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.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
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
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?
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.
The Butterfly Hunt: Searching for the Real Thing
A story I wrote for my daughters...
“Can you show me again how to draw the wings?” Cassie asked. Ava was the best artist in their grade -- maybe in the whole school -- and Cassie loved it when the two friends could spend time drawing together.
“Sure, Cassie. You do it like this.” Ava reached over, and with careful strokes of her hand she drew large, wide arcs. Soon, Cassie’s butterfly looked real enough to fly away.
“Ava, it’s beautiful! Now I want to color it like a real butterfly. Let’s go outside and try to find one to use as a model!”
Cassie ran to the door as Ava pushed away from the table, slowly guiding her wheelchair towards Cassie. She bumped over the door frame while Cassie held the door open.
“Alright, butterflies, here we come!” Cassie shouted, skipping into the backyard toward the rose bushes nearby. Ava's arms worked the wheels fast to keep up. Something colorful caught her eye.
“Cassie, look!” Ava shouted, pointing at a brilliant purple butterfly fluttering up toward a maple tree. “Did you see it? It was gorgeous.”
Cassie scratched her head. “I didn't see it, but I know how I can!” Cassie began scaling the wooden boards her father, years before, had nailed into the maple tree's trunk. The butterfly had flown right up into Cassie's favorite climbing tree.
Cassie stopped and turned around. “Aren't you coming?”
Ava had a worried look on her face.
“What's wrong?” Cassie asked.
“Don't you know?” Ava said slowly. “I can't climb trees. I can't walk. I can't run. This chair does the work for me, because my legs don't work like yours do.”
Cassie did know that Ava couldn't walk. She had known this ever since the two girls first met. But not until today had it really mattered.
Disappointed, Cassie jumped down. Her plan was ruined. She headed back to the house with Ava trailing behind her.
After dinner that night, Cassie's mom reached over and patted her hand.
“Cassie, will you tell me what's wrong? You've looked sad ever since Ava left. Did something happen?”
Cassie eyes stung with tears. “I think I need a new best friend,” she cried. “Ava is good at a lot of things, but not the things I like to do best. I like to jump and run and climb trees, but Ava can't do any of that. She can only sit in her chair.”
Mom squeezed Cassie's hand.
“I think a real friend is the kind you can share everything with,” Cassie said.
“You know,” Mom said, “you're right about a few things. Ava can't run. She can't climb trees. And she will probably never be able to do those things. But there's something Ava does better than many kids you know.”
“You mean drawing?” Cassie asked.
“No,” Mom said, “something even more wonderful than drawing. Ava loves people, even people who are a little bit different from her. She knows that a real friend cares about you, not because you’re perfect or just like her, but because you’re just like you.”
Cassie swallowed hard, and thought about what her mother said. An idea sprang into her mind.
“Then I want to be a real friend to Ava,” she said, standing up from the table. “But I'm going to need Dad's help.”
After school the next day, Cassie asked Ava to come over to her house. “I have a surprise,” she whispered.
When Ava arrived, Cassie held the backdoor open and led Ava straight to the climbing tree. “Let's hunt for some butterflies, okay?”
Ava looked worried. “But Cassie, what do you mean? I can't climb trees, remember?”
Suddenly, the two girls heard rustling leaves and a strange creaking sound. They looked up to see a wooden chair suspended by ropes, dangling from the branches of the tree. Little by little, the chair was lowered to the ground.
“Have a seat, my queen!” Cassie said, bowing grandly. She helped Ava into the chair. Then Daddy carefully pulled the ropes, lifting the chair off the ground and into the leafy branches. Cassie climbed the wooden steps and met Ava at the top.
“So what do you think?”
Ava looked thrilled. “I love it, Cassie! This is my first time to climb a tree. Now I know why you like it so much.” Then she paused and looked around.
“But Cassie,” she said quietly. “This must have taken so much work. Why did you go to so much trouble for me?”
Cassie looked down at her hands. “Because, Ava, everyone is different. Everyone has things they can and can’t do. Everyone has things they do well or not-so-well. But for real friends, the things you don’t share are not so important; what matters are the things you do share.”
Cassie looked up, and saw that Ava’s puzzled look had grown into a bright smile. It may even have been brighter than the fluttering purple wings the girls spied among the leaves that afternoon.
Susie's Gift
I was beginning to think I might leave impressions in the steering wheel, I was gripping it so hard. My firstborn nine-month-old was in the back seat, bellowing for all she was worth and fighting off the nap she so desperately needed. Correction: that I so desperately needed.
Lydah, bless her little heart, was what might be clinically diagnosed as a not-so-good-sleeper. The night prior she had awakened somewhere in the ball park of 17 times, each time needing a pacifier and a pat back to sleep. Sunday morning came all too quickly. We all scurried off to church and I scheduled Lydah’s nap to take place at the usual hour, between adult classes and the worship service, so that I might be able to join the Land of Adults.
Naptime came … and went. My daughter was making so much noise I was sure we'd created a thick barrier between the worshippers in the next room and the Almighty Lord. So I bundled her up in her car seat and rushed her outside, much too proud to take my husband’s offer to stay while he took the baby. This is my job, I reasoned, and I can do it alone.
I drove circles around the neighborhood, and with of my infant's screams my heart pounded harder and my hands gripped tighter. When Lydah finally conked out I’m pretty sure I resembled one of those red-eyed, fire-snorting bulls of Looney Tunes fashion.
I didn’t know it at the time, but my husband and my friend Susie had been scheming to extrapolate me from that car. Upon re-parking I watched my heroically smiling husband in the rearview mirror dash out from the church, probably to tell me he adored me and appreciated me and just to generally give me some love. But I think he must have taken one look at my Looney Tunes impression and decided just to give me some space, because he immediately turned around and ducked back inside.
But Susie was stubborn. She marched out, yanked on the passenger door, and climbed in.
A word about this friend of mine, who was more than just a friend, more than just our pastor’s wife: Susie was the sort of person who told me what was on her mind and on her heart, even if she was feeling down or discouraged or just plain hormonal. And transparency like that is contagious; Susie felt so comfortable being “real” with me that I naturally felt comfortable doing the same with her.
So when our apartment got flooded with cockroaches, I had called Susie to vent. When a friend hurt me with a cruel remark, Susie was there to comfort me. And when I was at my very lowest and cruelest, Susie listened – just listened – without saying a word, knowing that in the silence Holy Spirit would convict and provide answers.
And in this moment, she was shining. Still gripping the wheel with both hands, I poured out to her all of my current frustrations – the sleepless nights, the naptime battles, my inadequacies as a mother. The last thing out of my mouth was, “This child is such a burden to me!”
Those final words, harsh and un-true, hung in the air like a cloud of cigarette smoke. But Susie, a devoted mother of three, didn’t correct me. She didn’t scold me or remind me of all the women in the world who would love to be mothers, but couldn’t. She didn’t point out that a child not napping was preferable to a child dying of cancer. Or promise me the truth: that in one year my child would at last sleep like the proverbial baby.
Nope. Susie just sat there in that steamy car and waited until the storm blew over.
My greatest mentors in life haven’t been the best advice-givers. It hasn’t been so much what they’ve done with their mouths, but about what they do with their ears. Susie had a most un-profound gift: she listened to me, and didn’t judge me. But in a very profound way, she reflected the patient, relentless, enduring love of my Savior, a gift I could never pass up.
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