Why I Will Miss the Inner City

In case you haven't heard, after four years of ministry in Indianapolis, our family will be soon be moving to Durham, NC so Greg can attend Duke Divinity School.  I think it will be a healthy change for our family.  I'm looking forward to having more time and energy to care for the three people I love most.  We'll be close to the ocean, which thrills me.  We'll be right on top of one of the most influential, academic hubs in the world, a place where (I hope) I'll find motivation to do something with my brain that has grown mushy.

But today I am grieving.  There is a part of my heart -- a pretty large portion, actually -- that has also grown mushy.  In a good way.  There are things and people and experiences here that I am sure cannot be found in any other place in the world, and I fear that no matter where I go in life I will always be searching for the equivalent.  No doubt there is plenty of heartache here as well, but I've had plenty of time to focus on that.  Today, as therapy I suppose, I just need to highlight the good things, people, and experiences of our little stint in the inner city.

1.  A beautiful, gutsy 12-year old named Coreyona.  For two years she and I have laughed together, played games together, and struggled with grade school math together.  Despite all the disappointments in her life, despite how impatient I can be with her junior high-ishness, Coreyona has given me vast amounts of attention, patience and loyalty.  She even threatened to beat up a kindergartener I tutored one day, fearing that I was replacing her.  Bless you, you crazy girl.

2.  The food pantry.  It's an event more than a place.  (See Aromatherapy.)  I haven't attended much the last few years, because, frankly, it saps all of my emotional strength for the day.  (And I believe when there are children in the home, only one parent at a time should be depleted of emotional energy.)  But if I was a better, stronger person, I would devote my Monday mornings to the ministry of conversation.  There are people that come to food pantry who beat their children, people who prostitute themselves for drugs, people who have lived half their lives behind prison bars.  There are people who immigrated in order to feed their children, people with extreme mental illness, people who live their lives under bridges.  Their stories are incredible, their ability to absorb life's blows is astonishing.  It has been an honor to sit, listen, and learn.

3.  Three very angry, very demanding females: a grade schooler, a teenager, and a 60-year old.  At different times, all three of them spoke truth into my life.  These were hard truths to hear, wrapped in raw, harsh language and sometimes profanity, but I definitely heard them.  Maybe that was point.  Maybe Holy Spirit thought I was growing immune to her sweet, forgiving tone.

4.  Friendship Community Garden, the little growing/gathering place carved out of an empty lot next to our house.  I've learned so many things here: how to keep kids from stealing tomatoes, how to mulch properly, how to direct a work team of suburban teens, how to use a 20-horsepower wood chipper.  I've learned that even if I sow seeds at the wrong time, forget to water, and generally neglect the weeds, God can still produce a little something from my efforts.  I've learned that I am very small; sometimes, something grew out of the ground that I hadn't even planted.

5.  Leading kids in musical worship via voices, instruments, dance moves, and motions.  I didn't know I could do this.  But thanks to lots of practice in front of the mirror, I have become quite adept at singing, dancing, playing a toy tambourine, balancing my daughter on one hip, and disciplining unruly children -- all pretty much at the same time.  I've also learned that everyone likes me better when I smile.

6.  Daystar Child Care and Westminster Presbyterian Preschool -- where, for two years, my daughters have spent a few mornings each week.  One is low-cost, the other is completely free, but both have quality programs and are run by folks with passions similar to my own.  I'm grateful for people who believe that investing in early child development will not only help increase school attendance and achievement, but will ultimately help children grow into more loving, responsible adults.

When Pastor's Wives Throw Eggs

Warning: This post contains sensitive material.  I'm pouring out my heart here.  Please read with caution... and forgiveness.

Last week my husband got a curt email. He responded politely, in typical pastorly fashion. This was followed by two more emails from the same person, each nastier and harsher than the first. His work ethic, his calling, his abilities as a pastor and his dignity as a fellow human being were all attacked. What stung most was that this person had been a steady supporter of our ministry for years.

I take that back. What stung most was that, in typical pastorly fashion, Greg did not throw cruel words in the opposite direction. Instead, he wrote an apologetic letter stating how much he respected this person and how much this person had contributed to the life of the church and how much this person's prayers had sustained him and how very, very sorry he was for sending that polite reply in the first place. He even wrote the line: "I beg your forgiveness."

It's a week later.  He's yet to receive a reply.

This stuff sucks the life out of me. On the day my husband received the second two emails (also his birthday, in a cruel twist of irony), I couldn't focus. Not on my children, who badly needed my attention. Not on myself. Not even on my husband, whose spirit was understandably shattered. My hands were shaky. My chest felt tight. I wandered around aimlessly. On several occasions, I buried my face in my lap and wept.

The only part of me that seemed to be working properly was the angry-email part of my brain. The section that produces biting sarcasm and defensive, cutting wit.  That part was working overtime. In my head, I had written a reply letter that would have sent this particular person running for cover. Or, optimistically, to the knees in humble, repentant, self-loathing prayer.

In the end, I decided not to send that email. This is because I strive to do my pastor's wife thing well. Which means I cannot blindly jump into these sorts of situations, cannot rush angrily to defend, and most importantly, cannot call a parishioner a well-deserved name or two. Instead, I get to politely practice the art of "shelving" it. I get to hold the hurts inside and, one-by-one, choose to let them go as time softens their sting. I get to pray for help. I get to learn that eventually life goes on, even if I never pushed the "send" button.

In anger management therapy, it's commonly held that the end result of "shelving" or "absorbing" other people's angry tirades is unfortunately not a calm and forgiving attitude. The end result is stress headaches, anxiety, depression, disillusionment, bitterness.  Sometimes suppressed anger even manifests itself in acts of physical and verbal violence, or fantasies of the like.

In the last four years of ministry, I've seen all of these "symptoms" in my husband. I've seen all of them in me.  We both have felt anger so deep and so wide that we've wanted to detonate something.  We've had thoughts of shouting expletives or slamming doors in board meetings.  We have thrown things.  Punched holes in walls.  Spoken hurtful words that really weren't meant for the spouse we love dearly, meant instead for the person who put us in such a mood.

I hate the way our "shelved" anger comes out, how it eventually must come out, so tonight with a small group of trusted friends I broached the subject.  Here was my plan: I would, with a careful tone and under close supervision, reply and respond to those hurtful emails.  It was water I'd never tread in before -- actually REPLYING to that crap.  Defending my family's honor sounded delightful.

My friends weren't so sure.  They agreed that it might make me feel better to let out some steam, but it wouldn't accomplish anything in the way of mending what was broken.  Bless them.  (Curse them.)

I was holding the stack of emails in my hand, and feeling defeated, I announced that if I could not reply, then I was going to take them outside and ritualistically burn them.  The council approved.  One friend mentioned that writing the offender's name on an egg and throwing it might be similarly therapeutic (but that just sounded weird and wasteful to me).

The papers flamed orange and red, dissolving into soot.  It felt sort of nice.  Before the last flames burned out, I aired out my feelings one last time before finally putting them to rest.  "It hurts how people treat my best friend like he's a punching bag."  I wiped at my tears.  "It hurts that my children need me, and I can't give to them because someone else stole all my emotional energy.  It hurts that people cannot control their tempers.  It hurts that people don't think to say 'I'm sorry.'"  The friends listened with sweetly sympathetic faces.

So when my burn party was over, I was surprised to hear one of them say, "I want to throw an egg."  The truth comes out: I wasn't the only one in the group with anger issues.

I grabbed some eggs from the fridge, and the three of us scrawled names on them with a Sharpie.  I had to go back for more eggs.  Some eggs had three or four names on them.  Who knew such levels of rage existed beneath these pleasant smiles?

We lined up, several eggs in each hand, and took turns throwing them at a cement wall near the back of the church.  Some bounced off the grass in front of us, smashing yellow and white on the wall.  Some soared right over the wall and smacked on the church exterior.  One even sailed over the roof of the church.  We howled with laughter.  Eggs are surprisingly hard to aim when you let loose all your fury on them.


After picking up the scraps and hosing off the church (we are, after all, good church people), the three of us parted ways.  And I began to reflect.  How did Jesus handle his anger?

Overwhelmed by crowds of needy people, and the hard work of healing, teaching and preaching to such people, it strikes me that Jesus looked them square in the eyes, and "had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless..." (Matt 9:18).  I like that Jesus, the one that sees beneath the surface of things.  I admire him for his goodness, his steady streams of love.  But some days I can hardly relate. 

The Jesus I can relate to is the one who called people names: Fox (Luke 13:32), Hypocrite (Matt 23:25), and Whitewashed Tombs with Filthy Dead Bones Inside (Matt 23:27) are my favorites.  I like the Jesus who premeditated a violent temple clearing, taking a moment to form himself a sturdy whip to use, presumably, for hitting stuff.  There are words like "scattered" and "overturned" in that story; exclamation points abound!  This Jesus of ours knew about the woes of "shelving it."  He needed a place to insert all that righteous rage.

On days like these, it's that second Jesus I adore.  I appreciate so much his passion, his loyalty, his devotion.  I like that he threw a fit when people he loved were being abused.  It's that Jesus who makes me think it might be okay to throw a lot of eggs at a church building.

This one's a bit of a downer

This is the first poem I remember writing. I wrote it when I was eleven. I believe I was thinking about death a lot, in those days.

With that in mind, enjoy a leisurely stroll into my junior high-aged brain!

"The Painting"
(or maybe, "The Waterfall". Or something equally profound.)

A solitary waterfall
slips and slides.
Over rock and trees and hills
it glides.

Never stopping, never ceasing
so unlike life,
which can easily be ended
by a gun or a knife.

As I stare at the painting
frozen in time
I wonder: "Who was this artist?"
and "Where was his mind?"

Morbidly thought-provoking, yes? Great use of quotes, yes? My favorite part is the cute rhyme scheme, despite the fact that my subject matter is death and deadly weapons.

There's Ranch in my Pants

One of my favorite read-alouds as a kid was "A Light in the Attic," which I remember being quite hilarious for both my mom and us kids. Thankfully my girls love this and other Shel Silverstein volumes, so we've been plowing through them and cracking up together -- nightly. So here is my tribute to Mr. Silverstein: a fun little creation that was inspired by Eve when she wiggled on the couch and said to me, "I think there's ranch in my pants." Enjoy!

There's ranch in my pants,

and beans in my beard,

And ham slices, for worse or for better,

Are dangling like weeds

grown from sunflower seeds

amongst arugula in my argyle sweater.

There's a billion bacon bits

scratching my arm pits,

I've got olives in my front left pocket.

There's asparagus to spare

filling my underwear

and falling out, unless I can stop it.

And then there's the croutons,

the carrots, the cheese,

which squish all around in my socks.

While I haven't checked there

I think there's eggs in my hair,

and somewhere, my celery stalks.

My belt bursts with spinach.

There! I'm finally finished

with this funny, food-stuffed ballad.

My message complete:

You are what you eat.

And sometimes you have to be salad.

Keep Sake

When my first daughter was born, my closest friend stitched her a quilt. It's baby-sized, crisp and white, with little satin pink roses and tiny buttons. Simple, charming, unique.

I treasure that gift -- the homemade-ness of it, the time it must have taken, the details.

But also because that same year my friend and her family moved away, and now we live in different states, and both of us have lives filled with children and schedules and so very much laundry. We hardly find time to talk.

One day my daughter, now three, placed her long-loved blankie in my lap.

"Fix it?" she asked.

At some point during a boisterous game of "house," some of her quilt's pale pink stitching had come undone. A button was missing. And it appeared that for some time, the seams on the corners had been coming loose.

"I'm sorry," I told her. "Mommy doesn't know how to sew."

And it's true, mostly. I don't know how to sew. I could learn, but it's more than that. Sometimes there are things you're too tired to learn, too old to learn, too young to learn, or too busy for. Sometimes there are places you don't venture into because they are too dangerous, or too difficult, or because you're sure they'll break your heart. Sometimes there are problems too big for fixing.

That day I tucked her baby quilt into a keepsake box in my closet. It can't come completely unstitched if it sits in there. It can't lose anymore buttons. But most importantly, I won't have to look at it and remember the truth: that some things are just not forever.

5 pm

5 pm is my least favorite time of day:

Little tummies grumbling,
soup on the stovetop burning,
husband running late,
my own patience running thin.

The clatter of plates carelessly plopped on the table,
the endless search for the good spoons
(the ones I haven't mangled in the garbage disposal),
the sticky steam from the dishwasher when I yank it open,
continuing the search for said spoons.

And the little tummies, still grumbling,
attached to little mouths which repeat,
"I'm hungry!" at ever-growing decibels.

And sometimes:

the realization that the masterpiece I've poured
the last 2 hours of my life into
is NOT resembling the one I saw on the internet.

I suppose it would have looked fabulous and tasted 5 stars
if I had used all those (sketchy) ingredients,
prepared them exactly as labeled,
actually used an instrument marked "1/8 tsp."
But that is just the price I pay for being an artist,
rather than a scientist, in the kitchen.

And so, when I set those steaming bowls of palak paneer or
eggplant curry or chicken with raisins and quinoa
on the table, there is fear and trembling.

From the children, yes, and certainly from the
picky-palate husband, but even more so
from me.

Will they try it? Will they like it? Will they appreciate my time
and work and artistic innovation? Will they know I substituted
milk for cream cheese? Will they taste white vinegar
when they should have tasted cider vinegar? Will they
think I'm a fraud? Will they love me anyway?

And finally:

Will they choose to just eat their food and shutup and be
thankful that someone cooked it for them, for Pete's sake?

But:

There are those magical moments -- oh how they make my soul
sing -- when daughters eat and eat and eat their fill, and
I can see those formerly grumbling tummies
growing under the table. When husband smiles
and says, "mmm... this is good. You made this?"
When there are leftovers I'll be happy to eat
for days.

What to Expect When You're Un-Expecting

I didn't see it coming.

I was seven to nine weeks pregnant, wrapped in a hospital gown and positioned rather awkwardly in the ultrasound room. “Hmm...” was the only word the technician seemed to know. I held my breath while he searched with his wand for a baby I was sure was in there.

“Hmm...” he repeated. I squeezed my husband's hand. Took another deep breath. And tried to accept the fact that something could be wrong.

“I'll be right back with the doctor,” the technician finally said, nervously dashing out of the room.

And then it happened: life spontaneously fell off course.

A few days later, as the doctor had warned, my abdomen started to throb and the bleeding began. I crouched in the bathtub with the shower on, and for hours I watched as the remains of my pregnancy literally went down the drain. The questions were endless. Did I cause this? Should I have taken better care of myself? Am I supposed to bleed this much? Will I ever get pregnant again?

There were also questions I didn't allow myself to ask. I blocked them out of my mind, hoping they would fade with time.

It was years later, after my second daughter was born following a healthy, normal pregnancy, that I came to face those thoughts. I'd imagined them lost somewhere deep inside, buried under all the sleepless nights and mental to-do lists that come with being a new parent. And yet, it was at the most unexpected time, at the most incongruent place, amongst the most unlikely company that I came to truly grieve my miscarriage.

Namely, it was after a trip to the zoo, outside a chain sandwich shop, with a middle-aged friend of my husband's who was visiting from out of town.

The girls were busy tossing sizable portions of their supper to the pigeons when my husband's friend commented that his sons used to do the same thing. We were reminiscing: light-hearted talk that most parents engage in without effort.

And then it happened: our small talk spontaneously fell off course.

“Actually, we almost had three children,” our friend confessed. “But my wife had a miscarriage.” He grew quiet. “And I always sort of wondered: would that have been my girl?” He stared at his hands, his dark brown eyes misting up.

I think it was the honesty, the bare-bones transparency of his question that stung at my own soul. Before I knew it, I was wiping at my own tears and offering up my own, long-ignored confession. “I had a miscarriage too, once. And you know, for some reason I've always wondered if that was my boy.”

Somewhere deep inside me, a shift occurred. It took the gentle disclosure of a man twice my age to help me understand that my miscarriage was not just the loss of a child who would never be. It was the loss of knowing, believing, hoping that everything would go just as I expected it to go. It was the loss of planning, controlling, and manipulating the future. It was the loss of feeling like I had it all figured out.

I’d love to say that today I am a whole person, free of doubts and concerns and worries. I’m not. That’s what loss does to you: it forces you to ask the hard questions, and asks you to go on living without any good answers. But there is something to be said for the holy, whole-making act of confession. Of airing out pain and grief, rather than trying to bury it. Of surrounding oneself with people who have experienced similar pain. It certainly won’t provide answers, but in a wonderful, unexpected way, healing begins when we remember we are not alone.

Finding Beauty in the Ashes

This was my Greenville College chapel address on Feb. 8, 2012. Greg and I were invited as the Christian Life Week special speakers.

Read: Isaiah 61: 1-3

When I was a little girl, I stayed up too late one night and saw parts of the horror flick “Poltergeist.” Do you remember that movie? It was edited for TV, but it was still way more than my young mind could handle. For years I couldn’t sleep if my closet doors were open, even just a crack.

As an adult, closet doors don't bother me anymore, but there are still images that haunt me and keep me awake at night. Unfortunately, these images weren’t manufactured in a movie studio somewhere. They're not computer-generated. No amount of photo-shopping can mask their ugliness. These are images that come from real-life experience, living and ministering in my neighborhood on the near Eastside of Indianapolis.

So when I can't sleep, I'm thinking about the time I caught an autistic 4-year-old devouring raw hamburger meat out of a package from the church food pantry. I think about how her exhausted mother just turned her back and looked the other way.

I think about the diaper-wearing 2-year-old who cussed out the church nursery workers; how the child's grandmother responded by cussing her out and slapping her face, and how sadly incongruent it was that all this took place at the front of the sanctuary after Sunday morning worship.

I'm haunted by images of children using the hose in the community garden to take a bath, since their homes don't have running water. Of babies with so much lice in their hair, their little scalps have been scratched raw. Of so many teenagers I know who still bear the scars of fetal alcohol syndrome.

What keeps me awake at night is this question: where IS God in the inner city?

My husband Greg shared with you on Monday about our first impressions of our new home and church, when we arrived four years ago. We'd spent years studying and preparing our hearts for this new adventure. We were inspired. We wanted to live lives of generosity and hospitality, and be others- and God-centered. We wanted to raise our daughters in a place where everyone didn't look and act and think just like them; we wanted them to grow up knowing that that was okay.

It took only a few weeks for the reality to set in: that this was going to be really hard. We'd read Isaiah, and we had planned on being “anointed” by the Lord “to preach good news to the poor.” We hadn't planned on the poor being so difficult to love and hard to preach to. We'd planned on “proclaiming freedom for captives” and “releasing prisoners from darkness.” We hadn't planned on the prisoner's chains running so far and so deep that you can't even tell where they stem from.

We had raced into the inner city, and the one thing I was sure we could count on was that God was coming with us. In all of my efforts, at least he would be behind me, riding on my shirttails. Couldn't I at least be sure of that?

Last spring, Pastor Greg Groves from the Greenville Free Methodist Church, who also teaches youth ministry here at the college, spent a weekend with our congregation on a retreat. Our focus for the weekend was prayer. At one point, he placed a series of random photographs on a table. He instructed the children and teens in our group to carefully and prayerfully choose a picture that stuck out to them, for whatever reason.

According to Pastor Greg, the results were startling. Kids, you see, are supposed to be kids. They are supposed to choose pictures of playgrounds and school lunches and pretty sunsets -- not because kids are shallow or immature – but because they're innocent. But the pictures chosen by these youth from my neighborhood seemed to reveal more pain and darkness, than innocence and light. For example, most of the boys in the group chose a picture with a gun in it somewhere. One boy explained his choice, saying, “I wanna have one like this someday.” One girl chose a picture that showed a few scantily-clad girls standing around a tough-looking boy. To me, it looked like any other perfume ad from a teen magazine, but this young girl explained, “You see this guy here? He's a pimp, and this girl... she's trying to decide if she wants to be with him.” But the comment that twisted my heart was from a 10-year-old, who chose a picture of a coffin. She explained, “I chose this picture because it looks like the one my Mommy was buried in.”

Again, I ask, where IS God in the inner city?

When boys dream of holding guns, when girls wonder how much their bodies are worth, is God there? Is he listening? Does he see all of this? And most importantly I wonder, lying in bed at night, is He going to DO anything about it?

Thankfully, there's a twist in this story. One I didn't see coming, and I still don't see it if I'm not careful. I've learned that it's so very easy to get caught up in the images right in front of your eyes, that you forget to see the bigger picture that's unfolding. It's easy to keep snapshots in your mind of all the bad things you've seen happen, that your focus on everything else gets blurry. And it's equally easy to get excited about all the good things you're doing, all the great programs you've designed to solve everyone's problems, that you forget your own role in the story. Namely, you forget that, try as you might, you can't be God.

And that realization, for me, is the hinge it all hangs on. I raced into the inner city with all the right intentions, planning for God to be riding on MY shirttails. But as it turns out, God, in all of his glory, was already there.

He'd been there all along, before I even stepped foot on the pavement. The same God who made a meal for five thousand people out of the scraps from a child's lunchbox, is still making banquets for hundreds of people each week out of our tiny church's food pantry. The same God who healed the lame, touched the dirty, and gave losers a place in society, is still helping broken people create communities where dignity and differences are valued.

The same God who lifted the face of a whore to his own, and told her she was worth something, is still whispering words of hope to prostitutes on the corner. I know this because they come to church and tell me so.

And you know, the God that is rescuing all of them, is the same God I need to rescue me. I may spend a lot of time with dirty, dangerous people, but the ugliest thing I've encountered so far is the state of my own heart. If I can be honest, there have been times that I've prayed, "Lord, would you please not send me another smelly person to hug." God forgive me for believing that any burden I bear even compares to the burden he bore for my own dirty soul.

God is certainly in the inner city, and I can't take credit for any of his doings. I can only stand back and stare in amazement. Urban ministry, it turns out, is very much God's production. And me? I'm merely an audience participant.

But salvation in my community doesn't look the same as it does in other places. In fact, it's easy to miss. If I hang on to a lot of my own expectations, I might not take much notice of the extraordinary ways that Jesus changes people.

Salvation in the inner city looks like Carrie, a middle-aged woman who lived a good chunk of her life under a bridge where she prostituted herself for drugs. But today, Carrie's simple faith in the Jesus who saved her makes my faith – supported by all those years in Sunday school – look flimsy and frail. She's still poor, she's still mostly unemployed, but Carrie is the one I call on when I need prayer. I came to her neighborhood to help people like her, yet she's the one helping ME.

Salvation in the inner city looks like the two moms I know who are so deeply in love with their church, they went out and blew their Food Stamps on shrimp cocktail for everyone. That was my favorite church potluck, by the way. Not only was the food good, but there was something beautifully incongruent about eating Food Stamp shrimp cocktail.

Salvation looks like drug addicts who stand up and confess that they've been clean for one whole week – and you know, one week for a lifelong drug addict is a big deal.

It looks like some of the kids I work with on Wednesday nights, who may never learn to read well enough to have “proper” devotions, but when they sing and clap and dance they touch the face of God... And isn't that all that really matters?

When I've been on the lookout for it, I've seen God do in my community what God does best: make something beautiful out of ashes. Create life and hope where there once was death and despair.

And this really shouldn't surprise me. It's a pattern we see throughout Scripture: people make a mess of things, but God comes in and creates life out of the ruins. After an apocalyptic flood, he puts a rainbow in the sky. After Nehemiah's hometown is leveled, God forms a city-wide re-development committee. After a sinless man is brutally slain and hung on a cross for all to see, God breathes life back into those lungs, resurrecting the Messiah we so desperately needed. Our culture may tell us that the order of the world starts with life and ends with death, but God loves to do things backwards. More times than not, He shows us that His way, His trajectory, starts with death and moves towards life.

One of the most beautiful illustrations I've seen of the way God works is found in the art made by children in my community. The View Finder Project is a mentoring program that aims to help kids see life differently and make better choices – all set in the framework of a photography class.

And the results... are startling. These kids COULD take pictures of playgrounds and school lunches and pretty sunsets, but they don't. Perhaps it's that same loss of innocence that gives them an edge in the art of photography. Instead of taking simple pictures, these children manage to capture the reflection of a broken-down townhouse in the serene water of a birdbath. They don't miss the irony when there are weeds growing through white picket fences. They find trash on the street, and with the right focus, they create something worthy of hanging in your living room.

To close, I want to show you some of these pictures, all of them taken by inner city youth. But before I do, I want to share with you the words of one of our teens.

Alex, who attended most of her photography classes with an infant daughter on her lap, shares, “Growing up was a hard thing for me. Looking back now, all I can remember are the bad and painful things about my childhood. But photos are a way to remind us of the good things in life." She says, “We don't wake up choosing to notice trash on our streets, the shapes around us, or the colors of flowers. We see only what we want to see.”

May Alex's words be a challenge to us all. May our choices on where to live, how to spend our time, and whom to love, reflect a choice we all get to make: to look away, or to stare in amazement at God making things beautiful.

Prayer: God of beauty, god of life. We are surrounded by ugliness and pain. We have wandered into dark places, and some of us have no hope. But you are here, you've never left us. So help us to see you. Help us to see the ways you are already at work, making something beautiful out of ashes. And if there's any way you'd like us to participate, anoint us and call us to do so. Amen.

how to teach children about giving

My husband and I share the same passion -- to live lives of generosity and be others- and God-centered rather than self-centered. Its a legacy we hope to pass on to our daughters, and the drive for our "family ministry."

So despite being white, well-educated, and in stable careers, we moved to an inner city neighborhood to live among the non-white, the non-educated, and the unemployed. Our jobs, our church, and even our children's schools are located within a community of people whom we might not otherwise have built relationships with.

The results can't be ignored: our daughters think it's a normal thing to spend their Wednesday nights playing and worshiping with a group of kids who look very different from themselves. They think that the homeless woman on the street looks a lot like the nice lady at church, so they wave at her and smile. As parents, we haven't had to scrap together some images from brochures or schedule a slot at a soup kitchen in order to describe who "the poor" are; instead, they know people that fit that description by their first names, which means that giving away our time and money and possessions feels like we're giving to our friends ... which, we are.

Not everyone is able to pick up and move to a different neighborhood in order to serve people -- that definitely won't make the "simple ways to give" list. But I think everyone has the capacity, wherever they are, to build real friendships with the people we minister to. A real friendship, one that goes beyond you giving and the other person receiving, will not only benefit your children and their worldview, but will also benefit the other person in a way no soup kitchen or toy drive ever could.

My Little Fat Fear

A poem I wrote in college:

Forgive me for sounding crude,

but there’s a little fat boy

at the end of our block

who scares the crap out of me.

I can always count on him

to be sitting in his front yard,

free of shirt or shoes,

and when I drive by

he never fails

to thrust his hips at my car

or jiggle his unsightly upper

portion.

Once when I was walking home

I realized I would have to step

into the street

to avoid the husky boy

sprawled on the sidewalk.

But my pride

got the best of me

and I chose to walk

around him instead.

Like Buddha in body shape

and philosophical illustration

he held out a pudgy hand

which was

empty.

So I kindly thanked him

for the invisible gift,

smiled at my own conquered

fear,

and stepped over the child

who continued to say

nothing.

Then it hit me:

not an epiphany

but a thick, heavy hand

on the back of my leg

which sent me running home

to lock myself in.

Image of God

A poem I wrote in college:

Dragging one foot behind him, he sets himself down

Good Book open, he struggles, to find the right verse

and toils in vain for the “Matthew” “Ruth” “James”

to which the man in front refers

Then a terrible, unclean urge overcomes him

He braces himself tight and clutches his knees

and out from his lips, to his utter despair

comes an un-wanted, un-loved sneeze

He stares up at the man who sits there beside him

and cowering, trembling, tries to wipe clean the Word

with wide, heavy eyes he whispers, “I’m sorry”

so quietly the man barely heard

Older, wiser, He grabs the small, shaking hand

and smiling softly, refers to the Book with a nod

“My child, don’t you know, that Book’s made of paper?

You’re made in the image of God!”

A (Worthless) Hour in the Life of a Mommy

I recently spent the good part of an hour explaining to the clerk at a public health clinic why I only had proof of income for my husband. I needed an aching cavity filled pronto, and the clinic down the street seemed the cheapest way to go. The hold-up was the check stubs I'd brought along, which had only my husband's name on them.

“So you don't work?” he asked. “Then I need an official unemployment statement to show that you're unemployed.”

Unemployed. The “U” word. Adjective meaning unoccupied, idle, at liberty, jobless.

I'm pretty sure the guy doesn't have kids.

Lest any American citizen should forget, the mothers of young children are tireless workers who seldom sleep, eat, or use the bathroom while clocked out. We are union-less, require few breaks, and earn the saddest of incomes. Our achievements are rarely measured or noted, and on top of it all we have these outrageous hormones.

To illustrate this point, I will paint for you a picture of a mere hour of my day as a stay-at-home mom. This hour takes place between 1:30 and 2:30 pm on a Wednesday. Events occur in real time.

The hour begins as my pastor-husband settles down with our daughter in the living room to watch a movie. He is in between meetings, and has had lunch with us as usual. (It is such a blessing to live next to the church.) Now, the disciplinarian mom in me says, “Lydah shouldn't be watching a movie right now. It's nap time, not movie time.” But fun mom says, “Let it go, she can take the nap later. She's with her dad. This is quality time.” So I button my lip and go about changing our seven-month-old's diaper.

I should mention at this point that, in order to save on diaper expense and diaper waste, our family has embarked on a wonderful adventure called cloth diapering. And while they are more bank-friendly and much greener than their disposable counterparts, cloth diapers are terribly inconvenient when they are sopping wet in the dryer.

So, I leave Eve diaper-less for a few minutes on the changing table (safely strapped in, of course), and run up to fetch some laundry.

About this time, Greg needs to head back to work (did I mention what a blessing it is to live right next to the church?). As expected of a nap-deprived two-year-old, Lydah begins sobbing dramatically about Daddy leaving her.

I come down to console her and find that sweet little Eve, in the 2.33 minutes I was away from her, has managed to have the most remarkable bowel movement, sans the diaper to catch it. So there's poo on the table, poo on the wipes, poo on her clothes, and poo on her happily thrashing hands and feet.

I pin down her hands and speed dial Greg, who runs right back over (such a blessing to live next to the church.)

We work together to rescue the baby from her mess, bathe her, and clean it all up before Greg's counseling appointment. Lydah, meanwhile, settles back down to her movie without taking any notice of Daddy's return.

I am in the midst of toweling off Eve, and Greg has just walked out the back door, when our doorbell rings. So I run down the stairs with the naked baby and answer the front door, finding, of course, the church member who is wondering where her pastor is and is he still planning to counsel her and why doesn't he answer the church doorbell?

“He was just here helping me for a second. He should be there now. Try again!” I say in my super-sweet, covering-up-the-insanity-of-my-life voice. (Did I mention what a burden it is to live next to the church?)

Finally, I am able to dress the baby, and diaper her, using the now perfectly dry (and green and cheap) diapers from the dryer, and just as I am thinking how nice it might be to have Lydah take that nap after all, I hear a voice from downstairs cry out, “I'm all sticky and wet!”

None other than the two-year-old has managed to cover herself with a bowl of canned peaches, which she has sneakily stolen from on top of the kitchen counter. As an aside, I have to say how impressed I am with her physical strength – I didn't even know she could climb that high. Not so impressive, however, is the horrible mess she has made carrying the bowl from the counter to the living room, and the sticky peach juice that is tangling up her hair and dripping down her neck and all over her clothes.

This, considering that I had just finished bathing the sister. This, considering I had just scrubbed and vacuumed all the floors less than 24-hours prior. This, considering I had just changed Lydah's clothes for the third time that day due to potty-training accidents.

All of this considering, I am at the end of my rope, and make the horrible mistake of asking, a bit too loudly, “Why in the world are you eating peaches in the living room?!”

Now I am usually very committed to speaking in a respectful tone even in those moments when I want to scream till the shingles peel off. So Lydah's actions in the next moments are quite reasonable and forgivable. Mostly.

Rather than answering my louder-than-usual question, my sweet daughter begins throwing a truly awful tantrum, howling out “No! Mommy, no!”, stomping around in the peach juice, and throwing a pillow or two before I send her to time-out in the bathroom.

It was about this time that the hour ended, so I will spare you, Mr. Public Dental Health Clerk, all the details of the rest of my idle, unoccupied, unemployed day.

But for anyone else out there wondering what payment there is for a job like mine, I will let you in on what happened in the next hour, as I am toweling off Lydah, wiping her tears as she snuggles in my lap. After working to convince her that she can actually stop crying, that I'm not upset anymore, and that everything is just peachy (pun intended), I say, “Lydah, is it okay if I cry now too?”

She sits straight up and looks at me and says, “No, Mommy. You can't cry. Big people don't cry. Only little people do that.” She hesitates and says, “Well, Daddy can cry. But not you.”

We giggle together as I pretend to boo-hoo like a Big Bad Dad, but I think my two-year-old has hit on some truth. We mothers are irreplaceable. Indestructible. Heroic. If Mommy breaks down, the very core of the household is shaken. The little ones will question the worth of their lives. Even the Daddy will be lost in this world of diapers, blankies, and washing machines.

Unemployed? Not at all. I may not have the official document to prove it, but I hold the powerful, world-shaping position of Mommy.

Ghetto Mama

When my husband and I first considered moving to inner-city Indianapolis to minister to the urban poor, we heard questions like: Will your kids be safe? Won't you miss your friends? Can you afford it?

The questions weren't anything new to us; we were asking them ourselves. After all, we have two preschool daughters and their well-being is our first concern. We both grew up in middle-class suburban or rural homes, so living and communing with the urban poor was bound to create some culture shock. And after years spent in college and seminary and low-wage jobs, we were certainly hoping to pay off some debt.

But something we weren’t questioning was God’s loud, clear call for us to go and do something uncomfortable, risky and life-changing. We’re now going on three years of living in a parsonage literally connected to a multi-racial, low-income church – a church in the ghetto – and we’ve certainly met those criteria.

Are your kids safe?

When the crime rate in your neighborhood is considered to be lower than only 1% of cities in the U.S., you make some obvious changes in your kids’ play habits. Our young daughters don’t play outside alone, we don’t go for walks after dark, and we enforce the no-talking-to-strangers rule like it is biblical. But honestly, regarding safety, I don’t know that our lives have changed too terribly much, and I think I know why.

While petty theft is epidemic in inner cities, only once have we had anything stolen. Granted, that one thing was our gigantic central air conditioner – sold for loose change on the black market – but considering the fact that we keep a decent stroller un-chained outside, and considering the number of times I have absentmindedly left my purse on the front porch or in my shopping cart, I would say there is another force at work. God has undoubtedly protected us from some major calamities, and has done so through our neighbors. The same people who get food from the church food pantry each week, who receive counseling for crack addictions from my husband and send their kids for me to tutor, are continually on the lookout for us. We are their pastors, committed friends who have chosen to be a part of their world and who attempt to bring hope into it. Our children are their children, their children are ours, so while the question of safety is certainly valid, the strength of this Christian community and the loyalty of its members make our neighborhood much safer than I once imagined.

Who are your friends?

A teenage mom approached me in the nursery and asked me for advice on breastfeeding. A neighbor has kids the same age as mine; they like to build leaf piles outside. A grandmother babysitting her granddaughter asked if we could have a play date.

There are countless ways to connect with people of low socio-economic status, but as a full-time mom, my kids are the key. Having children gives me an immediate bond with every person I come into contact with, because nearly everyone has a daughter or son, niece or nephew, and everyone has been a child. Unique conversations on relationships with our children, our hopes for their future, and even our status as God’s sons and daughters, abound.

I’ve found that contrary to popular opinion, low-income parents are not necessarily “bad” parents. Many have seen their neighbors’ children taken away by Child Protective Services, and therefore take their role as parents quite seriously. They are fiercely loyal, ever watchful, and very present in their children’s lives. And while we may not always agree on how to show it, we all believe that our kids should know we love them.

Another surprising find: unlike their middle- to upper-class counterparts, Christ-seekers in the inner city tend to be extremely honest and transparent about their struggles with sin. They have been in pits of despair I could never comprehend, without the hope of money or influence to pull them out. I’ve had a number of conversations with people who desperately wanted God to shine some light into their dark lives, and while they intended for me to help them, their willingness to be so honest has helped me more fully face the dark places in my own faith. The deep friendships I’ve made here are quite unexpectedly more open and real than any I’ve made before.

How do you afford it?

Shallow as it sounds, my husband’s pay was my biggest concern in coming here. With a seminary degree to pay off and Baby Number Two on the way, we were hoping for Greg to at least be paid full-time for his work. When we learned the church could only afford to pay him part-time, we did what any other middle-class-minded American family would do to save money: we cloth diapered, clipped coupons, shopped at the thrift store. We even began contriving meals solely made from canned food in the church food pantry. But we still couldn’t afford health insurance. As a last resort, we signed our kids up for government assistance, and Greg and I began visiting a reduced-cost health clinic when we got sick. In effect, we became truly incarnational, relying on the same systems our neighbors rely on, learning firsthand the inadequacies of these systems. Our bills are certainly reduced, but our dignity and self-respect are on the line each time we wait hours in queue to speak with an overwhelmed caseworker, discover our paperwork has been “lost” again, or experience the rudeness of a state employee. As Americans, our worth as humans is intrinsically tied to our income. Living in the inner city has taught us that our identity in Christ’s Kingdom far outweighs our loyalty to any other country, any other value system.

We’ve also learned that the worth of material possessions is so very, very minute compared with relationships. Our first attempt at a community garden was a huge success, with everyone trading and sharing and working the ground together. Anything on my pantry shelves is up for grabs if a neighbor needs food. Our kids regularly donate their clothes and toys. When your neighbors and friends have so little, you realize you don’t need so much.

And here was the big surprise: despite my initial concerns about income, our family was able to pay off all our loans within our first year of inner-city ministry. We were entering the lowest paying job we’d ever had, but thanks to frugal living and generous giving from other Christians, we found ourselves suddenly debt-free!

I won’t pretend that calling myself a “ghetto mama” is cool, or even basically true. I know a lot of real ghetto mamas that would trade places with me in an instant, because when push comes to shove, I could pick up and leave this place if I wanted to. They couldn’t. I do, however, embrace the coolness and truth of calling myself a “Christian.” There’s nothing better than knowing a God who calls us into risky waters … and doesn’t leave us there to drown.

Presence/Presents

Devotional for December 2011 WMI Meeting at First Church:

Today I want to talk to you about presents. Now, everyone likes presents, especially at Christmastime. Some people like giving gifts, some people like opening them, but almost everyone I know enjoys both.

About 20 years ago a book came out called, “The Five Love Languages.” The author talks about five different ways people speak love, and receive love, from each other. These include serving one another, physically touching one another, spending time together, and speaking encouraging words. The last of these “love languages” is giving and receiving presents.

Think about it: when someone gives you a meaningful gift they picked out just for you, do you feel loved? Does that present convey love to you in a way words just can't? If so, the author of this book would say that one of your love languages is receiving gifts.

But you know, people aren't the only ones who have love languages. God speaks love in many different ways too. In the Old Testament, we see God serving the Israelites by preparing places for them to rest in the desert, and food and drink too. We see Jesus healing the blind with just a touch from his hands, gathering children into his lap, embracing women who were cast out and alone. We see God spending quality time with his people, and choosing to speak words that heal and encourage, even though His people deserved words of condemnation.

But the love language that I think God especially excels in, is giving presents. He loves to pick out gifts just for us, to convey love in a way that words just can't. And one of these gifts, I believe, is found in the discipline of meditation.

Now, don't freak out because I said the “meditation” in the church. A lot of times when we hear that word, we think of Buddhism or Hinduism, since those religions practice a form of meditation too. However, Christians have been practicing meditation for centuries, and it's a very different kind than that of other religions. For Buddhists and Hindus, meditation is a time of being silent so that your heart, mind and soul can be completely empty. The goal is to be emptied of everything. But for Christians, meditation has always meant a time of being silent and focused, so that your heart, mind and soul can be filled up. We meditate so that Christ can fill our emptiness... with His goodness, His joy, and His love. His present to us is His presence.

Now, meditation is a fancy word, but it doesn't have to be difficult, and may even be something you're already doing on a regular basis. Meditation means purposefully taking time to stop, to listen, to be quiet, and to focus on something that is good, holy, and wholesome. Meditating is like being a sponge. What happens to a big sponge if you stick it in some water real fast, then pull it out? It doesn't get wet, does it? The thing about sponges is that you have to stick them in the water, and leave them there for awhile, and pretty soon that sponge is wet from the outside all the way to the inside. In the same way, when you meditate, when you choose to take time to really soak up God's goodness, it changes you from the outside all the way to the inside.

There are lots of things you can meditate on. About a year ago, I went down to Subway by myself (Greg watched the girls at home), and I spent an hour reading from the book of Hosea. And I got stuck on this verse: Hosea 10:12.

Sow for yourselves righteousness,

reap the fruit of unfailing love,

and break up your unplowed ground;

for it is time to seek the Lord,

until He comes and showers righteousness on you.

Do you recognize that verse? It's the theme verse we've had for WMI this last year. Well, that day in Subway, it was a verse I'd never noticed before or heard a sermon about, and it jumped out and caught me. I spent the rest of that hour writing it over and over, picking apart each of the words, even drawing pictures to help me understand its meaning. I didn't realize at the time that what I was doing is something Christians have done for ages: I was meditating. And it felt so good. I left Subway that day thinking, “Wow. Thank you for that, God. I needed that.”

So you can meditate on Scripture. But there are so many other things worth meditating on too. Like nature, for example. When God created the waters and the sky and the plants and trees and the birds of the air and the fish of the sea and the animals on land, what are the words he used over and over again to describe his creations? “It is good. It is good. It is good.” Isn't something God himself proclaims as “good” worth your time? I heard a funny line from Terry Rodgers once; I hope he doesn't mind me sharing it. You know that huge maple tree by the parking lot that turns bright red in the fall? Terry was enamored by it, and he said, “If I wasn't a Christian, I think I would worship that tree.” Of course, Terry was joking, but there's some truth in what he was saying. God's creativity is awesome and majestic, and it would be wrong of us to not take some delight in his creations. You're not a hippie because you want to spend a half an hour staring at a red tree in the parking lot. You're taking time to soak up a very real present that God has given you, right here on the Near Eastside!

You can also meditate on art, which humans make using the creative skills God gave them. Right now our small group is going through this book (show book) called “Return of the Prodigal Son.” The painting shown on the front of the book is by Rembrandt. The author, Henri Nouwen, spent several whole days meditating on this painting – noticing the way Rembrandt painted the light on the father's hands, the color of the clothes the people are wearing, how the elder brother is holding his arms – and using what He knew from Scripture, Nouwen wrote this book. He has some amazing insights into the ways we all are prodigal sons, elder brothers, and even fatherd who always takes their children back – and all of this came to him while he sat and stared at a painting.

You can also meditate on intimacy. When I was writing this talk, I was racking my brain for a good story to tell you about how to meditate on intimacy. I finally gave up and came down the stairs, where Greg and the girls were dancing in the living room to music. The song was repeating, “He makes beautiful things, He makes beautiful things.” Eve saw me coming down the stairs and ran over to me. She grabbed my hand and said, “Dance with me, Mommy.” Now, I was busy and had a lot on my mind, but it was pretty clear to me what I was supposed to do at that moment. There are times in our lives when we just need to be with the people we love, without any kind of agenda, without any to-do list, and we just need to soak up the joy of those close bonds.

In the same way, we also can and should meditate on solitude. Because it's in times of solitude that we realize that no matter how alone we seem to be, we never really ARE alone, are we? Sometimes it's only when we're alone that we feel the heat of God's closeness, and we hear His whisper in our ears.

So this is my challenge for you this Christmas: choose to take time to open a very real and very wonderful present that God has wrapped up just for you. Focus on the things in your life that are good, holy, and wholesome, and let those moments fill you up. God doesn't want you to feel empty, but you have to choose to sit still for awhile so that He can fill you up.

Small Talk with Sammy

Sammy is a 40-something man with Down's syndrome. He complains of stomach aches and leg pains, but according to his mother hens, he is purposefully sluggish and mopey when he doesn't get his way. Today, for example, he had flat-out refused to come to church for a ladies' luncheon. He wanted to stay home and watch TV, but his mother and aunt were unable to find a sitter and had to bring him along.

Sometimes I wonder if Sammy's family, who coo over and pat and comfort him, are in serious denial that he is in his last days. I wonder if his complaints are really those of an 80-year-old whose organs are failing and whose time is ticking away.

I was drawn to Sammy's pained look today, and slipped away from the lady-chatter to wait with him in the quiet foyer upstairs. I always hope that the smile he fishes out for me is more than just a mask, that somehow it eases the pains in his body and restores some vigor to his joints. I stood and small-talked, told him I was glad to see him, discussed the food being served downstairs. But something urged me to sit down and have real talk. “Is there something I can do to make you feel better, Sammy?”

Sammy suddenly perked up, as if he had just the right message to deliver. His excitement resulted in a fit of stuttering, but I was able to pick out the words intended for me. Sammy was repeating “take care of the children” like a mantra.

“Just take care of the children.”

The timeliness of that command, and the sternness with which it was delivered, held me transfixed. This man with special needs was reading me like a book. I'm a full-time mom of two toddlers, a restless worker who never sits at meals anymore and averages six hours of sleep at night. I'm a giver, a sacrificer, a worrier and a warrior, and I often question the meaning and purpose to an existence like mine. In the realm of eternity, does it make much difference if my next minute is spent molding Play-Doh or reading about Clifford?

“It doesn't matter if you are young or old,” he managed to say, “we all have to care for the little children.” This he said through a Sammy-smile, tongue lolling around, through thin eye-lashed, near-sighted eyes, and as his words blubbered and stalled and spasmed, his head drew closer and closer to mine. “Because of Judgment Day. Because of Jesus.” Sammy spoke these words with truth and clarity, and it was impossible for me not to see Divinity in his eyes.

Our foreheads touched in one of those brief moments in life when heaven and earth converge, the whisper of angel wings in the church foyer. Then suddenly the moment melted away, as it does so often when your medium to God is a man-child whose favorite things in the world are Mountain Dew and Saturday morning cartoons. Forehead to forehead, he giggled as I tried to maintain some seriousness: reminded him of how much his mother loved him, how much the Down's kids at his day home needed him, and how far his smile went to encourage young and old, religious and pagan, normal and special. Then I tried to contain my own giggling as Sammy, with dozens of church ladies just feet away, burrowed his face in my hair and smacked his lips like a puppy, kissing me.

“Sammy,” I said, suddenly serious, easing him back. “When you see Jesus, tell him...” I studied his eyes, struggled for what message I wanted to send back to Jesus, because I know Sammy is much closer to heaven than I am. With any luck at all his tired, achy joints will take an eternal furlough in the next few years. “When you see Jesus... give him a big hug. Because he loves you, and he'll want you to know you did a good job, and he's proud of you.”

I must confess I was a little disappointed in my childish message to God. I was in a holy place, a holy moment, giggling and reverent and needy and giving in the presence of God, hoping to send with Sammy a message that would reveal the deepest yearnings of my soul to my Beloved Creator.

But that message I sent with Sammy was in fact the greatest desire of my soul. What I want more than anything, when I meet Jesus, is to give him a big hug, to know that he loves me, to be told that I did a good job and that He's proud of me.

Simplicity of Speech

Printed in the December 2011 online issue of Light & Life:

In his classic book Celebration of Discipline, Richard Foster describes simplicity as “an inward reality that results in an outward lifestyle.” In other words, simplicity is not a set of rules for what to buy, where to take vacations, or what not to wear. Rather, it is a shifting of the heart's focus – off of self, and onto God – which gradually creates changes in the way we live our lives. But these life changes don't stop with us. When we strive for simplicity, there is a trickle-down effect. Choosing to live simply creates a well from which we can draw out blessings for others. Consider: simplicity in spending means having more money to give. Simplicity in accumulation means having more room for guests. Simplicity in speech means having more time to listen.

Jesus gives us clear – if not concise and coolly calculated – instructions on how to steal some hours in our day for listening. In Matthew chapter 5, Jesus implores his listeners to “simply let your

'Yes' be 'Yes', and your 'No,' 'No'; anything beyond this comes from the evil one” (v. 37). In making speech more truthful and less verbose, we make room for something more important than our own pretty words. In the same way, it's hard not to miss the point of Jesus' story of the Pharisee and the tax collector in the temple (Luke 18: 9-14). God is unimpressed with cascading, self-righteous prayers. Rather, prayer that strikes right to the heart of the matter – that God is holy, and we are so not – are the most pleasing and acceptable sacrifices.

But it's hard to limit one's words when free speech tops our list of cultural values. While there is a lot of good to be said for web-logging, the major problem with blogs is that everyone has one. If everyone has something to say, is there anyone really listening? The same can be said of other social networking sites. It's easy to be so busy stating your views on the upcoming election, or bragging about your baby's latest milestone, or making witty banter with your coworkers, that you don't hear the tiny, neglected voices of your down-and-outer friends … the ones who just don't have much going on for them right now. Sometimes I like to challenge myself to go ahead and “like” their banal comments, kind of like a virtual nodding of the head – you know, nonverbal language, like we used to have in our conversations.

Please note: I am not at all recommending we quit talking. (After all, the irony of this article's length has not been lost on its author.) The therapeutic value of talking it out is well-known and valid. But perhaps we should examine more closely the people, the place, and the time in which we choose to make our thoughts and feelings known. I often tell my young daughters when they whine, “Alright, I've listened to you. I know how you feel about nap-time. But now it's time to just let it go.” We Christians have some just reasons to complain, but much of the time, we should probably just let it go.

Because here is what's at the heart of simplifying one's speech: when you are careful with your words, you are given a gift. Namely, you are blessed with a little more time on your hands. And why not use that precious time to do something counter-cultural and totally, outlandishly radical? Just ... listen.