Addictive Personality

I am a facebook addict. There. I admitted it. People tease me about it. People mention it to my husband. People see my name online and then say, “You’re always on facebook.” (You have to read that last sentence again with a high-pitched, pointing-a-finger type tone.)

So what’s the big deal? To me, facebook is both fun and relaxing. I love connecting with people. My close friends know this about me and when facebook became popular, several of them said, “Oh, this is right up your alley. It’s your sort of thing.” After all, I’m the girl who looks through the entire student directory every year when school starts to see if there’s someone I know who’s  started at the kids’ school. I am the girl who looks through my parent’s country club roster to find names of people I know there. I love connections.

Why does it annoy me, then, when someone says I’m addicted to facebook? Why do I feel the need to tell them that I rarely watch T.V. When most people are checking out in front of the television, I’m checking out facebook. Instead of flipping channels, I’m flipping through ridiculous quizzes. Instead of listening to the latest celebrity gossip, I’m reading the latest friends’ posts. But it bugs me because some people mention the addiction thing like I have no life. Or like I have issue. Well, I do have issues. Plenty of them, in fact, but why is it up to them to nail me to the cross of facebook overuse? Hmm, that was a little bitter, wasn’t it?

I think the reason it bothers me is that I have a tendency to get addicted to things, to people, to traditions, to food, to shopping. To anything. I have an addictive personality. I tend to want more, more, more. That’s not always a bad thing. When I want more of God, I search for him in everything and I praise him for all the ways I see him at work. When I want more from my relationships, it’s because I see the potential for more meaning or intimacy with someone. I want to know his or her heart more. Yet, I am also willing to step back if what I want is not the same as what someone else wants or needs. That is where respect comes in. I may have an addictive personality but I’m hoping that these tendencies are not at the expense of other people’s feelings. Truth be told, my addictive behaviors have caused problems in the past. But I am grateful that I have grown in areas of my life, mainly spiritually and emotionally, so I can stop and think or pray or both before I run all over someone else’s boundaries.

So when I hear the addict word, I am sensitive because I am a work in progress. But with facebook, as long as I don’t forget to feed my children or take them to school, as long as I don’t ignore my husband or forget to go to the bathroom, I’m going to keep my facebook addiction at workable level and eventually I’ll learn to let the words of those who scorn me just roll down me and splat right on to the floor.

Sometimes When I…

Tonight I’m tired so I decided to do a little free-verse writing.

 

Sometimes when I…

-write, words do not express the depth of my feelings

-look at my children, I pray they’ll know how deeply they are loved

-see my husband, I’m reminded of why I fell in love with him

-sleep, I have such wacky dreams I wonder if I’ve gone crazy

- find a letter from an old friend, I realize how much I miss her

-lay awake at night, I ask God who he wants me to pray for

-am sad, I can’t cry no matter how hard I try

-am sad, I cry so hard I wonder if I’ll ever be able to stop

-laugh, I let out an embarrassingly loud cackle

-walk, I look like an ostrich

-look in the mirror, I see new wrinkles

-try to straighten my hair, I wonder why I bother

-like myself, I walk with a skip in my step

-hate myself, I hang my head

-gain new insight, I want to shout it to the world

-read, I have to make myself stop so I can get some sleep

-I get  crabby, I make myself take a nap

-fight with someone, I realize I’m wrong but still don’t quit arguing 

-feel passionate, I wonder if my heart might explode

-obsess about people or things, I have to ask God to release me from the bondage

-make bad choices, I am so grateful that God loves me know matter what

-trust Jesus, my life goes so much better than I ever expected

-am tired, I need to stop writing on my blog so I can go to bed.

The Lake House Investment

Of all the investments my dad has made over the years, the one with the highest return has to be the family lake house. I’m not talking about financial gain, although if he sold it today he would make a pretty penny. No, the lake house has more to do with relational yields than it does monetary success.

I am the youngest of three. The firstborn brother is nearly seven years older and the middle brother four years. Because of the age and gender differences, we weren’t especially close growing up. When we all married, we ended up in the same city. Yet with kids’ activities, jobs and other obligations, we still don’t see each other often, except for holidays and the occasional birthday party.

But summers are different. Most weekends, my parents, my brothers and their families, along with a plethora of friends and relatives descend on the house overlooking a lake in southern Indiana. Each family has their own bedroom so when we invite friends or other relatives, they camp out on mattresses in one of the rooms in the basement or if they’re lucky, they claim a room not occupied by one of the other families that weekend.

Couples have spent honeymoon weekends here. We’ve hosted family reunions, work parties, and silly “Olympic” games with several of our close family friends. Being on the water allows us plenty of options for fun: waterskiing, wake boarding and tubing, kayaking, rides on the wave-runner, swimming, fishing, diving competitions off the dock, floating in a circle with ropes tethering us together, playing on the sandy beach, and the occasional raft fight. We set up badminton nets and croquet courses. We eat and drink and read our books as we lay out on the dock. And if it’s a holiday weekend, there may be special events like triathlons, sailing regattas, and cookouts at a neighbor’s home.

Last night, we watched the annual fireworks which rival any mid-size city’s display. Ever since my nephews were young, we have picked a theme for the fireworks. For instance, one year we chose cereal. As each firework exploded, we would yell out what cereal came to mind. For green, we’d shout Apple Jack’s. For the purple ones, Grape Nuts. (I know, they’re not purple.) So far, we’ve covered sports teams, soda, country flags and last night was candy. But it wasn’t quite the same. As we gathered on the dock preparing for the show, my nephews along with my two oldest boys decided they wanted to take the boat out to the middle of the lake. Our house sits in perfect proximity for a clear view of the fireworks so there’s no need to take the boat out during fireworks. I wanted to tell them no, but I figured it was a rite of passage and reluctantly let them go. I thanked God when my youngest snuggled up next to me in the lounge chair as the first firework shot into the air.

Today it has been raining all day. Even with the downpour, this place offers a type of solace we wouldn’t have at home. There may be meals to cook, dishes to clean and laundry to wash, but when you have a lot of helping hands, the burden is light. At the lake house we have several weekends to do life in community rather than a once a year shot. I get to know my family members in ways I would never know if it weren’t for this place. I’m not talking about deep and intense conversations necessarily, although those happen, too. Rather, it’s the average, day to day interactions I appreciate. For instance I sit next to my niece as she paints her toenails and I decide to paint mine too. I come downstairs in the morning to find my mom sipping her coffee on the deck and I join her in silence as we’re both waking up. When I go down to the dock, I ask my nephew how he feels about starting college. As I’m making dinner with my cousin he tells me about his upcoming cancer surgery. And when the day is done, we gather on the upper deck to tell stories about the best tubing wipeout, or share memories that quickly turn into cackling laughter fests, complete with tears streaming down our faces.

Now and then, my mom and dad consider selling the place. When they do, we either threaten to put them in a nursing home or we make sure we invite all the fun relatives to come for the weekend. We cook the best food, tell the funniest stories and get all the grandkids to talk about the memories they’re making. We figure if the threats don’t work, a little manipulation goes a long way.

Sit Loosely in the Saddle of Life

On a recent trip to Seattle, I bought a card with this quote: Sit loosely in the saddle of life. I’m trying to figure out what it really means. Does it mean that I shouldn’t take life too seriously? Or does it mean that I need to sit loosely so that if I start down a path I don’t want to be on, I can jump easier?

I like it either way. I like the reminder to ease up when the soccer game in our side yard gets intense. When my kids are yelling that something wasn’t fair, I can take a deep breath and start picking the mulberries off the huge tree instead of turning into a raging referree.  It takes me back to the carefree days of little league softball when I picked dandelions in the outfield rather than paying attention to the ball that never came to me anyway. When life was nothing more than ice cream sandwiches and Slip’n Slides.

It’s easy to sit loosely when talking about side yard soccer games, but what about the heated arguments with my spouse? I don’t always sit so loosely then. The deep breaths only work so long, and the mulberry tree is no longer appealing. Besides there’s a lot more at stake when discussing marital problems versus a bad soccer call. Yet over the last several years, I have learned to loosen my grip. I’ve learned that not all arguments mean the end of the world or that I will live in an unhappy marriage for the rest of my life. When we don’t see eye to eye, I have a whole toolbox in my saddle that I can pull out. Prayer, a journal, friends, counseling and soon I’m sitting looser within a new perspective.

But I’ll admit there are times when I want to sit so loosely that I have the opportunity to jump. I get into that saddle looking for an escape, looking for the perfect scenery, the perfect change of pace. But more often than not, I find these experiences lead me onto the wrong paths. Soon, the ride gets so bumpy and the scenery is passing by me in a blur. In my fear, my legs clinch that saddle tighter and as much as I want to loosen up, I can’t do it. These are the times when I get bucked out of the saddle in some sort of damaging and painful way.

You think I’d learn to balance myself there in that saddle. Not too loose. Not too tight. But sometimes I’m so busy or so preoccupied that I forget I’m even in the saddle. It’s a good thing I have the card then to remind me. I heard another quote recently that sums it up best: All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.

My Brick is Breaking

Three fourth-grade boys surround me underneath a huge oak tree. We’re in Southern Indiana, at a Benedictine monastery. Thirty fourth-graders and a handful of chaperones gather in small groups around the serene campus to pray on this day: The National Day of Prayer. One of the parents has created prayer slips for each group. The boys in my group read these prayers for families and national leaders and their school. Then one of them says, “God, please help Billy* stop being mean to people.”

I chime in. I pray for each of us to forgive Billy like Jesus forgave us. Before prayer time, Billy pushed Johnny* and now Johnny’s wrist is aching. This is not the first time Billy has played too rough. He’s a great kid, but takes some situations a little too far. Inevitably someone gets hurt.

When we finish praying I tell them they can choose to stay angry and sulk all day, or they can forgive Billy, and most likely their day will be more pleasant. Johnny looks into the distance and says, “Oh great, my brick is breaking.” I look up the hill where he is staring. I expect to see someone breaking a brick Johnny has claimed as his own.

“What? Who?” I ask, obviously confused.

“My brick,” says Johnny, in the sort of tone that really says, “My brick, you idiot.” I still don’t get it.

He notes the confusion. “The brick around my heart. It’s breaking.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” I ask.

“Nooooo,” he stresses, “because if it breaks, then it won’t hold my emotions inside. And I only let one emotion come out.”

“Which emotion is that?”

“The only one that should come out: anger,” he says using the you-idiot-tone again.

I’m astounded by his depth, even if I find out later that he learned this concept from George Lopez. Johnny tells me that his other emotions are starting to leak out and I detect tears welling up in his eyes. Even if George Lopez started this thought, Johnny has internalized it and now claims it as his own.

“If you have bricks around your heart, you are walling your heart off to God and to everyone. God wants you to have a soft heart. You know, you can have a soft heart and be a strong man.”  Now the other two boys look at me like I’m crazy. But I continue. “I’ve learned something about anger. It’s a secondary emotion, meaning it’s usually an emotion covering another emotion, most likely sadness or fear.”

Then something happens on the faces of the three boys sitting around me. They appear engaged and open. I tread lightly with the lecture but I want to to take advantage of this amazing opportunity to be a part of their spiritual formation.

“Maybe when you get angry, you’re really scared or sad about something.” They nod in agreement. Not one of them looks anxious to end the conversation. They ask questions and then one of the other boys says, “My heart is flabby.”

I laugh. “Now that’s something God can work with,” I say.

Somewhere along the road, Johnny bought into the notion that to be a strong man he must only show anger. All other emotions are signs of weakness. Later I tell Johnny’s teacher about our conversation. When we are all together again, she asks him about his brick breaking. She further affirms that anger is not a sign of strength. While it is appropriate in certain situations, anger is not the end all, be all emotion. In fact, she encourages Johnny to ask one of the dads on the trip if they think anger is a sign of strength. Without any prodding or coaching, the dad plays the cards perfectly.

I feel so privileged to be a part of this conversation, this spiritual moment in the lives of these boys. My hope is that they will remember these concepts long after the exact words fade away. I want them to remember that showing the full range of emotions is not a sign of weakness.

During our dialogue under the tree, I mention David, the small boy who killed the giant named Goliath. He had a soft heart. And he became a king. Their eyes lit up when I mentioned this great king. Because of their openness, I am certain these boys can become strong men who lead with integrity. It gives me hope for the future of my city and my country. With boys who are willing to learn and maybe, just maybe soften their hearts, I see them leading other young men in truth and peace.

May their bricks keep breaking.

*Billy and Johnny are not their real names.

I’m So Eve

I wish she wouldn’t have said, “Do not touch.” I’m defiant and when someone tells me not to do something, I get all churned up and triggered. I’m not proud of this, by the way, but it is in my nature.

So when the tour guide says do not touch the walls, or my surroundings, at Squire Boone Cavern, in Southern Indiana, I make a special effort to keep my hands clasped behind my back. I’m on a field trip with my fourth grade son and his classmates. We’re walking by the stalactites and stalagmites, and they look strange. But I’m fine. I can walk along the metal boardwalk like all the 10-year-olds in front of me and keep my hands to myself. For a while. I keep looking at the various shapes and textures, and I notice the formations look fake. I joke with some of the other chaperones that the cave is really made of plaster.

Then one of the students asks if caves ever collapse and we all laugh nervously when the tour guide says yes. Then the jokes start flying that they had to use plaster to cover all the dead bodies left in the cave after a collapse. Now I’m being enticed. What if this cave really is fake.

Must. Touch. Walls.

The temptation grows stronger. Logically, I tell myself that this cave is real, the minerals and water are real, and there is no plaster creating these funny looking rocks. As we get to the end of the route, the class goes ahead of me and I am left at the end of the cave. Right in front of me is a floor-to-ceiling formation. I mean, I nearly walk straight into it.  Before I could pull my hand back, my index finger is on it. It was only a brief, light touch. What harm could it do?

Two of my friends are lagging behind and when they catch up to me, the temptation gets the best of me. I promptly admit my wrongs, saying what all defiant people say, “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Yeah, that’s what Eve said, too,” responds one of them. It’s true. I am so Eve. I was told not to touch, and I did it anyway.

My guilt gets worse when the tour guide stops to explain how the floor-to-ceiling formations are made. The stalactites and stalagmites meet together and make one large rock. Then she points to the formation I have just touched.

“That one back there,” she says, “is roughly 250,000 years old.” Great. I have just messed with something a quarter of a million years old. My chaperone friends tease me even more now. I want to protest and ask how many of those 10-year-olds have gone through the entire tour without touching anything. Yet, I am not 10. Besides, isn’t that just what Eve did? She tried to justify her actions by blaming the serpent. I don’t necessarily blame anyone, except my weak self, but I try to skirt the guilt and minimize what I have done. I was told not to touch, and I touched. It is wrong. Period.

I am not taking myself too seriously here, but this story makes for an interesting illustration for my lack of self-control. I wish it weren’t so. I wish I wasn’t so impulsive or irreverent. The best I can do is to continue recognizing my faults and working on them. And then, hopefully, someday I will have the maturity of a 10-year-old walking through an ancient cave.

I’m About to Get Hit By A Car

I went to a small college, where the main academic buildings were located in a central valley. The valley, which is exactly what the students and faculty called it, was bordered by four main streets. In order to get to my first class of the day, I had to cross one of these busy streets. Inevitably, I would start walking without looking first. (Yes, I blame my parents for this because I am sure I never heard them tell me to look both ways before I crossed a street.) If I gave my roommate a dollar for every time she put her arm on mine to stop me from crossing right as a car was coming, she could hire men to build a bridge from her current home in Texas to her homeland of South Africa.

Once I got to the other side of the street, I was safe for the rest of the day. Most of the academic buildings were connected via a maze of black-top pathways running up and down and around the valley. All I had to do was leave the doorway of the library and walk straight down the path to Decker Hall. Unless of course it was icy and I was wearing flats, in which case I would plant my feet like skis (or french fries as they teach the tots at ski school) and slide to the bottom of the hill. But that’s another story for another day.

The point is, in order to get where I wanted to go or needed to go, I had to cross these key throughfares. And I often had to do it alone, when there was no hand to pull me back up on the curb. 

The last few weeks, I have been crossing the streets of my life and nearly getting pegged each time I cross. The thing is, I don’t need to cross these streets. I should be staying in my dorm, doing my homework, getting some rest and maybe even picking up my clothes. Instead, I want to cross the street and walk into the buildings called: Friend’s Business Hall, The Library of my Husband’s Issues, and the gigantic one towering over all the others, God’s Center for Direction.

Yesterday, I found the helping hand I needed. I was going crazy trying to get over to the other side to all of these places. Picture Frogger trying to get across traffic. Nerve-wracking.  I called my friend Kristin and told her about the crazies. She gently grabbed my arm and said, “Why are you trying so hard to control the outcomes of all these things that are clearly out of your control?”

Oh yeah, I thought. It’s not time for me to cross the street. It’s time for me to stay on my side of the street and take care of business here. My friend’s business is her business. My husband needs space to work through his issues and God, well, God really doesn’t need me to direct anything. I think he can handle the world’s affairs without my help. So, I jumped out of the oncoming traffic, hopped back up the curb to my side of the street and went about the business that is my life. 

Today I will look both ways before crossing the street, and I’ll evaluate whether I need to go there at all. Most of the time the answer is no. And if I could just remember that, I would sure save a lot of skipped heartbeats in the bodies of those who stand beside me just as I blindly step into traffic, nearly getting hit by the cars and trucks barreling down the road. Thank God for good friends who continue to grab my arm and pull me back. The ones who tell me I need to wait. The ones who walk with me, safely, when the time is right to cross the street,  where they lead me not to My Friend’s Business Hall but to my own life. Even a life in the valley.

Is this manipulation?

I told my mom about a book I’m writing. It’s non-fiction, a bit of a memoir, I tell her. I assure her that I’ll change names to protect the innocent. She said she wanted a nice name. I laughed and told her it might be obvious that I was talking about her when I said, “My mother… ” even if I changed her name to Kathryn or Josephine.

Somewhere in this conversation, my mom decided to ask me if she had ever told me what my grandma said about me before she died.

“She was lying on the couch, watching you play,” my mom started, “and then she said, ‘She’s so sweet.’” My mom emphasized the word sweet. “That was one of the last things I ever heard her say.”

WHAT?!! I had never heard this story before. Granted, I was only four and it may have just slipped my mom’s mind over the last 30+ years. But, I find it very interesting that she decided to bring this whole ’she’s so sweet’ information when I am writing a book about my life which will, of course, include stories about my parents. And as most parents who are honest will attest, they have screwed up a little along the way. My parents are awesome and I am more than blessed to have them as my mom and dad. But no child would be complete if their parents hadn’t emotionally scarred them for one reason or another. For me, the stories range from lying about my cat, who did not run away after all, to the time my dad believed an acquaintance’s word over mine.

So as I write my little book, my mom may need to remind me that I am sweet. Remember that, Lynn. You are sweet. After all, these were among your dear grandmother’s last words. And you wouldn’t want to question her words, would you? Hmmm, me question?

Children, Church and Candy

So we’re having House church today since Hubby is gone this weekend. Yes, House as in our last name and house as in our home.  Clever, huh?

I gathered the boys around the crackling fire I made in our old fireplace, and we sang kumbayah. Then we lifted our hands in worship as the two oldest strummed their guitars to “Amazing Grace.” We opened our Bibles and read aloud, followed by …. Okay, let’s get real. This is a house full of sugared-up boys. Besides, our fireplace is bricked closed.

This is the real story:

I am sitting in front of  Eli’s dresser, gathering clothes to put in the suitcase for our upcoming trip. I notice all four boys are within 10 feet of me. I yell, “House Church!” And one of them says, “Oh yeah, it’s Sunday.”

My oldest heads for his bed nearby, “Good, I can take a nap since we’re in my room. Napping is my church, today.” He lays down for 2.3 seconds and then grabs a nerf guns, loads the nerf bullets and starts shooting.

The second oldest pings and pongs from a chair to the floor then  to his bed, across the room from his brother. I start to get frustrated. Noticing all of this energy and distraction, I tell them we’re going to do things differently. Instead of one of us leading church, we’re going to grab our Bibles and read for 10 minutes. I tell them to find their favorite verse or chapter and read it in silence. Then they are to come tell me why they like that verse and how they can apply it to their lives. Easy enough.

What? Am I crazy? Ten minutes of silence when their breakfast consisted of any or all of of the following (unbeknownst to me at the time): Peanut Butter Crunch, orange juice, leftover cookie cake with loads of frosting, and grape soda? I’m pretty sure no one got into the ice cream that early but I may be wrong since I did sleep an longer than they did. I know, I know, no Mom-of-the-Year awards for me. But hey, they’re alive and happy. And hyper.

So, they grab their Bibles and read for well, I’d say, maybe 3 minutes tops. I tell them to read longer. “Read the verses before and after the verse you like,” I say. The youngest, 6, heeds my advice and goes back downstairs where he has his Bible in our bedroom and brings it back upstairs to read more. By this time the other three are engaged in an all-out Nerf gun war and I’m quickly losing, even though I am not playing.

I rally them again and try the ol’ shaming-without-too-much-damage tactic. “I would like to note that the 6-year-old is showing the most maturity here.”

The others start whining things like,

“I’m maturer!”

“I’m paying attention. It just doesn’t look like it.”

… and my favorite

“What do you expect when I’ve had two glasses of grape soda with 28 grams of sugar each?” (That’s when I asked what everyone had fixed themselves for breakfast.)

I continued to plow through, silently praying that I would be patient. Actually, it was more like pleading that we would all make it through the day alive, with vocal chords intact and heads on top of our bodies.

Funny, our God is. (I think I just channeled Yoda there). When I asked them to tell us all what they had read, my firstborn said he loves the verse that says, “Do not become weary in doing good.” I was becoming weary and I told them so. My third son was now laughing obnoxiously at everything the oldest was doing, and on occasion would yell out something completely random, like when he found a penny on the floor and exclaimed, “This coin was made in 1997!”

I took a deep breath. And we made it through the retelling of Elijah, the prophet, being taken to heaven and how my son Elijah loves that because it’s his name and he likes seeing his name in the Bible. I was too weary to ask how he was going to apply that to his life. And maybe a tad bit frightened to hear the answer.

The youngest had read about John and Jesus.

“You mean when John baptized Jesus?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “I read when the man (John’s father, Zechariah) couldn’t speak before John was born.” I was hoping God would do that silencing trick again – here with my boys, in this utterly, disastrous house church moment. How heavenly,  I daydreamed — until I heard the screeching microphone from the karaoke machine.

One death look from me and the guilty party switched the machine off, and then told us what he had read. “I read the Ten Commandments,” he shared, “but I like the first one the best.” A short lecture, from me of course, followed. “We take our Bibles for granted and this knowledge that the ‘Lord is our God.’ We have access to all of this information but it doesn’t matter if we don’t act on it.” I’m pretty sure I sounded like Charlie Brown’s grandma, as her voice comes through the telephone: wha whah whah wha.

Time to switch tactics. “Before we pray,” I tell them, “I want to let you in on something important that I’ve never shared with you before.” That got their attention. A secret! .”I want to tell you a little about this retreat dad is on this weekend and why it’s important.” (If you’re interested in hearing the reasons, see my other website on reconciliation at www. reconciling.wordpress.com … but give me a few minutes as I have not finished it yet.)

The secret didn’t seem to be as exciting as they had hoped but I soldiered on. When I explained that Dad would be spending the weekend working on man stuff and issues that stemmed from his relationship with his own father, I realized I didn’t really KNOW what he was doing so I couldn’t exactly explain it very well. I summed it up by saying he was there to heal some emotional wounds. I looked over at Eli and saw him tearing up. He told me that sometimes at night he prays for his dad’s MS to go away so he can run with them again. And then his voice drifted off, and he changed the subject for fear he might break down right then and there. I rubbed his leg gently as he had now moved to sit next to me.

As we closed our time together, I asked each of the boys to pray for their dad. One by one, they prayed for healing of his body from multiple sclerosis, and for a great weekend at his retreat where he can get healing for his heart that has been hurt over the years (okay my oldest was the one who voiced that profound prayer). One by one, they prayed that he would play with them in Florida. And one of them asked God to heal him completely but then said, “but that probably won’t happen,” which made me sad that we expect so little from God. I reminded him that God would hear his prayer and we can approach His throne boldly, asking for anything.

Whether or not they really “got anything” from house church today is to be determined. But I know I did. I learned that church and sugar aren’t a good mix. I learned that even in the midst of hyperactive outbursts, if I keep my cool, I may get a glimpse of my boys’ hearts. I learned about their realities of living with a disabled father and, most importantly, I heard that they long for more.

Isn’t that what church is all about anyway? Longing for more? Seeing where we are lacking and then yearning, praying and hoping that God will come into those places and fill us up? As much as I want to provide for their comfort and desires, I hope they will always keep searching for God and reaching for Him, when they are playing Nerf wars or when they’re lying in their beds at night. But especially when they walk into the buildings we call churches…. because I would rather have sugar-high, hyper children in search of God than sterile, lifeless men who are resigned to walk into a place merely out of habit.

The Man in the Green Blanket

I drove the same route I always drive when taking the boys to school. North on Alabama. East on 22nd. Stop at the light on Central. I can’t think of one time we’ve had a green light there. So we stop at the red light and watch the men gathering at the liquor store. (Yes, at 8:15 a.m.) A few more turns and we’re in the drop-off lane in front of school.

It was at the light at 22nd and Central where we saw the man in the green blanket. You couldn’t miss him. The blanket’s hue was somewhat florescent and his constant movement drew our eyes to him. A wide-brimmed hat hid his face, but the rest of him couldn’t hide. He sat against the newly painted peach building with its black pride posters and Obama clothing hanging in the windows. The man appeared to be waking up. One of the boys made a comment about how much he was moving around as he huddled next to a garbage can.

Then my third son stated the obvious. “He’s homeless,” he said flatly. The tone in his voice made me sad. There was no concern. No emotion. No surprise. Just a statement.

That’s when I went into one of my many diatribes I so desperately want my sons to absorb. I told them that most likely this man was not always homeless. That he may have gone to a school just like theirs. That he may have had a nice home or a good job. Or maybe his parents couldn’t take care of him and slowly his life fell apart.  I explained how he probably spent the night there on the side of the shop, exposed to the elements… the chilly night air, the traffic, the hard cement, the lack of food, not to mention the humiliation of sleeping, in the open, where everyone passing by can see him. He wasn’t burrowed in the bushes or sleeping under a bridge or in an alley.

What little I know of the homeless lifestyle, I tried to force on my children. I didn’t want them to see a homeless man in a green blanket. I wanted them to see a human being who was trying to survive. In the last minute before I pulled up to school, I even brought in my political views, telling them that our mayor wants to make it illegal for panhandlers to sit in places like that. This man wasn’t panhandling but I would bet he will be asked to move as soon as the owner of the store arrived. I’m not advocating homeless men and women staying on private property, I tell them, but I do hope…”Uh mom, did you remember my lunch?” I knew I had lost them. I pulled up to the curb and said my four “I love yous” and off they went into the land of learning.

When we moved downtown, my hope was that our family would concern itself more with the struggling people in our city than we would by living in the suburbs. My fear is that the boys will grow up seeing homeless men and women as a fact of life, rather than feeling a tug at their hearts for these people who are broken and hurting.

We do not give money to the men and women who stop us on the way to the neighborhood park or while walking the dog around the block. I struggle with this, but my friend who serves as a minister to a church for street people has told me I should not give them handouts. Instead, the idea is to build relationships with the people God may put in front of us again and again. It’s the job of the Church to take care of these men and women.

I am part of the Church, I say. Yes, but you alone cannot do it, he tells me.  Not to mention that a large percentage of homeless people have mental illness, which may become problematic for many reasons.  If we can build relationships and bring our new friends along with us into the church the burden of care is shared and the church operates as it should.

So taking my friend’s advice, I recently had the following conversation with a homeless man on the way home from the park. Two of my children are walking with me when a black man with bloodshot eyes, appearing about 50 years old, approaches us.

He: Do you know where there’s a homeless shelter?

Me: Yes, I do. If you walk down this street right here (I point westward) and then turn down (the next street), you’ll see Wheeler Mission on your left. They can help you there.

He: Can I ask you a question?

Me: Sure.

He: Why doesn’t anybody talk to me?

Me: I’m talking to you.

He: But I go to church and I go to pray and then I go to (someplace I had never heard of) and nobody talks to me. Nobody looks at me and I want someone to pray with me.

Me: Do you want me to pray with…

He: Hey, you got any money for a pop?

Me: No, I don’t have any money on me (truth).

He: Oh man! I dropped my cigarette somewhere back here. I need to find my cigarette.

Me: Smoking’s bad for you. You don’t need that cigarette.

He: (clearly not interested in praying or talking or even acknowledging us any longer, he paces the sidewalk for his cig) Where is that cigarette? I know I dropped it here somewhere.

Me: I’m going to pray for you as I walk. See you later.

I leave him pacing the sidewalk and I pray for him as I said I would. I feel inadequate in my prayers, and I tell God just that. I don’t know what to pray or how to pray but I pray anyway. As I walked up the steps toward my home, I looked down the street and he was gone. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, but I think of him often. His red eyes break my heart every time I get a glimpse of them in my mind’s eye.

This is the sort of concern I want my boys to have for the homeless. My hope is that somewhere in their hearts they will remember the man in the green blanket and see more than a homeless man but a man who in need of love and care and healing. That they will be the hands and feet of God, as Mother Teresa said about her work in Calcutta. I’m not asking them to start a homeless shelter; I just want them to see beyond circumstances and outward appearance and grow up knowing that living downtown was a gift because they were able to serve God in ways they may not have had otherwise.