Boy, it's been a bit since my last entry. Needless to say, I've been busy and I just don't want to write to write--I want to write because I have something to say.
So today I say:
Sometimes, you just need a girl friend.
And this evening I really needed one. Not because there was some great tragedy/conflict I needed to share or resolve, but because I needed some time outside my house, outside the glorious chaos that can be my family, outside my work space to reconnect with a friend, to walk around a lake (especially since the incessant rain finally let up), to gain a feminine, friendly perspective. And not just any girl friend, but I wanted to spend some time with Leah (not myself, but a friend of the same name). The 'other' Leah.
I took a chance to spontaneous call her on my way to trim my untamed bangs to see if she could meet up. Such was the simultaneous sigh of relief and squeal of delight when she said she could!
Simply put, Leah is great. She is effervescent and compassionate. She's a spectacular hostess, fantastic cook, and supreme organizer. Her heart is big and her hugs bigger. She gives, gives, gives. She is sincere with her words, has a diplomatic way with words, and get her in front of children behaving not quite how they should and watch out for 'the teacher' to come out. She has such a confidence and quiet authority when managing children--she knows how to speak to them with respect, but again with reassuring authority. She is whimsical and yet down-to-earth. I really admire her.
And tonight, by coming out with me to walk around the Centennial Lake Park, she helped fill up my Cup.
What is the 'Cup' that I so brashly capitalize its 'c'?
It's the Cup in my heart that holds the stuff that inspire, propel, embroider, accentuate, enhance, delight, and generally make me feel alive and help me with perspective. Worthy enough to literally write home about or in this case, blog. Cups are usually filled when you take the time to fill them--but it cannot be a contrived venture. You can't just make a list and say: 'To Do: fill my Cup'. Well, actually, I guess you can and should, but the actual 'filling' must be a little more organic. They are filled and can be filled by several methods--but all involve being present in the moment...
We smelled the lilacs tonight--I mean really inhaled the scent--it might be even safe to say that we drunk it up, in heaving gulps with our noses.
We smiled knowing smiles at a young couple sitting at the edge of lake dipping their toes in the water as the young man put his arm around the young woman's waist.
We cooed at fuzzy dogs and chubby kids as they all scuttled around us as we walked.
We silently admired two gentlemen push their very elderly, fragile and thin mother in wheelchair.
We dreamed of picnics under the pergolas that were dripping with hanging baskets of flowers.
We paused our conversation to watch a painted turtle bask on a rock and spied her three babies nosing their ways to the surface of the lake through the reeds guarding its banks.
Great puffy clouds silently slid across the sky meaning no harm. Geese honked. Children laughed. And paddleboats swished their way, meandering at times over the water.
Most of this admiring and dreaming was done silently and simultaneously as we talked about so many things.
Leah hushed my confessions of insecurities with words of encouragement. She checked me--kept me true by reminding me who I am. We praised God for answered prayers. We picked at knots of problems--loosening their tension with uplifting words, clarity and varied perspective--unravelling them with solutions and ideas.
Simply put, Leah laid down two hours of her life to be my friend and it helped me fill my Cup all the way to the top. She blessed me tonight. Maybe you think that 'bless' is soft-pinked-wrinkled-cheeked-grandma sort of word. I see it as gold-shimmering-mantle-engulfing-and-solidifying word. I was and am blessed by her friendship.
Thank you, Leah.
Sometimes you just need a girl friend.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Friday, May 3, 2013
"it's a 'two-parter', mom": part two: the adventure of staying put
After living in our new-to-us house here in Minneapolis for three years (been married for four years by that time), I came home from grocery shopping and told Elliot:
"It's time for us to move. I just saw two people that I know at Cub Foods."
I felt very urgent about this--like a spy whose cover has been blown. I wanted to move like right that second. I don't know why exactly, but it just weirded me out. It made me feel--exposed.
Our prolonged-working-real-life-honeymoon was up.
We weren't visitors anymore. We weren't anonymous. People knew us.
We were settling down. We were gettin' domestic.
It was unnerving.
At the time, I didn't want to be a local. I hadn't planned on being a Minnesotan--these people don't hug and say 'bag' funny--in fact, they use the word 'bag' instead of the word 'sack' and look at me funny when use the word 'sack'.
Our three year tour was up and it was time to move.
I was sure of it.
Elliot wasn't so sure.
As someone who grew up close to family and in same area his whole life, he was just digging-in to our new situation. He wanted to be all 'sure-you-can-borrow-a-cup-of-sugar' neighborly n' stuff.
And I wasn't so sure about that.
We decided my jitters were due to my military upbringing and that I should hold out on the idea of getting the heck out of Dodge for a bit and push through year four. After that we could evaluate.
So this is the adventure of staying put...
What I came to realize that, while a professed extrovert, I didn't know how to live with/around/near others for prolonged amounts of time. Call it youth, immaturity, whatever, but I didn't know how to be married, away from my parents, but have connections.
Sure we had made friends here, we had a church family here, but I didn't know how to be a neighbor.
In the military, because every one's in the same situation (that the place you all are in isn't your 'real' home), you had immediately something in common. And, yes, we were invested in each other, knowing that some our strongest ties throughout our lives will be these friends/neighbors we'd most likely never see again (until 'The Book of Faces' came along).
But it's just not the same as living on the same block with other people for years and years and seeing their lives unfold in the mundane and significant. And most importantly making a conscience decision to just not be people who live side by side, but to be friends and be a part of their lives. To actually borrow a cup of sugar, to ask for them to water your plants when you're gone on vacation, to have an impromptu backyard dinner party, or snow-blow their part of the sidewalk because you can.
Elliot taught me how to be a neighbor.
He taught me how not to hide or be anonymous. He reaches out--it's a gift of his--being so personable and approachable and helpful.
It took me a while, I feel, to come out of my shell (which really is ironic because I work in the public and usually see them in their underwear as they try on clothes) and not be envious of his ease with our neighbors, but to join him, follow his lead.
He loves and gives so effortlessly. He mends fences (literally), chases birds out of chimneys, shovels walks, installs headlights, helps with all sorts of projects and car issues, he knows all the dogs (and most of their owners) in a two block radius by name, he lugs us to basketball pancake fundraisers for a family he's met on his innumerable walks with Sadie (our dog), he picks up trash, and chats with those doing yard work. He's a great neighbor and he is because that's just him.
This is one of his greatest gifts--especially to me.
And his neighborly-ness is contagious and spurs us all on to love, befriend, and help each other. It's like we've all decided that this is how you 'do' neighborly and are committed to it. Myself (now) included.
And those things I listed above--the borrowing of sugar, the watering of plants, impromptu backyard parties--that happens in our neighborhood.
'Does Louis need shoes? Here have a bag-full because my son's out-grown them.'
'Wanna come over for dinner?'
'Sure! I'll bring the watermelon!.'
It's kind of awesome.
"It's time for us to move. I just saw two people that I know at Cub Foods."
I felt very urgent about this--like a spy whose cover has been blown. I wanted to move like right that second. I don't know why exactly, but it just weirded me out. It made me feel--exposed.
Our prolonged-working-real-life-honeymoon was up.
We weren't visitors anymore. We weren't anonymous. People knew us.
We were settling down. We were gettin' domestic.
It was unnerving.
At the time, I didn't want to be a local. I hadn't planned on being a Minnesotan--these people don't hug and say 'bag' funny--in fact, they use the word 'bag' instead of the word 'sack' and look at me funny when use the word 'sack'.
Our three year tour was up and it was time to move.
I was sure of it.
Elliot wasn't so sure.
As someone who grew up close to family and in same area his whole life, he was just digging-in to our new situation. He wanted to be all 'sure-you-can-borrow-a-cup-of-sugar' neighborly n' stuff.
And I wasn't so sure about that.
We decided my jitters were due to my military upbringing and that I should hold out on the idea of getting the heck out of Dodge for a bit and push through year four. After that we could evaluate.
So this is the adventure of staying put...
What I came to realize that, while a professed extrovert, I didn't know how to live with/around/near others for prolonged amounts of time. Call it youth, immaturity, whatever, but I didn't know how to be married, away from my parents, but have connections.
Sure we had made friends here, we had a church family here, but I didn't know how to be a neighbor.
In the military, because every one's in the same situation (that the place you all are in isn't your 'real' home), you had immediately something in common. And, yes, we were invested in each other, knowing that some our strongest ties throughout our lives will be these friends/neighbors we'd most likely never see again (until 'The Book of Faces' came along).
But it's just not the same as living on the same block with other people for years and years and seeing their lives unfold in the mundane and significant. And most importantly making a conscience decision to just not be people who live side by side, but to be friends and be a part of their lives. To actually borrow a cup of sugar, to ask for them to water your plants when you're gone on vacation, to have an impromptu backyard dinner party, or snow-blow their part of the sidewalk because you can.
Elliot taught me how to be a neighbor.
He taught me how not to hide or be anonymous. He reaches out--it's a gift of his--being so personable and approachable and helpful.
It took me a while, I feel, to come out of my shell (which really is ironic because I work in the public and usually see them in their underwear as they try on clothes) and not be envious of his ease with our neighbors, but to join him, follow his lead.
He loves and gives so effortlessly. He mends fences (literally), chases birds out of chimneys, shovels walks, installs headlights, helps with all sorts of projects and car issues, he knows all the dogs (and most of their owners) in a two block radius by name, he lugs us to basketball pancake fundraisers for a family he's met on his innumerable walks with Sadie (our dog), he picks up trash, and chats with those doing yard work. He's a great neighbor and he is because that's just him.
This is one of his greatest gifts--especially to me.
And his neighborly-ness is contagious and spurs us all on to love, befriend, and help each other. It's like we've all decided that this is how you 'do' neighborly and are committed to it. Myself (now) included.
And those things I listed above--the borrowing of sugar, the watering of plants, impromptu backyard parties--that happens in our neighborhood.
'Does Louis need shoes? Here have a bag-full because my son's out-grown them.'
'Wanna come over for dinner?'
'Sure! I'll bring the watermelon!.'
It's kind of awesome.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
"it's a 'two-parter', mom": part one: the adventure of staying put
Oklahoma, Kansas, Alabama, California, Japan, Maryland, Germany, Texas, Indiana and now Minnesota are all places I've called 'home' since I was born.
With my dad in the Air Force we moved every three to four years. I loved moving and I was good at it. I loved packing (although admittedly, my mom probably did most of the packing now that I think about it) and I loved unpacking and setting up my new room. I was good at making friends and being excited about being in new places.
I felt very aware that this was unique and something to be cherished. Not everyone has climbed Mount Fuji when they were 10 years old or been excused from school to march in a protest at 12 in our nation's capital or spent their 16th birthday in Paris on a school trip with some of their best friends. I felt I was living in a storybook. I loved it.
I loved that I could 'start again' with each school I attended, each place we moved. I could reinvent myself. I could be mysterious. I could quietly (or not quietly) be the object of interest for a spell because nobody knew me but maybe they wanted to.
And that place, too, could be mysterious to me and have a chance to be something different because of how I perceived it. And I relished its unfamiliarity and loved getting to know it--full of wonder and knowing it just long enough to truly appreciate it and never too long to take it for granted.
I loved how my family held the center. Wherever we were, I knew that home was where my mom, my dad, my sister, and my brother were. That was the constant. That was the sun my world revolved around and as a long as we still quoted 'What About Bob?' and had beef stroganoff on Mondays, everything would be fine. And it was.
Did I cry as the plane took off from Frankfurt knowing that I may never go back to Germany when we moved to Texas at the tail-end of my junior year in high school?
Yes.
I bawled. That was very hard.
By the time we landed in Texas was I ready for a new adventure?
Yes. With a tight throat and smudged mascara, humming along to Weezer in my discman I knew it was going to be difficult at first, but great.
Have I ever wished that we only lived in one place and I grew up with the same friends I had in kindergarten through high school and lived in the same house?
No.
Never.
So imagine my surprise when my husband, our little black dog and I bought our first house in Minneapolis two years after we were married with all intentions of fixing it up and moving on in five years and now 11 years later--we're still in the same house, in the same city, and have populated said house with three beings that have sprung from my body.
What then? What is the adventure in staying put?
With my dad in the Air Force we moved every three to four years. I loved moving and I was good at it. I loved packing (although admittedly, my mom probably did most of the packing now that I think about it) and I loved unpacking and setting up my new room. I was good at making friends and being excited about being in new places.
I felt very aware that this was unique and something to be cherished. Not everyone has climbed Mount Fuji when they were 10 years old or been excused from school to march in a protest at 12 in our nation's capital or spent their 16th birthday in Paris on a school trip with some of their best friends. I felt I was living in a storybook. I loved it.
I loved that I could 'start again' with each school I attended, each place we moved. I could reinvent myself. I could be mysterious. I could quietly (or not quietly) be the object of interest for a spell because nobody knew me but maybe they wanted to.
And that place, too, could be mysterious to me and have a chance to be something different because of how I perceived it. And I relished its unfamiliarity and loved getting to know it--full of wonder and knowing it just long enough to truly appreciate it and never too long to take it for granted.
I loved how my family held the center. Wherever we were, I knew that home was where my mom, my dad, my sister, and my brother were. That was the constant. That was the sun my world revolved around and as a long as we still quoted 'What About Bob?' and had beef stroganoff on Mondays, everything would be fine. And it was.
Did I cry as the plane took off from Frankfurt knowing that I may never go back to Germany when we moved to Texas at the tail-end of my junior year in high school?
Yes.
I bawled. That was very hard.
By the time we landed in Texas was I ready for a new adventure?
Yes. With a tight throat and smudged mascara, humming along to Weezer in my discman I knew it was going to be difficult at first, but great.
Have I ever wished that we only lived in one place and I grew up with the same friends I had in kindergarten through high school and lived in the same house?
No.
Never.
So imagine my surprise when my husband, our little black dog and I bought our first house in Minneapolis two years after we were married with all intentions of fixing it up and moving on in five years and now 11 years later--we're still in the same house, in the same city, and have populated said house with three beings that have sprung from my body.
What then? What is the adventure in staying put?
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
so just ask
dude.
i don't want inspiration.
i don't want motivation.
i don't want exposition.
i want change.
a new song.
a new thing.
a new me.
i want revolution.
to love differently.
to move differently.
to think differently.
i want chrysalis-cocoon-emerging-flying-soaring-nectar-sucking.
alter.
convert.
metamorphose.
i want transfiguration.
lead me to the land of the living.
lead me to the rock that is higher than i.
lead me by still waters.
i want reconstruction.
mold me.
shape me.
refine me.
i want an overhaul.
give me your vision.
give me your compassion.
give me your ear.
i want revelation.
show me favor.
show me how to.
show me hope.
i want transformation.
i want You.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
reminded
i wrote this actually april 18, 2011 and was reminded of it as i was driving back from sioux falls yesterday...i think the sunlight during this time of year is so hopeful and brought me back to this.
a couple of sundays ago, i went to fill up my car before heading off to work in the wee hours. frost was still on the back window and knowing that the sun promised to be strong that day, i didn't bother scraping it off. instead i wrote on the window through the frost with my finger 'Jesus loves you!' as i waited for the tank to fill. i felt a little cheesy, but i also knew that i'd been called to be more bold.
i just knew that someone, as i drove along, needed to see that affirmation, know that truth--that in the relatively small time that the message would be able to be read through the frost--before it disappeared/melted--someone who desperately needed to know that, be reminded of that,would read those words on the back window of my little vw wagon. God would use such a small, small gift of obedience. i was sure.
pleased with it and trusting that i was being an instrument of love, glorifying God through my listening to the Spirit, i climbed into my car. as a peered into my rearview mirror, do you know what i saw? emblazened with the morning sun were the thos words i had just written: Jesus loves you! i was completely caught off guard on how they completely startled my heart. i sobbed. i was the person who needed to read them. i was the person who needed affirmation, who needed reminding. i desperately needed to know that again...in my heart.
wow.
God chuckled lovingly as i drove along. sweet girl, he said. i've given you all the tools to know me, to really know me. i just need your heart again. i was humbled so.
a couple of sundays ago, i went to fill up my car before heading off to work in the wee hours. frost was still on the back window and knowing that the sun promised to be strong that day, i didn't bother scraping it off. instead i wrote on the window through the frost with my finger 'Jesus loves you!' as i waited for the tank to fill. i felt a little cheesy, but i also knew that i'd been called to be more bold.
i just knew that someone, as i drove along, needed to see that affirmation, know that truth--that in the relatively small time that the message would be able to be read through the frost--before it disappeared/melted--someone who desperately needed to know that, be reminded of that,would read those words on the back window of my little vw wagon. God would use such a small, small gift of obedience. i was sure.
pleased with it and trusting that i was being an instrument of love, glorifying God through my listening to the Spirit, i climbed into my car. as a peered into my rearview mirror, do you know what i saw? emblazened with the morning sun were the thos words i had just written: Jesus loves you! i was completely caught off guard on how they completely startled my heart. i sobbed. i was the person who needed to read them. i was the person who needed affirmation, who needed reminding. i desperately needed to know that again...in my heart.
wow.
God chuckled lovingly as i drove along. sweet girl, he said. i've given you all the tools to know me, to really know me. i just need your heart again. i was humbled so.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
what's your name?
Several months ago a girlfriend and I went out for coffee one night. This is a rare treat to go out during a 'work/school' night and meet up. She needed a talk and I wanted to listen--so there we were enjoying our chai tea lattes volleying frustrations and encouragements. All warm and cozy.
We were sitting at a high-top near the window watching the snow sloppily come down in wet, loose clumps--making puddles instead of mounds. A man walked passed the window--he was dragging a huge suitcase and his left leg with a twisted mal-shaped ankle/foot. His coat soaked black around his shoulders from being outside in the slush/snow/rain too long. He looked cold and miserable.
I was taken back by seeing this man because we were in the suburbs--granted only a first ring suburb and Edina!
Now 'First ring suburb' is a term used by El and I mostly (I think--I've never heard anyone else use it)--the burbs closest to Minneapolis/St. Paul are 1st ring, then the next layer 2nd, and then the outer suburbs-3rd,etc.) And Edina is a suburb know for it's constituents having money and being snooty about it--on fact the old retail joke around town is--'EDINA: Every Day I Need Attention. I digress...
My inner monologue went something like this in during the course of about five seconds:
"There a homeless man walking outside Caribou Coffee! In Edina! How in the world did he get here? He looks like he's in bad shape dragging his ankle like that--you can't fake dragging your ankle around like that--that must be real and golly, that must hurt! I wonder how he hurt his ankle? Or, it could be a birth defect, I guess. I wonder how did he get to be homeless wandering the sidewalks of a Caribou Coffee on a Thursday night? In Edina? In the sleet? Where is he going to sleep tonight? Wow, that $4 latte makes me feel guilty."
My friend and I looked at each other sadly. My friend remorsed (and I paraphrase), "It's sad when we can't freely go and help someone because we're scared for our own safety, because we're women." I was taken aback by her statement/thinking--I just didn't/don't think in those terms 'because we're women'. While she was pondering that, I was stumped about what could we do to make a difference to this man, because not doing anything didn't seem to be an option. So we agreed that because there were two of us...it seemed more likely we'd actually help.
We devised that we'd offer to buy the man a cup of coffee. So as we left, we did. He accepted and we went back in to get him coffee and a bottle of water. The manager was in anguish about the whole thing--this homeless man was a nuisance and here we were 'encouraging' him by buying him a cup of coffee and there was also sadness in the manager, I think, because he wasn't completely heartless--but was torn with the 'business side' of himself and not wanting to get involved and feeling sorry about this homeless man's situation.
We gave him his coffee, he thanked us as he swayed--his breath smelling of alcohol. I blurted out, "Do you believe in Jesus? Can we pray for you?" About a subtle as a brick, I am.
"Yes, m'am, I do," he responded.
"What's your name?" my friend asked.
Her question dumbfounded me--of course you should ask someones name when first meeting them--duh, Leah! Her simple question struck me deeply. I felt such a rush of affection and admiration to her. She knew what to say--I didn't. I wanted to get deep and she just asked his name.
"Michael."
After introductions we prayed. My friend and I stood either side of Michael and each put a hand on his shoulder and he put a hand on each of ours. We prayed for direction and protection for Michael, for hardened hearts to be softened, for reconnection with family.
Michael then lit a cigarette and told us a bit about his life--disjointed, strange stories on how his brother had thought that he (Michael) was Jesus and how he couldn't go to a shelter because he was transgendered, and how he was a veteran, but couldn't go to the VA. My friend respectfully admonished him, telling him he wasn't Jesus--calling him 'my friend'.
She then asked him where he would go to keep warm that night. Michael lifted his coat sleeve and showed us a series of paper hospital bracelets in various stages of deterioration. He usually went to the emergency room of a near by hospital on particularly cold nights. They knew him there.
We then parted ways. My friend saying "Keep warm, Michael".
It was an odd encounter, but left such an impression.
I think about it a lot, actually.
I think about Michael and how's he doing. I saw him the other day as I drove home from work at the bus stop talking to a woman who was handing him a cup of coffee. I think about how I usually know what to say and how I didn't that night, but my friend did. I think about how grateful I am that we don't have to do this thing...this life, alone. We can encourage each other and spur each other on to do and say and be loving to others.
We can do so much if we do it together--we can feed the poor and defend the defenseless, shelter the homeless--if we do it together. This 'striking out' on your own isn't for everybody. We can be each other's buttresses and love others and go into situations we wouldn't have otherwise if we were alone.
I didn't know what to say, but my friend did. Maybe she wouldn't have had the courage to pray for this man, but I did. We couldn't have done it without each other. It was humbling and revealing.
I think about it a lot. And I think I should do more than just think about it. I'm still praying trying to figure it out, but I know feel changed by this, that I know I must and can and will.
Imagine what you could do if you took another person along or joined-up. Or mobilized your neighborhood to do something? Or your co-workers? Or your church?
We could do so much.
~leah
We were sitting at a high-top near the window watching the snow sloppily come down in wet, loose clumps--making puddles instead of mounds. A man walked passed the window--he was dragging a huge suitcase and his left leg with a twisted mal-shaped ankle/foot. His coat soaked black around his shoulders from being outside in the slush/snow/rain too long. He looked cold and miserable.
I was taken back by seeing this man because we were in the suburbs--granted only a first ring suburb and Edina!
Now 'First ring suburb' is a term used by El and I mostly (I think--I've never heard anyone else use it)--the burbs closest to Minneapolis/St. Paul are 1st ring, then the next layer 2nd, and then the outer suburbs-3rd,etc.) And Edina is a suburb know for it's constituents having money and being snooty about it--on fact the old retail joke around town is--'EDINA: Every Day I Need Attention. I digress...
My inner monologue went something like this in during the course of about five seconds:
"There a homeless man walking outside Caribou Coffee! In Edina! How in the world did he get here? He looks like he's in bad shape dragging his ankle like that--you can't fake dragging your ankle around like that--that must be real and golly, that must hurt! I wonder how he hurt his ankle? Or, it could be a birth defect, I guess. I wonder how did he get to be homeless wandering the sidewalks of a Caribou Coffee on a Thursday night? In Edina? In the sleet? Where is he going to sleep tonight? Wow, that $4 latte makes me feel guilty."
My friend and I looked at each other sadly. My friend remorsed (and I paraphrase), "It's sad when we can't freely go and help someone because we're scared for our own safety, because we're women." I was taken aback by her statement/thinking--I just didn't/don't think in those terms 'because we're women'. While she was pondering that, I was stumped about what could we do to make a difference to this man, because not doing anything didn't seem to be an option. So we agreed that because there were two of us...it seemed more likely we'd actually help.
We devised that we'd offer to buy the man a cup of coffee. So as we left, we did. He accepted and we went back in to get him coffee and a bottle of water. The manager was in anguish about the whole thing--this homeless man was a nuisance and here we were 'encouraging' him by buying him a cup of coffee and there was also sadness in the manager, I think, because he wasn't completely heartless--but was torn with the 'business side' of himself and not wanting to get involved and feeling sorry about this homeless man's situation.
We gave him his coffee, he thanked us as he swayed--his breath smelling of alcohol. I blurted out, "Do you believe in Jesus? Can we pray for you?" About a subtle as a brick, I am.
"Yes, m'am, I do," he responded.
"What's your name?" my friend asked.
Her question dumbfounded me--of course you should ask someones name when first meeting them--duh, Leah! Her simple question struck me deeply. I felt such a rush of affection and admiration to her. She knew what to say--I didn't. I wanted to get deep and she just asked his name.
"Michael."
After introductions we prayed. My friend and I stood either side of Michael and each put a hand on his shoulder and he put a hand on each of ours. We prayed for direction and protection for Michael, for hardened hearts to be softened, for reconnection with family.
Michael then lit a cigarette and told us a bit about his life--disjointed, strange stories on how his brother had thought that he (Michael) was Jesus and how he couldn't go to a shelter because he was transgendered, and how he was a veteran, but couldn't go to the VA. My friend respectfully admonished him, telling him he wasn't Jesus--calling him 'my friend'.
She then asked him where he would go to keep warm that night. Michael lifted his coat sleeve and showed us a series of paper hospital bracelets in various stages of deterioration. He usually went to the emergency room of a near by hospital on particularly cold nights. They knew him there.
We then parted ways. My friend saying "Keep warm, Michael".
It was an odd encounter, but left such an impression.
I think about it a lot, actually.
I think about Michael and how's he doing. I saw him the other day as I drove home from work at the bus stop talking to a woman who was handing him a cup of coffee. I think about how I usually know what to say and how I didn't that night, but my friend did. I think about how grateful I am that we don't have to do this thing...this life, alone. We can encourage each other and spur each other on to do and say and be loving to others.
We can do so much if we do it together--we can feed the poor and defend the defenseless, shelter the homeless--if we do it together. This 'striking out' on your own isn't for everybody. We can be each other's buttresses and love others and go into situations we wouldn't have otherwise if we were alone.
I didn't know what to say, but my friend did. Maybe she wouldn't have had the courage to pray for this man, but I did. We couldn't have done it without each other. It was humbling and revealing.
I think about it a lot. And I think I should do more than just think about it. I'm still praying trying to figure it out, but I know feel changed by this, that I know I must and can and will.
Imagine what you could do if you took another person along or joined-up. Or mobilized your neighborhood to do something? Or your co-workers? Or your church?
We could do so much.
~leah
Monday, March 18, 2013
number 13
Elliot is, at this very moment, cleaning out my beloved VW Passat Wagon in order to make it trade-in worthy for a....gasp....minivan.
Yes, it has come to this. But seriously, traveling 1000 miles to visit family in Texas in the wagon with three kiddos, a dog and luggage is a bit much. And we do travel down south at least twice a year--sometimes three and it'll be nice to have when my family visits. And so many countless reasons why a minivan would fit our life right now.
The wagon was our first really new car (2002)--we bought it when we found out we were expecting Vivian and I got a new job in 2006. We knew that we needed reliable transportation to tote around that bundle of joy. It is/was family chic in my mind--leather heated seats, sunroof, has a CD player AND a tape player, huge 'trunk' for the dog(s at the time) and matched (get ready to roll your eyes) the new Prada bag I had bought when I found out I got the job with my current employer. Well, the overpriced purse has been stowed in its dust bag for some time and now I sport a lovely cross-body that allows my hands to be free as a wrangle a two-year-old into a carseat. The times, they have changed. And I'm okay with that.
Elliot and I have owned--wait for it--12 cars since we have been married. We will have been married for 13 years this July.
Buick Le Sabre-Baby Blue
Chevy Corsica
Monte Carlo 78
Monte Carlo 79
Chevy Celebrity (we bought with wedding gift money)
Chevy Cavalier
VW Golf (craigslist)
Buick Skylark which Elliot bought for $10 off a guy at Pizza John's
Chrysler Minivan (when we didn't have kids)
Ford F150 Truck
VW Passat Wagon
Buick Le Sabre--bronze metallic -mist
It's been six years since we purchased the V-dub. And five since we bought the bronze-metallic-mist LeSabre. So in the first 8 years we bought all those cars listed--a total of 10. Wow.
So number 13 might just be a minivan. Just don't get me any of those stick-figure families to put on the back and I'll just be a-okay.
~leah
Yes, it has come to this. But seriously, traveling 1000 miles to visit family in Texas in the wagon with three kiddos, a dog and luggage is a bit much. And we do travel down south at least twice a year--sometimes three and it'll be nice to have when my family visits. And so many countless reasons why a minivan would fit our life right now.
The wagon was our first really new car (2002)--we bought it when we found out we were expecting Vivian and I got a new job in 2006. We knew that we needed reliable transportation to tote around that bundle of joy. It is/was family chic in my mind--leather heated seats, sunroof, has a CD player AND a tape player, huge 'trunk' for the dog(s at the time) and matched (get ready to roll your eyes) the new Prada bag I had bought when I found out I got the job with my current employer. Well, the overpriced purse has been stowed in its dust bag for some time and now I sport a lovely cross-body that allows my hands to be free as a wrangle a two-year-old into a carseat. The times, they have changed. And I'm okay with that.
Elliot and I have owned--wait for it--12 cars since we have been married. We will have been married for 13 years this July.
Buick Le Sabre-Baby Blue
Chevy Corsica
Monte Carlo 78
Monte Carlo 79
Chevy Celebrity (we bought with wedding gift money)
Chevy Cavalier
VW Golf (craigslist)
Buick Skylark which Elliot bought for $10 off a guy at Pizza John's
Chrysler Minivan (when we didn't have kids)
Ford F150 Truck
VW Passat Wagon
Buick Le Sabre--bronze metallic -mist
It's been six years since we purchased the V-dub. And five since we bought the bronze-metallic-mist LeSabre. So in the first 8 years we bought all those cars listed--a total of 10. Wow.
So number 13 might just be a minivan. Just don't get me any of those stick-figure families to put on the back and I'll just be a-okay.
~leah
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