Farewell Blogger...

My generous brother-in law has just given me space on his server and helped me launch a new site powered by Wordpress. Please check out the new and improved The Margins.

Thanks, Jer!

Quotation of the Week

"Following Jesus was, by his culture's standards, an R-rated action movie, not a purpose-driven Bible study."

From Jesus the Radical Pastor

For my Oprah tells me so...

Okay, so I have been known to quote Oprah Winfrey on occasion. Just last week I actually caught myself saying to my fitness-conscious brother: "well, Oprah told me I should give up white foods and eating after 7pm." While it is rare that I watch her show (when are the two kids EVER both asleep at 3pm), it is a guilty pleasure that I enjoy once in a while.

A few weeks ago a friend of mine wrote this about Oprah on his blog:

"First an article about Oprah told me that in one poll 33% of people said Oprah has had a 'more profound effect on their spiritual lives than their clergyperson.' As a matter of fact Jamie Foxx told Oprah when we get to heaven we'll find out Oprah IS God!"

I was thinking about why it is that she does command such spiritual authority in people's lives, and I think I figured it out. She is a person who lives and breathes testimony, and she gives it boldly and freely, unapologetically. Her life has been dramatically changed at different junctures (her struggles with her weight, her dealing with past sexual abuse, etc.) and she TALKS about it generously and with great passion, as if she truly believes that her story has the power to change you.

I have often exhorted my church members that we must be people of testimony. We can easily get so uptight about evangelism and what it means to "share our faith" and really, it boils down to this: am I a person who talks about those junctures in my life where I once was dead and am now alive; where I was once blind and now I see. And I don't mean the story of being a fourth grader at Christian summer camp (my own "conversion" experience), but the story of this morning, and last night, and two weeks ago.

I think we can take a lesson from Oprah on this one.

Lessons in the sand

Since Mercy has decided that after a month of living at Newman Lake, Tillamook and Grammy and Pop Pop's backyard, our little apartment is terribly boring, we spent most of yesterday afternoon at our local park. Doug and I always joke about what it's like to let our kids play at this park, especially in the sand:

"Oh, look! Mercy found a condom!"

"Hey, Aaron, can you hand me that hypodermic needle, please?"

But of course, the sand is the thing Mercy is most excited about, so there we sat.

I had brought a few tupperware containers and a shovel, and Mercy busied herself "cooking" and bringing me sand delicacies to eat. At one point I realized that she had abandoned the bulky yellow shovel I brought for her in favor of a beer bottle top to scoop the sand into her plastic cups. I couldn't help but remember how, a few short weeks ago, she was running wild at the beach at Oceanside, scooping up sand into plastic cups with a broken sand dollar and partial mussel shell.

The other night I was sitting with Doug on the dock at Newman Lake and I turned to him and said: "When I am here, it is hard to believe that this place and South Central, L.A. share space in the same world." I guess I get how people forget that places like my neighborhood exist. I was gone for twenty-five days. I have to admit that it is not that hard. I am reminded of Doughboy's sober conclusion in the 1991 movie, Boyz N the hood :

"Either they don't know, don't show, or don't care about what's going on in the hood."

Crusty feet

During my trip to Seattle, I made the decision to road-trip alone with the two kiddos to see our family down in Oregon. It was great to be with the family I have been lucky to inherit via Doug. It was also great to stay with good L.A. friends who relocated to Portland about a year ago. While the trip was very, very fun it was not without a few "what was I thinking" moments where the stress levels ran a bit high.

There was one night in particular when my baby simply would not go to sleep. Since the three of us were sharing a bedroom, I was not fond of the option of letting him cry himself to sleep since that would most certainly come at the cost of a very awake Mercy Lucille. So I was rocking and bouncing and feeding and shushing and "nuk"-ing the little guy but to no avail. He ceased being a small baby months ago so my back ached, my arms felt like they were going to fall off, and my emotions were raw. This was coming off of a difficult ending to my day with Dad and Donna (dinner hour meets a tired and manic Mercy in a house full of beautiful decorative pieces), a difficult phone conversation with someone I care about, and frightening news from my family concerning a trip to the ER for my mom.

It was in the midst of this that Erik came up to me and said, "Here, let me give it a try," and he lifted Aaron out of my arms. I collapsed onto the couch with Susie while Erik began a ritual of walking and singing with Aaron in the kitchen and on the back porch of their house. Susie, who had turned on The Daily Show, turned to me and said, "Do you want a beer?' and I'm pretty sure the moment required no verbal answer on my part.

At one point I started to feel bad for Erik because Jon Stewart was so hilarious that I felt bad for anyone missing it, but Susie reminded me that Erik had offered and that he would come in if he needed a break. So I sat, cozy with my Blue Heron and some scathing irreverance, and put up my feet and laughed.

I realized that something has seriously changed in me in this past year. A year ago, there is no way that I could have sat, let alone enjoyed myself, while someone else took over a burden that was rightfully mine. I would have stalked such a person, pleading to have my burden back, miserable in my guilt over being served. That is the way pride plays, and those of us who suffer from it have such a difficult time seeing it for what it is.

I'm not sure what has caused this change in me this year: desperation? exhaustion? disappointment? plain, unadulterated neediness?

I cannot help but think of Peter, the one who could not stomach receiving love through the washing of his weary feet. And yet he surely became the rock upon which was built the body of a crucified Lord.

There is hope.

How white is "the Street"?

Someone made a comment to me recently about how there are no white people in the Sesame Street DVD we have (this person is white). Not having realized that or noticed, I paid attention the next time around and saw that in fact there were white kids and adults present throughout, though they were by no means the racial majority. I shared this with my sister and she told me about an interesting study she had read: if a white person is in a group where less than 80% of the people are white, they perceive themselves to be in the minority. Contrast this with a black person who, at 10%, feels like they are in a racially balanced mix.

Interesting...

Perspective II

We just returned home to L.A. after twenty-five days of what, by comparison, now feels like a totally surreal life. Living lakefront for a week was certainly a highlight, however it is a bit of a heartbreak to watch my Mercy trying to reorient herself to her cement environment here.

Spending time at the cabin reminded me of how powerfully our surroundings impact our perspective. Allowing Mercy to run barefoot everywhere, cuts and splinters regardless; washing our dishes and showering (or not) in lake water; allowing dogs to regularly lick Mercy's and Aaron's hands and faces; having largely unclothed children for days on end; it was a kind of life with abandon--raw, unsanitized, free.

I have always been intrigued by the significance of the desert/wilderness for Israel, for the prophets, for Jesus. This place of withdrawal and perspective and reclamation of identity. I have also always held deep concern for how the American church lives without this, and how too quickly lattes and pedicures and SUV's become our entitlement.

It is easy for me to start to suffocate here in L.A. My environment here clamors to shape me, to control me. It takes effort and commitment to remain myself in this fear-ridden, appearance-driven place.

But last night I stood, barefoot, in front of the apartment building next-door, cradling my almost-sleeping (and largely undressed :) )infant in my arms. The regular posse of kids surrounded us as I chatted with my neighbor; we had all been drawn outdoors by five hovering helicopters, police and news, who were so loud and close they sounded like they were coming into our apartments. Turns out an 18-wheeler flipped over a block away, ending a police pursuit. That's a new one for South Central!

I often say to people that my neighborhood is the only thing that saves me here.

Perspective

My Dad’s extended family shares a lake cabin outside of Spokane, Washington, where we are currently enjoying a paradise-like existence. Someone asked my cousin, Jenny, how it works to maintain a shared place like this. In her words: “when you see something that needs to be done you do it.” She said this after driving out after work to replenish the supply of clean towels, sheets, and drinking water for us after their stay here the previous week.

I loved the simplicity of her response. No ego. No martyrdom. Just a recipe for mutuality and servanthood.

Cabins can bring out the best in people I think.