Messier than normal Archives - The Messy Middle

Beyond the surface of mothering

Love pushes us to see beyond the surface. The messy middle is made with stories where we see ourselves and people we know. People who

Like Eve, have children with serious rivalry.

Like Hagar, have been discarded for a new family and are mothering alone.

Like Naomi, have tasted the bitterness of a child’s death.

Like the mother of Leah and Rachel, knows what it’s like to have one child favored over another by society.

Like Hannah, have been separated from your child at a young age.

Like Mary, have a complicated pregnancy story or

Like Tamar, have tried multiple ways to become a mother or

Like Rachel, have counted the months and years while other women in your family and circle of friends become pregnant.

Who like Rebekah, are drawn to one of your children more than the others.

Like David’s mother, is raising children after God’s heart and though you rejoice in watching them, don’t want to rub it in friends’ faces.

Like Ham’s mother have children whose substance abuse can cause problems.

Like Bathsheba, have sick children who may die.

Like Joseph and Benjamin, experienced the death of their mother.

Like Mary, have children with public legal situations and all you can do is watch.

Like the Shunammite woman when told by Elisha she would become pregnant, replied, “No, please do not mislead your servant!” Like her, not wanting to open doors to hope, only to have them slammed in your face.

Like Hannah, have known the provoking of a family member.

Like many, watched their mothers age and waste before their eyes.

Like Moses’ mother, reluctantly gave up her child because it wasn’t safe for you to bring her child up herself. Or

Who like Pharaoh’s daughter, were called to love and nurture children that weren’t yours by birth.

Like Timothy’s mother and grandmother, are steadily and without much fanfare or recognition teaching your children about the truths of God, sowing seeds for eternity

Like the unnamed women who never quite fit into the norms of society, either never marrying or having children, yet wanting to.

You are in our midst.

We are called to be a people who rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn. A full life holds both.

~~~

More of the story. PDF of this.

Messier than normal, Messy Middle, Personality

10 Signs You are Embracing the Messy Middle

The phrase the messy middle seems to be more used than it was when I first started this blog. Often it is used in the sense of “Here is how to get out of the annoying messy middle.”

Well, how ducky. And simplistic. While I do believe that certain aspects of life are finite with a clear beginning, middle, and end, that is not my experience for most of life.

You know I’ve written several books. I know you’ve done your own amazing thing, birthed a human, donated hours to a cause you care about deeply, maybe live with chronic mental health issues.

Have you ever, in real life, not been in the messy middle? Those books I wrote? They are not “done.” Sure, they are done in the sense that the writing, editing, rewriting, formatting, and publishing is done. But in terms of the fullness of what it means to write a book, they are not done. They are on-going . . . and ever will be. (Ha, guess what? Thanks to the law of the land, they will outlive me by 70 years! To my heirs go the spoils).

That parenting you are doing will never be done. It will morph and change and enter a new phase. Only to morph and change and you will enter another new phase.

That cause you love and are committed to will never fully solve what it is committed to solving. Will change come? Yes. Lord willing you will leave the problem better than you found it, but the work will not be done.

And chronic illness—mental or physical—has good days and bad days, but it is never done. Often hope lies in more good days than bad.

After all these years, I still love the phrase the messy middle. I love it because it rings true this side of glory. So, I thought it might be time to put another stake in the ground about the messy middle and what the messy middle means to me.

Over time you embody more and more that you are a living, breathing, complex paradox.

1. You know more—and less—than you did.

2. You are moving away from—and towards—who you are.

3. You are grateful and able to risk being hurt.

4. When you are hurt you process it over time without choosing one of these unhealthy extremes: (a) Shake it off (“It’s merely a flesh wound!) or (b) let the hurt become the most defining attribute in your story.

5. You celebrate and grieve.

6. You are known for having convictions but not for being an unnecessary jerk about them.

7. Instead of being right, having more, or only looking at your number of comments/likes/follows, your measures are love, generosity, kindness, and joy.

8. You live in service to a greater purpose than yourself and you value your own well-being.

9. You are willing to change . . . and stay that same.

10. You grow in your ability to understand healthy tension instead of seeing every situation as a problem to be solved. (Hat tip to The Power of Healthy Tension: Overcome Chronic Issues and Conflicting Values by Tim Arnold)

Ultimately, you understand that with God’s help and the input of others, you are like a museum curator, curating your life.

And what an amazing exhibit the messy middle makes.

I love that I am not the only one who is drawn to this idea. Thanks for being here. Thanks for being my messy middle friends. High fives all around, even though we might have paint on our hands!

Photo by Bernard Hermant on Unsplash

Faith, Messier than normal

Our day is coming

I write monthly for A Life Overseas. ALOS’ subtitle is: the missions conversation. The following post is addressed to missionaries, but it also applies to churches, Christian non-profits, and Christian organizations.

~~~

People, I have been praying for several days about what to share this month. Every idea I had was . . . fine. But in none of the ideas did I sense God say, “That. That is the post for this month.”

Until this one.

We are going to talk about sexual impropriety, so if you need to take a pass because this post might trigger traumatic flashbacks, please do. Peace be with you my friend.

It seems the U.S. is facing a time of reckoning when it comes to men in power, female subordinates, and sexual impropriety. Actors, directors, sports casters, politicians, chefs, news reporters. The list goes on. Some of the men are truly scummy, some seem to be good guys who have one area of their lives very much hidden and in the dark.

While this reckoning is long overdue, in every incident I’ve seen on the news and social media there is one common refrain: So and so is facing allegations.

I applaud every victim who is able to tell her (or his) story. I also applaud those who have not shared; you live with your story every day, it is yours to choose when to share.

Each story has broken because a victim came forward. Not once has the accused come forward first and said, “I am going to take a leave from my job, go to counseling, learn how to handle my power, and work on making amends.”

As the numbers grow, I keep wondering “Who is going to model what healing, restoration, and redemption look like?” Which network or profession is going to be the first to take a risk and after a person has done the hard and necessary work, allow them a place at the table.

This is my hope for us as a community of Christ followers. We know sexual impropriety exists on the mission field. We will not get a pass on this reckoning.

But we can get ahead of it.

During my years in China, I heard almost every way a person could sexually sin. Not all situations required drastic measures, but all required taking the situation seriously and having frank discussions with plans for addressing it. In lives where it felt like the bottom fell out, often the person (and family) needed to leave the field for a season. But that was not the end of the story! With the hard work of excavating the soul, identity, and personal power, change and even returning to the field occured.

If you are currently embroiled in sexual impropriety, it will come to light. I do not know when. I do not know how. But if you are hoping your story won’t be found out, that is a fool’s bet.

Tell someone today. You are carrying a secret that will take more of your time, energy, and relationships until it steals everything. Christ died so that you no longer have to be a slave. Be a part of showing the world the world that not only did Christ come to save “them over there;” he also came to save actors, directors, politicians, athletes, news reporters, and you.

If you are the victim of sexual impropriety within your organization, find someone safe and report it. I am sorry for your experience.

If you are in leadership in your organization, please create space to talk as a leadership team about the subject of sexual impropriety in your organization. To not put this on your “to-do” list. Send an email right now to get the ball rolling. With others in power ask: how are we going to foster discussions within our organization? What resources can we offer to people? What is our plan when these situations start to be reported in our organization?

This post isn’t about resources. It is a warning.

Our day of reckoning is coming. Let’s get ahead of it.

My hope is that it is also a day of redemption.

This may be an odd Christmas post. But isn’t this why Christ came?

God with us—even in this messy world he loves dearly.

(Resources welcome in the comments.)

Ending Chapters, Faith, Messier than normal

Unlikely Containers Holding Your Story

Years ago, standing in our parent’s basement one of my sisters wondered what it would be like to deal with all of our dad’s paperwork. While not a hoarder in other areas, every piece of paper the man had touched through his life, he kept.

In that moment, the Lord gave me this insight: All this paper is more than paper, it is the container of your dad’s story.

Tax records going back decades were not kept in case of being audited. No, they were kept as a record. A record that said, “I was here, I took care of my family, I held a job, I gave to my church and charities. I invested myself in what matters in this world.” I can tell you this is not what my tax records mean to me because I do not keep my story in tax records.

Oddly, though a non-car person, my story is held, in part, by the cars I have owned.

As a college graduation present, my parents got me a car. It was love at first sight! She was a red Dodge Shadow and had an air spoiler and a strip down her side. In sixth grade I was cast as Margot Lane in a radio play about The Shadow; so, her name was Margot.

My education program was completed with a year of student teaching and graduate classes. Margot drove me out to Perry Middle School in rural Kansas. We had our first near death experience along those roads. She drove me to South Junior High where I learned to love teaching Algebra. And from South Junior High we hurried to the University of Kansas where I taught ESL to students from around the world as I completed my Master’s Degree.

During the summers we spent hours together driving home to Denver. And then hours apart as she sat in a parking lot while I taught English and fell in love with China. After several years of teaching in Kansas and summers in China, Margot watched as my dad helped load a U-Haul to take my worldly possessions back to Denver to live for two years in my sister’s basement.

Dad headed off to Denver and Margot and I hit the road for a detour through Wichita. A dear friend had donated a kidney to her brother and I wanted to visit her one last time before I moved to China.

Because I was only going to China for two years, it seemed silly to sell her. So I didn’t.

I do not know where my story would have been stored if I had sold her. I am also not sure when she became the keeper of my story. All I know is that she did. Every time I returned to the U.S. she was there to drive me around and provide me with a sense of independence.

In the blink of an eye, nine years passed.

I returned to the U.S. on a study leave. Margot and I were united again. And again she drove me to school, to visit friends, to speak at churches. She heard me sing and bore silent witness to the tears I shed in the months leading up to another goodbye.

In the blink of an eye, three years passed.

I returned to China. My beloved Margot sat once more, waiting for me.

Whenever I returned to Denver, she was there. She provided me the gift of coming and going at will. But then one summer, it was obvious that Margot was aging and the time had come to do the unthinkable.

No one would have paid her true value and I could not bear to have her underappreciated. I called the local rescue mission and explained I had a car to donate. We set up an appointment for me to turn over the title, I had only one stipulation: You cannot take her until I have left for China. I cannot bear to see her drive away.

The pain cut so deep, it went beyond reason. I might have given my left arm to be able to keep her. And that’s when I hit me.

Margot held my story.

I loved living overseas. I thrived. But every now and then as I aged the twinge would come when I thought of siblings and peers who had houses and cars and other “normal” markers of adulthood. I had a passport full of stamps, yes. But I had nothing tangible to point to that indicated “Here is an adult. Here is a ‘real person.’”

Margot had been with me through my 20s and 30s. She was the one constant in a sea of change. While I lived a more nomadic existence, packing up after each year in China (another story for another time), at age 30 having life rhythms I had had at twenty, I would say to myself, “Don’t worry, I am a real adult, I own a car.”

Last week all of this flooded back.

Four years ago I moved back to the U.S. and bought another car. Much to everyone’s shock, after insisting on only buying red computers, red this, red that. She was blue. As a Honda Fit it seemed only fitting that she be called Fiona.

Cutting to the chase, she was pummeled in a colossal hail storm in May. Last week she was deemed totaled. This had not occurred to me when I casually dropped her off the end of August. On the phone with the insurance who went over the details and what I would be paid and steps I need to take, she casually asked if I needed to get an any personal items out of the car before she was reclaimed at the repair place. Of course I do you idiot. (Only part said out loud.)

I still own nothing but a car as a sign of adulthood. And now that which held my story for the last four years, is no longer mine.

My story will go on. God at work in and through me, to be sure.

But I am left wondering who will keep the story now? And why can the cost of the call sneak up? Will Fiona’s new owner know what she is capable of?

Love, Amy is on sale today for only $5 on Kindle because Love, Amy reminds me of Margot. It is a privilege to share these stories.

It may not be taxes, paper, or cars, but in his mercy, God uses ordinary things of this world to help hold your story. What is it for you?

A version of this first appeared on A Life Overseas.

Cross cultural, Messier than normal, Relationships

Still grateful: Nearly died, but didn’t

“You will die a horribly painful death in China.”

I’m not from a faith tradition that is known for “words from the Lord.” So when I heard this deep in my soul as I unpacked from my first trip to China twenty five years ago, I (a) didn’t know what it meant and (b) didn’t know what to do with it. I assumed it was for many years down the road, might be related to my faith, and would be concerning to share with people, so I didn’t.

Camaraderie came in an unexpected place: a John Irving novel. When I read A Prayer for Owen Meany I found a kindred spirit in Owen who knew odd details about his death. Owen, I get you! This message didn’t consume my thoughts or leave me in fear; but I did wonder at times what a “horribly painful death” might be like and if I’d embarrass myself, others, or the Lord in the process. I hoped that I wouldn’t.

I rarely get sick so it was not the norm when one day I started feeling like I had the stomach flu after lunch. My colleague, Erin, and I assumed it was just a normal illness, nothing to be concerned about. I threw up a few times. Who doesn’t? To cut a long story short, less than 24 hours later I was throwing up convulsively, had red spots on my skin, and my head felt like it was in a vice grip and my brain being squeezed.

It was.

I had bacterial meningitis and was dying a horribly painful death in China.

Twenty years ago on April 2nd I should have died. I choke up even now typing this. My parents were awakened in the middle of the night by Erin’s dad telling them he’d just gotten a call from Erin and based on her description, he thought I had meningitis, the prognosis wasn’t good, and he just thought they should know. They called my sisters and woke them with a similar message. Each sister reached out to friends and family and thus started the word spreading.

I did not die; I did have to relearn everything except—no comments—talking. Ah, even at the brink, I had things to say! I re-learned to walk, dress myself, write, and wash dishes; things that we take for granted, for a season, I didn’t.

On this twenth anniversary I want to say, again, thank you.

To my family for not coming. One of the hardest parenting decisions you have ever made was to stay away so that I could get the help I needed. Many questioned that call, but you held firm. And you paid the largest phone bill of your lives! Your frequent calls to Erin, and later to me, were worth every penny. Elizabeth and Laura, even half way around the world, I felt your sisterly love and connection.

To my students who cared for me around the clock. Especially to the girls who, in teams of three, sat by my bed during the night, combed my hair every morning, and washed my face.

To friends and family around the world and in China who found tangible ways in a pre-internet world to reach out.

To the school officials where I taught for caring for me as if I was your own, because I was.

To Debra and Kerry who let me convalesce with you for a month in Hong Kong. Your home, ice cream, CBS nightly news, and two cats were the best way to return to the land of the living.

To Erin. The list is too long. But one image that captures so much of what you had to bear is this — when I had come out of the coma and was hungry, we didn’t have many food options and you made me something with oranges and yogurt. After eating I abruptly sat up and projectile vomited all over your clean sweater. You, the picture of grace, picked little bits of orange off your sweater and said it “was no big deal.” And it wasn’t, because you’re that kind of friend.

I don’t know why I didn’t die. It might have been the amount of people praying around the globe for me. I know many are prayed for and they still die. All I know is that “word” was lifted from my soul in Hong Kong and like most of us, have no idea when or how or where I will die.

While I would have been okay to die (I actually begged Erin to kill me), I’m grateful that I didn’t. Today, I am reminded of the preciousness of life and how quickly it can change. Erin, my family said it to you then and still mean it today, we owe you so much more than can be put into words. Thank you for getting me to the doctor when I would have just stayed home and died in my bed.

To that 29 year-old-woman who had accepted a leadership position before she became ill and had no idea she would stay in China for many more years. She had not tasted the heights and depths of ministry pain, nor met many of the wonderful people she now calls family, I say this: Life is hard, God is faithful, and girl, you will have the time of your life. Enjoy.

I updated a post I wrote five years ago.

Faith, Learning lessons, Messier than normal

When a bit player in your life takes center stage

It started off simply enough.

I had an infection and went to the pharmacy to get over-the-counter medication (as I have before, no biggie).

Then the infection returned while traveling. Sigh. Oh well, still, no biggie.

Then it returned.

Then it returned again.

Now, I may not be the quickest to get myself to the doctor, but four infections in about a month? Um, apparently another approach was needed. Praise Jesus for people who sit in labs and have no social life and figure out how to make pills that cure what ails the rest of us with social lives and jobs and people counting on us!

Until said prescription ends and the infection returns. Why do “emergencies” always happen after hours or on a weekend?! (I put it in quotation marks because I get that my situation is not life-threatening. I often think a situation is an “emergency” when in truth it is more distracting or uncomfortable or just plain annoying. I also notice how these situations make my vernacular choice a tad dramatic).

According to the internet, cutting out a few foods would help me feel better.

Fair enough.

I would have said that I was an overall healthy eater. Oh sure, I like a piece of chocolate after dinner. And if pizza was a food group, I would have had no problem meeting the quotient. But, hey, there is “bad pizza” and “good pizza.” You know, with only veggies and no silliness like stuffed crust.

So began the change in my relationship with food. No carbs, no problem! We will kick this infection and move on with life. After all, I like tofu and hummus and Kalamata olives.

I was referred to a specialist and put on six months worth of medication. But—oh people—my body doesn’t really seem to be responding to the medication, so he said, “You will need to starve it out of your body. Anything it eats, you don’t.”

I’m not proud of this, but I cried as I walked out. I thought, “I don’t mind giving up pizza for a while. After all, the side effects right now are so awful, I don’t want to eat it. But if I had known the last time I ate pizza was THE LAST TIME, I would have enjoyed it more. I would have savored each bite. I would have been more present. And now I can’t give pizza a proper goodbye.”

It is easier to say what I can eat than bore you with what I can’t. Plain greek yogurt, meat, and most veggies are sustaining me. It is still surreal I haven’t eaten fruit since November (other than lemons and limes). My new party tricks are actually annoying food facts.

Did you know there are moldy and non-moldy nuts? And mold likes to make things grow? So, no peanuts, cashews, or pistachios for me. Did you know vinegar is in yellow mustard? And vinegar is processed in yeast and yeast likes to make things grow? Did you know soy sauce has soy which is a bean which is a carb which is VERY ANNOYING? Did you know that the “ose” in “lactose” refers to sugar and sugar likes to make things grow? Did you know chicken bullion is 1% sugar?

Oh, I had lost track of the time too. It is getting late. I can totally understand why you and the kids need to go to bed at 6:30 p.m.

Food has moved from being comforting to part just-for-survival and part medicine as I try to cooperate in my healing.

I go through waves of fear. Fear?! I have never been afraid of food. But it is so much easier to eat at home and know that I am not risking setting my healing back by months.

To waves of gratitude. My mind wanders to my friend Mike who died last September. If all Mike had to do was alter his diet to stay with his family and feel better he would have done it. All I have to do is alter my diet and my life goes on pretty much as it has.

I have learned how much food is woven into culture. Be it holiday baking or a favorite meal for a birthday to casually hanging out with friends, food is often the center. It is exhausting to have a part of life that is usually a bit player take center stage.

It turns out that food, even in Western individualistic countries, is far more communal than I thought. My diet restrictions have impacted my family. It has impacted get-t0gethers and what I can and cannot eat. It makes all who come near me think through menus and restaurants and rituals. I wish I did not have to take so many on this path with me.

And yet.

And yet, the kindness shown also comes wave after wave. The research people have done. The recipes people have tried. The thought and effort put into not merely keeping me alive, but also finding ways to thrive in this new land we find ourselves. The Psalmist said to “Taste and see that the Lord is good.”

His goodness has also come in comments. “Amy, what is tricky is that you are sick, but you don’t look sick so you have to get all of your work done while finding time to go to the doctor and learn a whole new relationship with food. All the while you need more rest and to slow down and listen to your body.” I teared up when a friend said this. “I see that you are sticking to this. I know you are not eating what you shouldn’t be.” Sometimes all it takes is a witness. Someone to say, “I see you. What you are doing is not un-seen.”

It started off simply enough, but isn’t the same true for many of life’s profound lessons? When I signed up to write about food, I thought the infection was dead and I’d be reporting more from the “after” side of these lessons. Instead, this is a report from the front lines. I am still in process of learning and leaning into the not-as-resolved-as-I-would-like parts of life.

I know you can relate.

What has been impacting your relationship with food recently? Any new loves? Or foods you are needing to avoid?

~~~

Have you listened to Looming Transitions? A version of this post first appeared on Velvet Ashes. Image by Karen Huber. Happy weekend friends! Any fun plans?

Faith, Grief, Messier than normal

Is Jesus a liar?

I had another post ready for today. A post about what is making me happy. But then I got a text and this post from two years ago matched the ups ad downs of this summer I think many of us are feeling. When the world contains so much beauty and is a hot mess, it’s tempting to wonder if Jesus is a liar. This is what I need to hear and I imagine I’m not alone.

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My friend’s mom died recently. In her late 80’s she’d been a nursing home for 44 months. Another friend celebrates today (how macabre!) the five year anniversary of her dad being medevac’d to the hospital on he eve of his birthday. The hospital he ended up dying in months later. Others I know are dealing with the death of their adult son. Two lifelong friends of my parents are entering the long good-bye, as Alzheimer’s has been called. And several younger friends are wrestling with mental illness. Someone else I know is dealing with a supervisor who is a minion of Satan (OK, that may be harsh, but you get my point). All love Jesus dearly.

In the midst of this hear the echo Paul’s words to the Galatians.

It is for freedom you have been set free.

Is this a cosmic joke? Or worse, an empty promise? Do their lives ring of freedom?

Are we believers just fooling ourselves?

These are the questions I ask. You’ve probably had similar ones. How do we reconcile the freedom we at times know,

Or hope,

Or cling to like a bouy in choppy waters

With the slavery we still experience?

Or at best, the lack of freedom.

To our detriment we have been conditioned by the church and the magazines at the check-out line that simple solutions can be offered with a straight face. Three points, five tips, seven sassy suggestions. Suffering and freedom tied up with a shiny bow.

I come to you, knowing you are probably as weary of this part of our culture as I am. And yet. And yet, may I offer two observations on this paradox? This tension I feel within myself when it comes to our freedom in Christ?

As I have tossed these questions around and come at them from this angle and than that angle I’ve realized that I often associate freedom with the idea of freedom from and ignore freedom to and freedom for. Freedom surely means freedom from pain and suffering, right? Or freedom from constraints or restrictions. Those are the freedoms my mind goes to first.

But God is slowing me down and broaden the idea of freedom to include freedom to have the outside reality be different than the inside experience. A loved one may die and grief can be mixed with relief without someone being a horrible person. A disease may be an invitation for friends and family to be intentional with the time left.

I can see the cultural influences on my thinking of freedom. God placed us in cultural context and it’s okay to be influenced by our cultures, let’s not throw the baby out with the bath water!

The problem isn’t the cultural influences, instead it is unexamined influences that can lead to limited understandings. It’s when we step back and ask “in what ways” and “how” have I been influenced and ask God to show us a more excellent way that he will! He will enlarge, correct, and confirm. This is the journey of growing as a believer.

But no matter how much we mature, there are simply going to be areas where the answers we are given is unsatisfactory in this life. When it comes to freedom, God has pointed out to me that already/not yet applies here as well.

Believers in Jesus are free and each believer can point to areas of their life where they are free in ways they weren’t before. But we still experience brokenness and live in broken systems. To say that we are completely free now is foolish talk. Even Paul said “I do not do the things I want to do and the things I want to do, I don’t do.” He is not yet completely free. And neither am I. And neither are you.

Freedom is already. Yes! Freedom is not yet. Yes! Already/not yet is big enough to hold the freedom we have while acknowledging the lack of freedom that is our current truth as well. It helps me to celebrate the freedom I have AND keep me pointed toward the ultimate freedom that is waiting for me.

Jesus isn’t a liar. But he’s also no simpleton and invites us to live our messy, beautiful lives in light of the freedom that will one day be completely ours.

Photo credit Glenn Euloth via flickr cc

Faith, Family, Learning lessons, Messier than normal

When you see the shopping cart, it means he’s probably inside my house

This is one of my personal Top 10 favorite posts because it embodies life in the messy middle. Three years have passed since I first published it and I’d like to do a follow-up interview with my sister. What should I ask?

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Several years ago my sister Elizabeth saw a homeless man in her suburban neighborhood. And saw him again and again until one day she asked his name: Donovan.

Her life, and ours as her family members, has been enriched by this relationship. But it has also been exasperating, challenging, confusing, and stretching, I asked her if she’d be willing to share some of her experience and she humored me. I bring you my sister, Elizabeth.

First of all, as your sister, I want to say our family is richer because you followed the nudging of the Spirit. I know you have grown to care for Donovan, but it’s not all been easy. What are some of the challenges?

He is a difficult man to have around—never stops talking, and because of the girls {they have four daughters}, I feel like I need to be on the same floor, so I can’t go upstairs and do anything. He has a difficult past and what has to be brain damage, making it tough to follow his train of thought. It’s never convenient to have him here. I’m annoyed that he doesn’t get a job, but I understand why he doesn’t get a job (so he doesn’t lose the benefits he worked hard to get).

And I never thought about what my neighbors would think about me inviting a homeless man into our neighborhood. They have been supportive, at least outwardly. That was actually pretty funny when, twice, people warned me that a man with a shopping cart was hanging around my house. Let’s just say that their jaws dropped a little when I had to tell them, “Um, yeah, when you see the cart parked out here, it means he’s probably inside my house.” Kinda liked that shock value.

What are some of the ways knowing Donovan has enriched your family’s life?

He has shown me how thankful I should be for my childhood. His dad read the Bible to him, but also introduced him to pot at age 14 (his sister was doing meth by age 9). His dad made collage pictures using scraps of magazines–including one picture of Jesus using flesh from porn.

He’s gone on the men’s retreat with Del. He’s been out to dinner with us. He’s sat in church a few times with us. We’ve given him many rides to Walmart. I had him set the table once, and he had No Idea what to do. Many people have been exposed to him eating dinner with us all. His birthday is Monday, so he’s going to come over so we can take him out to celebrate. And it just goes to show how disconnected people are with the idea of being friends with a homeless person when they say, as someone did last week, “You mean he just stops by??” Well, he can’t exactly call to schedule coffee.

I know there’s been some awkwardness too.

I feel so dishonest not answering the door when I know he’s there, but some days I’m just not up to it. I especially don’t want to coach the girls to be dishonest, so I haven’t done this when they are aware. Another awkward time, he stopped was so agitated that we thought he was high and hustled him right out the door. (That was the night of a near-by gunshot, so he claims that’s why he was upset. Could be.) Another time, I had to feed him sandwiches on the front porch because I had told him that I wouldn’t let him in when other kids were over, not knowing how their parents would feel. I think we both felt pretty awkward that day. And I’ve admitted to friends that it’s just plain uncomfortable being close to such poverty.

Yeah, I get that. I feel that too.

I will say that one day a few months ago, he showed up clean-shaven (a first!), with a haircut, and cleanly dressed. I didn’t recognize him when I looked through the peep hole in our door. It was pretty unnerving to see him looking so NORMAL Frankly, it rocked my view of him. I thought I knew how to think and feel towards him when he was hairy and dirty, but I wasn’t sure what to do with my thoughts when he showed up looking like he just came back from the office. If we hadn’t had a routine of me feeding him, I wouldn’t have thought to offer, because he looked like he didn’t need it.

That day really made me think about how our perceptions of people really affect the way we relate with them.

What about the girls?

Number One (age 11) usually vanishes when he appears; that’s just her–introvert escaping to read in her bedroom–but it might also be her age. Number Three (age 7) seems comfortable but interacts little with him; she is also an introvert. Number Two (age 9) though, readily talks to him and even asks to sit by him (which makes me proud, given her keen sense of smell and his ‘ripeness’, depending on the day). And Number Four (almost 5), also an extrovert, is happy to swirl around or sit at the table and talk to him when he talks to her.

What are some benefits to the girls?

Being friends with Donovan has stretched me, and it has stretched them. There has been nothing—nothing!—that we have ever done that has given us more opportunity to show them that God calls us to love people, and He doesn’t promise that it will always be convenient or fun.

What are a couple of good memories with Donovan?

Early in our friendship, he was waiting for dinner to start, and it was an evening where we had at least 11 people for dinner. Chaos swirled, and I looked over and Number Two was sitting with him on the couch reading to him a Dr. Seuss book. Because, to her, that Just. Made. Sense.

I know a lot of his friends smoke pot, and learned recently that he sometimes (often??) joins them. During the time I’ve known him, multiple friends of his have been arrested, one died, and another committed suicide. He said to me one day, as the girls rough-housed in the next room, “I like to come here because it’s so calm.” I must’ve given him a look, because the noise of them at that moment was anything but soothing, and he quickly said, “Oh, I know they can be loud, but it’s so CALM here.” Proof of what I suspected—that he’s here for community more than food.

One of my favorite memories with Donovan was when I was in the States last year for Christmas and he came with all of us to the Christmas Eve service. At the dinner table afterwards Number Two wanted to sit between us. Donovan on one side and an out-of-town auntie on the other. That picture of her with the two of us on either side, that is one of the last things I hope passes through my mind before I die. It’s such a picture of love.

Would you do it again if I knew then where this road was going to lead?

The reality is, probably not. I’m not usually a bold person. Had I known where my introducing myself was going to lead, I would have totally chickened out before I ever got started. And that would be my loss. There is definite satisfaction in doing what God has asked you to do.

Any final thoughts?

I do like that I know Donovan likes cantaloupe, mayonnaise on his sandwiches (no lettuce; too hard to chew with no bottom teeth), and drinks milk by the gallons when given an opportunity. You should know these things about your friends.

Elizabeth, thanks for sharing some of the scribbling you and Donovan and Del and the girls have been making. What I love is that you haven’t “gone out” to do it, you’ve incorporated scribbling into your every day, complex, life. What I also love, is you. Amy

The relationship with Donovan continues and the girls are even older now, what questions do you have for Elizabeth? Or me? Some day I’d like to interview Donovan, too.

China, Grief, Messier than normal

The blurry line between fiction and reality

A recent article reminded me of a piece of fiction I wrote for a writing course as I tried to visualize the growing problem of bride stealing in China.

Not ‘Leftover Women’ but ‘Leftover Men’ Are China’s Real Problem said,

“Leftover women are no cause for concern – it is the ‘leftover men’ that are China’s real crisis”, Xinhua News and Beijing News write earlier this week. “Marriage as a traditional institute is of great significance and value, but it should not be the way to measure a women’s worth in today’s era,” the article states. Although it has been the unmarried young women, often called ‘leftover women’ (shèngnǚ, 剩女), who have been singled out by Chinese media, the article says that it really is the single men, referred to as ‘leftover men‘ (shèngnán, 剩男) that are at the center of China’s “marriage crisis”.

“Statistics point out that for China’s post 1980s generation, there are tens of millions more men than women of marriageable age. At the peak of the disparity in girls and boys births in 2004, 121.2 boys were born for every 100 girls. Nevertheless, the ‘leftover men’ problem has not been covered as much by Chinese media, while ‘leftover women’ have been the targeted by media for years.”

Here is the only fiction I’ve ever written; it’s an attempt to move from statistics to people.

*****

Trapped

This was not how he’d pictured his wedding day.

All the stories he’d heard growing up. All the dreams about when it would be his turn with his friends to go and “kidnap” his bride in the early hours of the morning. His parents waiting nearby to host the wedding banquet; their turn having finally come to brag to their village through food about how well their family was doing.

Now that the actual day was here, the thought of kidnapping made his stomach lurch.

Why fate has seen fit to have him born into the shit hole of a dying village, he’d never know. He wished he was more like his parents who rolled with the punches that fate dealt.

He was the one who sobbed as an eight year old boy when he dad broke his leg so badly it required the boy to drop out of school. They stoically told him that education wasn’t needed for farming. He was the one who suggested going to work in a factory near Hong Kong, they were the ones to tell him not to aim too high. He was the one who wanted to try to growing sweet potatoes and they were the ones who said, “we’re not that kind of people.”

He was the one with the modern idea on love. But now at the old age of 24 he had to put that foolishness behind him. As the only son it was his duty to provide a grandchild. As a man it was not his duty to find love. When his father had come to him with the plan everything in him recoiled.

But here he was in the early hours of morning, getting dressed for his wedding. He wondered how much his father had to pay for his bride? He wondered how scared she’d been when she was kidnapped. He heard they drugged the girls so that they were easier to sneak across the border. Would she still be drugged? What language did she speak? Did she know he was not a monster?

Too soon it was time to go.

Book, Faith, Just for fun, Messier than normal

If you haven’t seen this video, you need to

On Tuesday mornings I meet with a group of interns who are investing in kids from low income housing during the summer. Just like during the school year when I love Thursdays because I get to be with visiting Chinese scholars, I love Tuesdays in the summers because I get to be with the interns and talk about ministry and life and God.

We’ve spent a couple of weeks unpacking With: reimagining the way you relate to God by Skye Jethani and what it means to do life with God. The other are options are to live life under him, over him, expect life from him, or to live for him. If nothing else, this is would be my huge take away from them this summer.

Shout out to Hannah for sending me the book. It articulated what I’ve felt and now can explain in relatively few words. Thanks friend!

Today we are going to start a two week series on Vulnerability and Shame based on the work of Brene Brown. Fantastic. Fan-Tas-Tic. If you’re not familiar with her, watch the video below (and if you’re reading this in an email, click here). My two favs of her books are The Gifts of Imperfection and Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead

If you’re the praying type, you could pray for me (and if not, I’ll take your warm thoughts!). I am swimming in tedious work. Editing is vital to/for my book, and seeing more than ever before I am big picture, creative. Much of what I’ve been doing since April has not been big picture, it’s been details level. I’m decent with details. But under too many of them, I wilt. I’m wilting. My goal is to finish the editing process by the end of July. If it were only the book, I’d be okay. Other areas of my life need adjusting.

Will you water my wilting leaves with your prayers?

In the midst of wilting, I’m also thriving. (Do I contradict myself, very well then. I do. Walt Whitman said something along these lines. My translation: whatever.)

Don’t you love the color of summer? I’ve become a flower addict. And love lady bugs.

I’m going to see Inside Out this afternoon because. Just because. Because I want to and Tuesdays are $5 at the movies. I’m wilting because I’m swimming in minute. Movies in the summer in the middle of the day seem decadent. And live giving.

Where are you wilting? Thriving? Any prayers or warm thoughts needed from me?

P.S. even writing this randomy post has been good for me. What helps revive you?