Being, not Doing

I’ve been somewhat frustrated lately. For years I’ve had goals I was working towards: Finishing college, getting a teaching job, finishing my ESL certificate, finding a volunteer job with at-risk kids in South America.

And here I am. I reached my goal. I’m happy about that on one level, but now I’m left wondering, what next? I never made a new goal. What do I DO? Where do I go? Do I stay here longer? Do I stay in administration? Do I go back to teaching? Do I start thinking about starting a ministry?

But recently, I had a startling thought. Life is about who we are, not what we do. That is not the startling thought; I’ve been working on internalizing that one for years now. Here’s the thought that startled me: Maybe my goals should be more focused on who I am becoming, and not what I am doing. Maybe learning to truly rest is a good goal. Maybe learning to walk in grace while still doing everything “heartily as to the Lord” is a good goal. Maybe joy, contentment, and delight in Jesus is a good goal. Maybe knowing myself better is a good goal.

Part of me would love to have a concrete, action oriented goal, “I will stay here for 2 more years and leave behind a comprehensive curriculum for each grade level” Or, “I will go back to the States and get my masters in bilingual education and teach in a dual immersion classroom” Or, “I’ll travel the world for a year and visit friends and other ministries and do some research towards starting a ministry to at-risk kids of my own”

But right now, I don’t have an action-focused goal. And I think that’s ok. Whatever I do next year, and the year after and 10 years down the road and wherever God takes me I think if my goal is to delight in Him, to do my best for his glory while accepting his grace, to live the concept of Sabbath rest, to find joy in the things he has made me enjoy, then whatever it is I am doing won’t be so important. What will matter is who I am becoming, a child of God, in right relationship with him, myself, and others.

Why does it have to be so complicated?

My sweater smelled like mildew yesterday when I pulled it on, not because I’d left it sitting in the washer for too long but because with the rainy, cold, damp weather and our much too dark area where clothes hang to dry, it takes so long to dry that some things just smell like mildew.

It was the last straw. Sara and Stephen and I have been talking about buying a dryer, and Sara and I decided to go after work to buy one. In Bogota, everything has it’s own section in town. Sara had just happened to run into appliances while looking for shoes the other day. So, we set off in a drizzle that soon turned into a downpour, feeling thankful that soon we would have a dryer and wouldn’t be worried about damp sweatshirts.

On 15, shop after shop of gleaming appliances waited for us. We walked in and out of stores, comparison shopping. It wasn’t until somewhere around the 7^th store that we ran into trouble. “Sure we have electric dryers”, the man said, “for 220 voltage”. We looked at each other, confused. “Is there any other kind of voltage here?” we asked. Turns out there is- 110. We had no idea what kind of voltage we have, so we called our friend Tony who’s done some electrical work for us. We have 110. Turns out they don’t make dryers for 110 voltage, and if you try to run a 220 dryer on 110 voltage you won’t get good results (I’m not really clear if it takes longer, costs twice as much, doesn’t fully dry the clothes or all of the above)

Between the 3 salesmen we talked to on our way back (as they helpfully asked if we’d found anything after all) we learned we basically have 3 options- 1. Learn to live with mildewy clothes and waiting days for dry jeans and towels. 2. Get a gas run dryer. Call the gas company to come out and give us a quote on what it would cost to put in another gas hookup, then have them do the physical labor. Or 3. Get a “trifasica” which is some sort of converter operation or something which changes your voltage.

I’m frustrated because I was hoping to have a dryer delivered today, and instead now we have to make phone calls and do research and hope that notoriously slow service here doesn’t mean we don’t actually not end up with a dryer for months. We’ll also end up spending more money since neither the trifasica nor the gas hookup sound like inexpensive options.

Oh well. Such is life.

Life

When I was a kid and I played life, I always had the wrong goal. Supposedly, the goal of the game is to make the most money and retire at Millionaire acres. My goal was always to have the most kids. I usually ended up frustrated; some lucky friend would land on all the baby girl and baby boy spaces, maybe even twins. They’d fill two mini vans. Me on the other hand, I had one kid. Two if I was lucky.

Somewhere along the way, my priorities shifted a little bit. I never wanted to retire at millionaire estates and make a lot of money. But I wanted to do something big, something life changing, something “more” than staying home with my mini van full of kids. My heart ached for all the kids from broken families in broken neighborhoods, who didn’t even know what hope was. So, I started teaching.

Six years down the road, I’m realizing that that little girl’s dream of a house full of kids never really changed, it just got covered by some new dreams. My priorities are starting to shift back as I have a new perspective on motherhood and just how big it is. See, my dream, the teaching and working with kids in desperate situations, is to see some lives, which have been damaged and broken, restored. To see some children who don’t know the truth come to walk in the light. It’s not an easy dream, because kids go home to places that teach violence, promiscuity, and hopelessness. Moms though, they can dream for their kids to walk in fullness and in the light. They don’t have to contend with the brokenness, or even in circumstances where they do, home is a place where truth and love and grace can be lived out. It’s the same end goal: children walking in fullness in a right relationship with their creator. Moms just have so much more opportunity to influence their children than a teacher does.

There was a time where I wondered if I really had the commitment and dedication it takes to be a mom, or if I wanted to. And then, 2 boys walked in my door. Today, not quite 3 weeks later, B walked into my room to ask for a needle and thread to sew a hole in his pants. Two minutes later he was back with a pin through his ear. . . After I confiscated the pin, I gave him a stern admonition not to pierce his ears without permission and NOT to stick the earring that he’d found (and then was playing with in his mouth) through the hole he’d stuck in his ear or he’d end up with an infection. Whether I thought I wanted to or not, it looks like I’m parenting them. I’m still a little bit in shock over that. They’re big enough that they don’t require me to do much, but I’ve still been amazed at how big the responsibility is and how tired it leaves me. I’ve realized something through it though. It’s worth it. These little boys, who I didn’t even know 3 weeks ago, make my days more full. Full of laughter, full of joy, full of meal time conversations, and horsing around in the living room (also full of stress and questions about discipline and guiding two growing boys and a larger grocery bill). In the short time they’ve been with us, they’ve affected me more than students I had for years have. And I think I’ve had a chance to influence them more than I have my students.

I don’t know how long we’ll have the privilege and responsibility to parent B and C. But I’m happy they’re with us. I’m happy for the perspective they’ve given me on parenting. And I’m hopeful that someday not only will I have the chance to parent, but the chance to BE a parent.

Scandalous

And one of the Pharisees asked him to eat with him, and he went into the Pharisee’s house and took his place at the table. And behold, a woman of the city, who was a sinner, when she learned that he was reclining at the table in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster flask of ointment, and standing behind him at his feet, weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears and wiped them with the hair of her head and kissed his feet and anointed them with the ointment.

A woman of the city who was a sinner.

Can you imagine her? I can. I walked past her on my way to take the bus to church that morning, standing in doorways, waiting, fishnet stockings and heels, a thong and a shirt so low cut the only thing you don’t see are her nipples, a mesh dress over nothing.

Imagine her, this woman of the city, showing up at your pastor’s house, causing a scene, crying and wiping her tears away with her hair.

And he said to her “Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

Scandalous grace.

While he was in one of the cities, there came a man full of leprosy. And when he saw Jesus, he fell on his face and begged him, “Lord, if you will, you can make me clean.”

I don’t know any lepers. But I know who we treat the same way- untouchable, unclean, someone to walk away from. Here, the very word that’s used to describe them shows how they are valued, desechables, disposables. A pile of rags and a garbage bag shifts. I notice the shoe sticking out at the bottom of the pile. Not a pile of rags after all. A homeless man who has covered himself to escape the cold.

And Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, saying, “I will; be clean”.

Scandalous love.

The other morning, I got a call from Sara. She was distressed. “There’s a little boy here. He’s sleeping on the street. There’s something wrong with him. I don’t know what to do”

She did what Jesus did. She reached out and touched him. Helped him put his shoes on. His feet were too swollen and cracked to walk so she stopped a taxi. The first 6 drove away as soon as they saw who she was with- a boy dressed in nothing but a bag. While she waited for the Other Way to open she bought him bread and hot chocolate and listened to his story. He was kicked out of his house when he was 4, he’s been living on the streets since then. He’s 12 now, addicted to drugs and hardened by 8 years of life on the streets. He was picked up and sent to a foundation once and lived there for a year, but he ran away. He wasn’t used to being told what to do. He felt closed in.

He slept on the ministry bus all day, dry and safe. But when everyone left for the day, he asked to be dropped off again where Sara picked him up. She prays for him and keeps looking for him, for another chance to show God’s scandalous love, a love that looks past the dirtiness, brokenness, and addiction and sees a little boy.

Jesus was not a model member of society. He hung out with the despised and rejected. He ate with the oppressor and the oppressed. A corrupt official who took bribes. A woman who had a string of unhealthy relationships and was living with her boyfriend. An officer from the occupying army.

Scandalous love. Scandalous grace. Scandalous mercy.

I’m not comfortable with scandalous. I like acceptance. I like to be approved. But more than that, I want to follow Jesus. I’m trying to learn to show grace, love, and mercy, even if it can sometimes be seen as scandalous.

So when Sara and I left the grocery store the other day with our 2 Colombian charges and she heard someone mutter “lesbian gringas” I just laughed (and wondered what they would have assumed about us if Sara’s husband had come along too).

If you are insulted for the name of Christ, you are blessed, because the Spirit of Glory and of God rests upon you 1 Peter 4:14