Saturday, May 26, 2018

Needy


 “Helping the poor” is not as glamorous as it sounded pre-doing it.

When the need was always ‘out there’ it became easy to romanticize the needy—pure-hearted Cinderellas trapped by their wicked relatives and dealt a crappy hand in life. This fantasized version of the poor only got perpetuated when ‘helping’ became hearing a few well-rehearsed sob-stories and handing out a meal here and there--keeping me feeling sorry for people (without being sure who to blame) while tricking myself into thinking how generous I must be for my few-dollar fast food purchase… all the while leaving the perpetual hunger behind.

But come back to that same street corner, and there will always be another plea--another meal, another pair of shoes, another bus fare, another… you name it. The needs are endless. Don’t you know I fed you yesterday!? Why are you hungry again today?!? I sense my resentment building for the human hunger that marks us all--the hunger that’s easy to hide when we’re constantly feeding.

And so, since I’ve fed and have more than enough to share, I go back to that street corner. I go back to that beggar who doesn’t look at me and see me but a wallet or ‘free’ entertainment. Yeah, I’m pretty, but I’m not offering you eye-candy or a play toy! (Since I’m not Jesus, I often suck at the whole ‘compassion’ thing). I am praying for compassion, though, I have to. When that street corner becomes a part of your life instead of just a magical mission trip, the labor of love can start feeling more like a chore. And when love begins to feel like a chore, it’s hard to see the people behind the needs--their perceived needs that is.

Because I know what their need is, and it’s not a sandwich. Though that’s a start. It’s not ‘fun’. I’m all about games, but soccer and some of my impromptu dance parties never takes them off the streets. It’s certainly not sex. Even though they already do enough of that--popping out babies and running away from them. None of that works to satisfy their hunger, and none of that works to satisfy ours either. It’s just easier to see from our perspective when they are the ones without a pocketbook and a glue-bottle shoved in their face.

But no matter how many times I tell them that there is something better out there--a place where we offer food, shelter, family--they just keep huffing and asking for toothpaste (someone always stole theirs). They even know about Jesus--though they do know the right Christian songs to play on their speakers (don’t ask me where they got them) as the white people walk past. They may even go to church and feel good for an hour every Sunday when they hear they’re loved. But do they believe it? If they never make any changes it sure doesn’t seem like it.

So why keep going back to that street corner?

“If a kid came into Micah, graduated, got a job, had a successful life, but never accepted Jesus, would all of it have been worth it?” a Micah-grad asks me on the roof of the Timothy House as we look down upon the city.

Pointing towards ‘El Centro’ where I just visited our typical street crew, I respond, “Even if those kids on the street never even enter the Micah house. Even if they spend their whole life on the streets and die there--never having accepted Jesus--it would still be worth it.”

The grad looks at me, puzzled, as if I didn’t hear his question. He repeats. So do I:

“We don’t love only if we know we’ll be loved back. Jesus didn’t. In fact, he knew Judas would betray him, and he loved him anyway. All the way to the end.”

So why keep going back to that street corner?

Because Jesus did it for me--I’m just as poor as they are. And thankfully the Lord doesn’t look at us with disgust--giving a few bucks to pacify us like filthy, intrusive beggars. Instead, he steps right into our need--our true need--and fills it. He gave 5000 bread then offered the Bread of Life. He asked for a drink then offered the Living Water. Jesus just gave. The sun just shines. The rain just rains. The sun doesn’t wait to see if the soil is ready before it comes up. It comes up. The rain doesn’t pick which land to fall on, it falls. And yes, I hope and pray that there are seeds buried behind all the dirt, but whether or not I ever see a flower sprout--and I hope I will--I will keep going back to that street corner.

Why?

Because Jesus did it for me. He still does.

Monday, May 21, 2018

Fighting Dragons, Rescuing Treasure

Walking with fifteen year-old Luis to buy a coke, our neighborhood Cinderella spots us and runs over to give me a hug.

“That guirra called me a @#$%! last night!” our not-so-clean-mouthed-himself Micah boy rats out the currently sweet-dispositioned 12 year-old.

I ignore him and return her kind greeting. Once we pass by I ask, “Luis, in fairytales where there are dragons, treasures, knights… where are the princesses?”

“In castles,” the Micah boy answers as he shrugs his man-body shoulders.

“Trapped, right?” I ask; he nods. “And what does the knight have to do?”

“Fight the dragon,” he responds.

“Right! The treasure is hidden behind the dragon. The knight has to fight for it,” I say, then add. “There is a treasure inside of that girl—“

Before I have a chance to finish my thought, Luis finishes my sentence with an awe over his own discovery, “--she just hasn’t been saved yet.”

“Exactly.”

She just hasn’t been saved yet.



This past weekend, 14-year old Axel gave into his inner dragon. Deceived by his selfishness and pride, he lashed out violently against our youngest: little Marco. Beating up on the only kid here that he has the ability to overpower.

And so, of course, when I see this violent exchange I give Axel a firm, “NO!” I’m okay with turning my own cheek, but I’m not okay with that cheek belonging to the most-vulnerable heart who is slowly, slowly beginning to trust us here. Aware I am not very effective in this situation, I seek help from a male educator. (When the Bible says that women are the 'weaker partner', I have no problem admitting my obvious lack of physical strength. I need a strong man to intervene in this case.)

Leaving an incredibly P-O’d Axel in another’s hands, I escape to my room to pray. My heart is torn between Marco and Axel—currently enemies of each other, but both loved by me… more importantly, both loved by God. Feeling utterly helpless, unsure how even to proceed—I release the boys into the Lord’s hands. Remembering that he is a Good Father and knows how to work in both of their lives, in his perfect way and timing.

The next few days pass with an ever-festering chip on Axel’s shoulder against tattle-tell me. I know deep down he’s actually angry with himself. For the anger he can’t control. And since he isn’t strong enough to control it, he seeks a cop-out version of ‘strength’ to mask the shame of this weakness: anger, violence, hate. Maybe just maybe then he’ll feel like a man. Threatening words, yelling for me to get out of his face, name-calling, raised fists… But, by the grace of God, I don’t even flinch. His ‘strength’—even the fake kind—isn’t working.


As the new week begins, the time comes for my 40-minute one-one-one time scheduled with Axel while the other boys are in school. Walking to the Micah house with a few books and games in my arms, I see our House Coordinator, Paty. I ask her for prayer and she gently encourages me before assuring me that she’ll be in prayer. I want to make the most of my time with Axel... though I am not sure how.

As I approach the currently fuming boy, Axel sees me and immediately stomps away with a few choice words. Marco’s current one-on-one helper sees the incident and nervously tells me about how Axel pulled a knife on her last Friday. Instead of surrendering to the fear, I ask her to pray with me. And so we do. Her hands in mine, I pray for his heart. Even as I speak, a shoe is thrown at us, but I can’t help but smile. Maybe just maybe, Axel is listening to this prayer over him—for the Lord’s love to enter his walled-up heart.

Allowing Axel some time to cool off, I begin to wash a few dishes. Axel apparently is over his alone-time, and quickly runs over to give me a gentle-kick—controlled enough to show that he isn’t intending to hurt me, just frighten me. But he can’t. The Lord is with me, and I have no vulnerable treasure to protect in this situation. No bullied child who needs Momma bear. Just me. And my treasure—my heart—already belongs fully to the Lord. Long ago, the Lord rescued me from my own inner dragons. I was angry and bitter and hateful like this kid once, too. But thanks to my Rescuer, I know I’m protected. He has saved me, and I am hopeful that he is in the process of saving this one’s heart, too.

So I look at him and smile playfully, “I’m not afraid. You're my compaƱero!”

"Friend? Ha!" He says and walks off. But even so I can tell, something has started to break in him. He has no power here…

A few minutes later, Axel decides to clean up the living room. Sweeping. Mopping. Will cleaning up my mess make me stop hating myself for making it? But this attempt to fix things hasn't had the effect he likely desired. He can't rescue himself. His dragons haven't flown away.

Post-room cleaning, I pass through a glass door and hear the wind whistle past my ear, the sound of glass shattering by my side, and a wicked laugh a few feet in front of me. Axel has just thrown little Marco’s wet-with-paint glass ornament in my direction, splaying glass and paint all around me. But other than paint, nothing has touched me. Not even a shard. Even more impressively
by the utter grace of God and the power of his Spirit—I still haven’t flinched. Patience. Grace.

Other staff members come around, encouraging him to help clean his made-mess. As he surrenders and joins us in the sweep, his anger already starts wearing out. His defenses seem to be shattering as much as the glass we are sweeping. Nothing, no nothing has chased us away. Through his people, the Lord has been pursuing this boy's dragon-protected heart from every angle.


“There is a treasure inside of that girl—“

Before I have a chance to finish my thought, Luis finishes my sentence with an awe over his own discovery, “--she just hasn’t been saved yet.”

“Exactly.”

She just hasn’t been saved yet.



Somewhere along the line, it seems that humanity has begun to buck up against the idea of ‘salvation’. My sucker-for-a-fairytale heart wonders: Why?!?! Where has our sense of rescue, adventure, heroism, and romance gone? Why do we look at our Savior and think ‘how cruel for him to tell us that we’re trapped in a tower, deceived by the dragon!' when we ARE!? As if him telling us our need was what trapped us in the first place? We already are trapped—without him, that is. Deceived. In need of rescue. But the set-up of the story is never its end. The trapped tower part is only the beginning. Our Prince has a plan—an epic story that he will see through to the end.

Our Savior, Jesus Christ, defeated death and darkness all in pursuit of his bride. Paying the price. Making a dragon-deceived wretch his beloved treasure. He did it for me! No, I'm not saying that I am now perfect by any means. There are still dragons to be fought off in me, but I know the Lord has the victory. And he finishes what he starts. And now I pray, that he saves these boys, too. In the meantime, I'll keep loving them--by the Lord's strength. With hope--knowing that salvation belongs to the Lord! And that is very, very Good News, for he is mighty to save.

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Come Home, Little Kitty

[Sometimes all that is needed to reach a street kid's feeling-forgotten heart is a story... This one's for you, Marco.]

Little Kitty


Once upon a time there was a little Kitty who lived in a home all alone. Well, not totally alone. Technically this kitten lived with a family… but not really.

Dad left early for work and came back late--always too tired to pet Kitty. Mom was always out and about--buying new clothes, new pots and new pans (that she never cooked in), and taking Kid here and there. When Kid was much smaller, he used to sing and play with Kitty, but now that he was older he always had school and sports and special playdates with friends. The only way Kitty knew that his family had remembered him at all was the one bowl of meow-chow that Mom left for him every morning.

“Here you go, Kitty,” she would say without even a glance before rushing out the door. “We’ll be home soon!”

But soon was never soon, and even though his family thought they were feeding him, they never realized they were actually starving him. You see, what this family didn’t know was that this Kitty was a special Kitty. A Kitty that didn’t feed on normal food like you and I do. This Kitty was fed by song.

And so, day after day that Kitty’s family would leave him all alone, he began to get teenier and tinier, slimmer and thinner… and no matter how much he meowed for someone to sing, his family never even noticed.

Until one day when Kitty decided to go looking for the food that he needed. And so, he left his bowl full of meow-chow and jumped out the window, in search of what would finally fill him: a song.

Little did Kitty know, not all songs are good songs. But Kitty was hungry, and so he ate whatever he could find. And what he found was not good, no not good at all.

In the Alley where the Big Cats lived, Kitty heard a song. A loud song. A mean song. A gross song. I don’t need to tell you all that was sung, but I can tell you this: Kitty ate… and ate… and ate… But no matter how much he fed, the songs that he heard only made him hungrier… and angrier… and bigger… and fatter.

In fact, Kitty grew so big and fat from the not-good songs that never filled him that he became the size of a building! Which wouldn’t be so scary if he weren’t so hungry and angry all the time. But he was, and so, the people were afraid of him.

“The Giant Cat is going to eat us all!” the crowds would cry. “Run away!”

But what the people didn’t realize was that Giant Cat was just Little Kitty. They were right--he was hungry--but not for people. He just needed a new song. A good one.

Thankfully, Kid caught wave of the terrified talk of the town, and he sadly started to think about all the good times he used to have with his own missing Little Kitty… how they would play and sing…

And suddenly Kid remembered, Singing! Whenever Kid used to sing to his own Little Kitty, he would always start to purr. Maybe just maybe singing would help Giant Cat, too...

And so, Kid decided to walk towards the Cat that everyone was running away from. Kid latched hold of Cat’s violently swishing tale and began to climb, all the while singing:

Pretty Pretty Kitty,
Oh so small,
Pretty Pretty Kitty,
May you fall,
In with love and out of fear,
As your family brings you near.
It’s time to hear:
Come home. Come home. Come home.


As Kid sang and climbed further and further towards Kitty’s listening ear, the louder Kitty began to…

Purr…. Purrr… Purrrrrrrr… PURRRRRRRR!

And as he did, Giant Cat started to get smaller… and smaller... and smaller… All the while getting fuller… and fuller… and fuller…

Until, Little Kitty was back in Kid’s hands. Purring and sleeping..

“Little Kitty!” Kid realized. “It’s you!”

“I am so sorry for leaving you alone, Little Kitty,” Kid hugged his purring kitten. “Let’s go home.”

And so, Kid carried sleeping Kitty all the way home. And every night before bed everyone sang Kitty’s song. And Kitty was happy… and full.



The End.

Thursday, May 10, 2018

Cared For

     A middle finger, a forceful push, a threatening fist, a strong slur. Why should I be surprised? This cute-as-a-button, chubby cheeked child had to find some sort of leverage to survive on the streets. Vulnerability is not prized amongst knife-pullers.
     Our kids enter our doors as survivors. How else do you get by on the streets? A street kid needs food just like the rest of us--so he learns to beg, manipulate, lie, and rob. He needs shelter--so he hides. He needs love--so he goes after it in all the wrong places. But surviving and living are not the same thing...

    "Here, take this," Michael pulls a small wad of cash out of his pocket to give to eleven-year old Marco. "Kelsey can take you to buy something at the pulperia."
     I swing by the Micah house to let the head of the education department know that I have found (or rather, have been found by) her missing student. "Marco has some anxiety," I repeat Michael's compassionate reminder and tell her that I am taking him to one of the little snack shops next door.
     As Marco takes my key to unlock the gated entrance, he turns to me, "You're going to buy me a fresco right?" (Translation: I keep Michael's money, you pay for my pop.*). I remind him that Michael already gave him money, but he is insistent, "You owe me one remember? From a loooooong time ago."
     I know exactly what he is referring to. Well over a month ago our second youngest of the house, 14 year-old-yet-child-hearted as ever Noe, invented some sort of ping-pong ball across the room into a bucket game where if they won I was supposed to buy them a treat. Marco didn't exactly come close to completing the challenge, but I promised that Noe's winnings would cover them both.
     Though I am pretty positive I already 'paid-up,' I agree anyway and pay for his Canada Dry. (But not without a quick lesson.)
     "What is money for, Marco?"
     "Food," he answers immediately.
     "Okay, so what if you knew that all your food was already taken care of?" I ask. "What would your money be for then?"
     He shrugs.
     "What if you use that money you have there to get someone else a little something?" I suggest, pointing to his slightly bulging pocket. "I'm here to take care of your needs. So what if you use that money that you have to take care of someone else's?"
     He thinks about it, but decides against it.
     I smile and affirm, "It's your decision. But just so you know, it was way more fun for me to buy you a pop than one for myself. I want you to have the joy of that, too."
     Upon returning, Marco and I play a round of Skip-Bo (a much-loved card game around here). I notice that Marco is hoarding all of his cards... but you can only ever have five in your hand. His hoarding is keeping him from winning. He's stuck.
     "If you don't use your cards, you'll never win," I say. "That's what they're there for--to play them. Just like the money you have. Michael gave you that money to use it."
      Eventually Marco notices that how--save as he might--I'm totally owning him. Finally, he lets me help him to release his tightly-clutched wild cards. Slowly but surely, Marco catches on and ends up winning the game (with only a small amount of cheating on his part).

     Surviving and living aren't the same thing. Marco is learning this, and so am I. So are we. We are born into a dog-eat-dog survivor game (from our perspective). God knows this, and yet that is not how he created us or this world. God doesn't want us to simply survive. He wants us to live. And so, God gave us the law: don't steal, don't lie, don't commit adultery... Ironically, all of the street-survival tactics I see day after day. Street-tactics that come out of a heart that doesn't know it is already cared for. And yet, without knowing the Father's heart, humanity quickly turned God's good law into another survival strategy attempting to earn our way into God's good graces--lest we get knifed by him or by others. Pharisees who clean the outside of the cup, but inwardly are still dirty... Filled with mistrust and fear. "Good person" survival strategy works to an extent to get by here in this world, but it can never offer life
     Jesus said that he didn't come to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. To him, the law wasn't some sort of survival strategy but rather the natural outcome of a life of faith in God. Jesus tells us, "don't be anxious about what you eat or drink..." If we know that God's got our daily bread under control--(or better yet: that Jesus endured 40 days of fasting because he knew that "man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of God")--why would we ever feel the need to steal? Instead, we are freed up to give--generously! "Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you." How would we ever be able to love like that? Unless, of course, we were loved like that first. And we were.
     The Son of God lived a perfect life because he trusted himself wholly to his Father--proving to us that we can trust Him, too. He wants us to live not just survive. He wants us to be able to look up and out instead of in--where we will only to find a black hole of navel-gazing perceived personal-betterment. Jesus wants us to be able to love--the only way we can finally live. And the only way we will ever be able to find that life is when we know that our Good Father, who not only has the power to provide for us but will and wants to... in every way. And nothing, no not even pain and death, can separate us from his love and care. Jesus showed us that, too.

*Translation of the translation: pop is another term for soda/coke. ;)

A Cup of Water

For truly, I say to you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you belong to Christ will by no means lose his reward. Mark 9:41 ...