.

I'm not opposed to people doing good, of course. I love to do good. I love to feel like I'm making a difference in the world. But why is the focus of changing the world so often on the one doing the supposed changing? Give some money, make some calls, contribute your voice and YOU can be the difference between a world of hungry homeless people and some unspoken utopia. You see, tonight I met Judy and suddenly I realized that being The One has nothing to with being part of a select group of do-gooders. We are all The One.

I've seen Judy at our Third Tuesday Suppers before. She is thin and tired looking. Some of her bottom teeth are missing and she often wears sweats. I'd guess maybe homeless, or maybe sick. Usually she seems kind of nervous. But she is always gracious, always so appreciative.

Tonight Judy was sitting at a table by herself. I was looking for plates to clear when I walked by and, not knowing what possessed me, I slid into the chair across from her and said hi. I asked her how her meal was and tried to figure out how to start more of a conversation. She looked kind of uncomfortable, but not necessarily opposed to the fact that I had sat down. So I asked her where she grew up and the talking just happened. She grew up with horses but has always been afraid of them. She moved to Manhattan in her twenties and managed a ballet troupe. She lived in a high rise with a doorman. She had wonderful friends. She met famous people. She visited Paris.

Although we chatted for nearly half an hour, we didn't talk about her life now. I still suspect she's been through some seriously rough times. But I saw this beautiful lady light up as she reached back to pull out her memories. I was stunned. Judy isn't the woman I thought she was.

As much as I think I look at people as being in the image of God, I am judgmental. I assume. I think I am The One, not them.

How many strangers do we really know? If one person matters so much that they can change the world, as the propaganda so winsomely feeds us (and our egos), what about that one person we might be changing? How much do they matter?

We are all so rich, all so incredibly layered and textured, troubled and glorious. Each one of us - despite our incredible unworthiness - matters. We all have something to give. We all have something to receive. Judy showed me. But I never would have seen her if I hadn't sat down and taken a break from being that one who's trying to make a difference in the world.

eating with my neighbors

Tonight I ate dinner with Warren and his lady friend Eunice. These days Eunice isn't walking well but she dresses up for dinner. Tonight was no exception - silky orange blouse with a gold broach at the neck and a gold cross she purposefully pulled from behind her blouse to show me. I hoped she didn't feel she needed to impress me, being that we were in a church building. Afterall, Jesus was sitting at our table and I'm sure he didn't care.

Every month I see the couple at Third Tuesday Suppers. Although they appear rather feeble, they are both outspoken and Warren's cologne always makes a statement. In the past, I've just cleared their plates and chatted briefly, this was the first meal I sat with them.

Eunice talked a lot about her ailments, pausing often to comment on her meal, how delicious it was, how her plate looked a little different than Warren's, how she could never eat it all, how she's lost some weight and needs to eat more, how she'd like me to go get her a to-go box with another sub for later. Eunice was chagrined that the little girl with the cookie basket passed her by, but recovered when the girl came back and put four desserts on her plate.

I learned that Eunice spent her whole life in town, as did Warren. In a couple weeks, Warren told me, he'd be attending his 60th reunion at Geneva High School. He started his career as a teacher but got fed up with all the "punks" who weren't interested in learning so he went into shipping and travelled the world. He never moved from his hometown but, he said, "if I could get the hell out, I would." Geneva, he told me, has become an awful place.

"It's gentrification," he said. "Pure and simple, gentrification."

By Warren's standards Geneva has become a commercialized mess where no one knows you and no one cares. All the city dwellers settling out here, all the farmland eaten up. First it made him sad. Now he's just angry.

"I don't go into town anymore," he said gruffly. "Everyone's just bustling around ignoring you. What's the point?"

By most people's standards Geneva is a dream town. It's quaint, safe, clean, full of great little shops and restaurants, right along a beautiful river. Normally I would have blown off Warren's statement as a typical complaint coming from a grumpy old man. But like I said, Jesus was at our table, so I did something I rarely find time to do anymore. I listened.

I'm a bustler and, probably in Warren's eyes a gentrifier. But something happens the third Tuesday of every month. For two hours that evening, I hang out with neighbors. Some I know, some I don't. I visit. I catch up. I clear plates. I smile. I enter a different world. One where people have time to stop and see you. One where everyone is on the same level playing field no matter how they got to dinner or why they're there. One where there are no barriers. Not money. Not status. Not even religion. Absolutely none.

It was in this world tonight that I chatted with a woman from church whose name I know but whose life I don't and heard about some of the incredible health struggles her family has faced and the rough years she's had. I chatted with a deaf visitor using all the sign language I could muster and learned that the universal language of the body - a smile, a pat, a laugh and a hug - goes far when you can't figure out what to say. I helped a regular diner pack up a to-go bag and felt my eyes well with tears when I told her I hoped she'd come back next month and she said, like she wished she could be here every night, "This place is better than a five-star restaurant."

I'm not sure how we'd all be able to function in an outside world with no barriers, but for one night a month it's beginning to feel like an essential part of my life. I need to visit and smile and clear plates and sit with neighbors like Warren and Eunice. Otherwise I'd never really know that these people have interesting pasts and current struggles, that they are frustrated with busy people like me, that a free meal among friendly people can soften their angry hearts.

As I stood to get back to clearing plates, I told Warren and Eunice it was nice to talk and I looked forward to seeing them again next month. Warren grabbed my arm and pulled me in.

"I have to tell you," he said. "This is the nicest, the best thing that has happened in Geneva in a hell of a long time."

I thanked him and told him I'd share that with the people who made the meal. Then I smiled at Jesus and headed off with our empty plates.

making a difference

Today is Pentecost and our church did something out of the box, especially for Methodists. We met at our church building and paraded to a tent in the middle of town where the bulk of our worship service was held. Our gospel choir sang, our band played and three members of the congregation spoke about where they've seen God showing up in their life. I was honored to be asked to be one of these three speakers. So in case you weren't sweating it out in downtown Geneva this Sunday (oh, yes, it was a hot and humid day in May!), here is what I said.

::

For over a year our family has been volunteering to make lunches for Lazarus House, the local homeless shelter. We’ve often rallied neighbors to donate food and help us. The last few months we’ve been inviting my son Liam’s three best buddies to come home with him after kindergarten and make the lunches with us. Each of the boys contributes a food item and then we pack the lunches assembly-line style. Originally I was inspired to volunteer because I wanted to involve my son Liam in a service project and as an older 4 year old (now a newer 6 year old) the opportunities to actually do something are limited.

This month, though, as the boys were making the lunches, I wondered what they were really getting out of the experience. Liam was bothered that we didn’t have extra juice boxes. I saw two oranges drop into one brown bag more than once – an issue I’d have to sort out later after the guys had been released to play. And one friend was visibly upset.

“I want a lunch like this,” he whined. “Why can’t I have one of these lunches?”

Another little friend piped up. “Don’t worry,” he said very matter of factly, “You can have one someday when you’re homeless.”

I started thinking my effort to involve my son in service wasn’t really making a difference.

After Liam’s friends had gone home, I put the lunches, the gallons of milk and juice and my boys into the car and drove over to Lazarus House. I figured out a way to lug everything in one trip and cajole Elliott into following us. We got buzzed in and made our way through the dining area where some of the guests were hanging out. After Elliott loudly greeted everyone, we dropped off our bags and headed back out.

As I was getting into my car, a woman whisked up to greet me. Her pin said that she was the Lazarus House director. She stood close and spoke in a low voice, “You know,” she said. “This is very dangerous place to bring children.”

I quickly thought over the last three minutes. We said hello to some homeless guys and brought them some food. Had I really just put my boys in danger?

Then she smiled. “I used to bring my children,” she said. “And now one is a social worker and one is a teacher and one works in social justice.”

Once a friend told me that her husband always buys from the people soliciting door to door. Then she added, “He tells me, ‘You never know how Jesus will come.’”

I think about that statement all the time now. The guy who said it is not a pastor. He’s just a quiet, unassuming person. But somewhere, I’m guessing early in his life, he learned not only to treat every person with kindness and respect, but that when he least expects it, he could be opening the door for Jesus.

“I tell you the truth,” Jesus said in a parable in Matthew 25, “whatever you did for one of the least of my brothers, you did for me.”

Since Third Tuesday Suppers began at our church, my boys and I have been there every time, eating (of course) and clearing some plates. Mostly Liam and Elliott wander around and play with the other kids who are there. But I still hold out the belief that it means something more than just dinner out – that they are absorbing the service and community aspects as well.

This past Tuesday was business as usual. We went, we ate, we cleared, we chatted, they wandered and played. At the end of the night there was leftover food and we were encouraged to take a couple meals worth home.

As we drove up to our house, I noticed that our neighbor, a single mom, and her middle-school-age daughter were doing yard work, just as they were when we left. I thought about the food in my lap and asked Andrew if he thought it would be weird to go over and offer it to them.

“Yeah, maybe,” he said.

I agreed and headed inside. Liam was stricken. He quickly caught up with me.

“Mom,” he pleaded. “You have to take that to them. We always take food to people. You have to.”

I looked at his urgent expression, sucked up my pride and walked with him next door.

“Hi,” I said to my tired and sweaty neighbor. “We just came from a free community dinner at our church and we brought home a couple extra meals and it’s just delicious and we’d love for you to have it if you haven’t eaten yet. Liam especially wanted you to have it.”

I opened the container and together we smelled the savory, home-cooked meal.

“Why, thank you, Liam,” my neighbor smiled at my son. “We would love to have this dinner. Thank you so much for thinking of us.”

It’s true. We never know how Jesus will come. And we never know who will remind us to keep looking for him. But now I see how dropping juice boxes into lunch bags and clearing a plate on a Tuesday night can make a difference.

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.

why my kids have a church family

Tonight was our church's second ever Third Tuesday Supper. Brought to life by a few visionary members, this event is - in my humble opinion - the greatest thing our church has done. Every third Tuesday of the month, tables are beautifully set, a delicious dinner is prepared, and from 5-7 pm the doors are open - to absolutely anyone. No charge. No strings attached. There is no donation basket, no soup kitchen atmosphere. This is a communal supper, shared by all. Both nights so far, we have served over 200 guests - probably an equal mix of people who attend our church and people from the community, young and old.

Liam and Elliott and I arrived at 5 pm and ate with a single mom and her teenage boy and an older woman who was clearly stretching her pennies and couldn't get over that the meal was free. After talking about high school and gardening and how fast kids grow, we excused ourselves and got to work. Aprons and name tags donned, Liam and I set about clearing plates, refilling water pitchers and visiting with friends and strangers, while Elliott worked the room and got showered with attention from the 5th and 6th grade girls who love him so.

My favorite part of the night was watching Liam approach people who had finished eating. "May I take your plate, sir?" "May I take your plate, ma'am," he'd say. It was the sweetest thing, and impressive, considering my only real instruction to him was to "use good manners."

I love that my five year old is serving people, especially people who are not used to being served. I love that my two year old is free to entertain, especially in a room of people who don't normally get greeted by an enthusiastic toddler. I love that elementary and middle school kids not only know my kids by name, but that they sweep them into a huge embrace every time they see them. I love that at this place, with these people, we can be the hands and feet of Jesus. I love that we not only feel at home, we are home. This is why my kids have a church family.