God Speaks for the Silent Man

I’ve been planning on writing this blog since I first saw the headline about the earthquake in Haiti last Tuesday morning. Somehow, anything that I had to say didn’t seem adequate enough (and still isn’t), so I remained quiet. John Carl updated his blog today. His insight and heart never ceases to amaze me. As usual, his words really resonated with me, and helped me put a lot of what I have been thinking and feeling the past week into words, albeit failing ones. Before you continue reading here, I suggest you follow the link to his blog. Much of what I want to say begins there.

When I first heard the news about the earthquake that devastated Haiti, a country already devastated by poverty, governmental corruption, and non-existent natural resources, I felt sorry for the people, I wondered why it happened, I even immediately donated ten dollars to the Red Cross, but I never once felt a sense of solidarity with those who were suffering a boat ride away. Empathy was nowhere to be found.

The next day, I moved from slight feelings of sympathy and confusion to anger. Not anger at the situation. And certainly not anger at Haiti. I was angry with Pat Robertson for comments he made about the Haitian people (If you don’t know what I’m referring to here you go http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0VLrZlfPZY ). No, I wasn’t just angry with Pat Robertson. I was angry with Pat Robertson and every other extreme Christian fundamentalist that ever directed his ignorance at people who didn’t look, believe and behave just as he did. I had my knock out, theological punch ready for ol’ Pat. “Every idle word which we think so little of betrays our lack of respect for our neighbor and shows that we place ourselves on a pinnacle above him and value our own lives higher than his” (Bonhoeffer). Then, I realized I was being extreme. And ignorant. And hypocritical. And damn.

Thursday night there was a collective prayer service at the Wesley Foundation for Haiti. Maybe it was the power of collective prayer. Maybe it was the silence and freedom from all distraction coming before the Father at a complete loss for words and action. Regardless of what it was, for the first time my heart began to actually break for Haiti (so much that I called Mom and begged her to adopt a Haitian baby, but that’s another story…). And for America. And for all of the people in the world who are unjustly suffering in whatever capacity that may be. And thanks be to God.

Slowly it began to dawn on me, even though I’ve always known and felt this but somehow temporarily had forgotten it, that we all breathe the same air. We all let look at the same sun and let it’s warmth and brightness flood our faces. We all gaze into the same nighttime sky and find ourselves in a place far away from whatever troubles we face. It’s when we remember these things that we have the capacity to feel each other’s pain and joy. It’s when we remember these things that we are able to join in solidarity with one another despite dichotomies of countries, cultures, theologies or ideologies.

That brings us to today. Today, I was on Facebook and saw the following status of a friend:

“Haiti is without a government. To help out, I'm donating one Obama, one Pelosi, one Reid, one Frank, one Coakley, and two Clintons! They may keep them permanently and keep the change! I'd give them a Constitution; but I can't find mine right now!”

If you know me at all, it’s obvious that our ideologies and theologies completely differ. That’s ok. What’s not ok, is that people are suffering. People not much unlike you and me. It's not the time to bring the divisive, hopeless politics of our country into a hopeless situation. Maybe if we all, as Christians, committed to empathy with the poor and suffering, our politics wouldn't be quite so divisive. I was then struck by a thought. The pictures of the victims of Haiti barely differ at all from those of the victims of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. It’s time to stand in solidarity in one another. It’s time to not look at our differences, but at all that we share in common. It’s time that we look at the world’s poor and suffering, our silent neighbors, and join with them in intercession. It’s time we look in the mirror and no at the core of things we’re not very different.

Below is a video of the victims of Haiti and New Orleans. I won’t label what pictures are from which location. After all, it doesn’t matter.

So what do we do now? We can pray like Jesus taught us to. We can pray for peace. We can pray for the kingdom to come and the Father's will to be done. We can join in solidarity with our the poor and the hurting.

And we can remember in the words of Barbara Kinsolver, "God speaks for the silent man."

Peace and love.

The Third Way

It’s 8:00 a.m. After an hour of looking at spreadsheets, working math problems, and drinking two cups of coffee, I decided to take a break from the seemingly never ending work of graduate school and blog.

Most mornings, I try to read for pleasure for a while before I dive into the world of economic theory and linear and matrix algebra. I’ve been chewing on Walter Wink’s The Powers That Be for a while now. Wink focuses on the “powers” that dictate our world and calls for nonviolent opposition to those powers carefully not confusing nonviolence with pacifism. According to Wink, Jesus abhors both passivity and violence. Jesus articulates out of his own experiences a way that evil can be opposed without it being mirrored or emulated.

Philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche warned, “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.”

The following is an excerpt from Wink’s book regarding the previous quote:

“Over and over we have failed to recognize this truth. In its resistance to Hitler, the United States became a militarized society. IN its opposition to communism, the U.S. was willing to incinerate the world as its opponents. To keep communism from spreading to Africa, Asia, or Latin America, the U.S. felt it had to move in with its troops, or manipulate elections, or unseat legitimately elected regimes, or assassinate leftist leaders. (If you’re still not sure if you believe this, check out Overthrow by Kinser or Our Own Backyard by LeoGrande. I own both, so feel free to borrow.) To fend off revolution in client states, The U.S. beefed up and trained local police and soldiers, only to watch the military itself become the gravest threat to democracy in one country it supported after another. To counter Soviet espionage, the U.S. created a spy network; to make sure that no one cooperated with the enemy, it spied on its own citizens. “You always become the thing you want to fight the most,” wrote Carl Jung, and the United States has done everything in its power to prove him right.”

Now, the purpose of that excerpt was not to make U.S. bashing the focus of this post. It is, however, a relevant example to all reading this. Becoming the things we hate as a result of fighting is relevant to any “monster” in our life. Not just big purported national security issues.

I think it’s funny how life lessons seem to repeat themselves in various unrelated aspects. I was sitting in my microeconomics class yesterday drawing one graph after another, when my professor began going off on one of his infamous tangents. We were talking about various utility functions (better known as the measure of what makes us the happiest as consumers), and he used the example of killing someone. Now, everyone in the classroom agreed that we would not kill someone for $50 dollars. Receiving $50 dollars was not worth the labor, mental distress, and other variables that killing someone would entail for everyone in the class. However, many people in the class said they would kill someone if the situation were changed. Maybe that situation is protecting loved ones, or saving a city from a vicious attack. The only difference between the killing for $50 and the other situations is price. The people willing to kill to save loved ones, for instance, are still willing to kill – just at a higher price. The people still were willing to become the thing they originally hated only it cost more. My professor concluded this example by saying, “All morals are for sell if the price is high enough.”

So, why this topic for a post? As I read people like Wink and Shane Claiborne, and as I hear the life stories of people like Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Leo Tolstoy and Dorothy Day, I think that they were onto something. The way of nonviolence, the way Jesus chose, is the only way to overcome evil without creating more evil. To continue with the economics theme, there’s always a trade-off. Jesus was creative and very active in his dealings with the evils of the world. Maybe we would do well to do the same, to not be violent, to not be passive, but to choose a third way complete with a little love and a lot of peace.

With that, school is calling.

Peace and love to all of you!

Lessons Learned

The post to conclude my summer has finally arrived. Apologies to all of you who kept pressing me to write it and had to wait so long (Pop). I could tell you that the reason for my delay in concluding the summer was because I’ve been extremely busy, and that is partly true. The real reason, however, is I’m not sure that I have much worthwhile to say.

The second half of the summer was vastly different from the first. We didn’t have as many over night groups stay with us. If we did, they were small. This proved to be both good and bad. It was good because the lack of pre-teen presence in my life allowed my nerves and patience to regenerate in time for graduate school. It was bad because John Carl and I found ourselves pretty bored at night. We filled the time with lots of CSI, Arrested Development, and reading a lot. I plan to post some of the books I read in a later blog.

So what exactly did I learn this summer? I’m still piecing it all together. I learned how connected we all are. As I sat at Highlands United Methodist one morning talking to Tamera, a mother of two trying to overcome an addiction to prescription drugs given to her after she had been raped, I learned more about Michael Jackson’s life and death than I could have ever imagined. Tamera also talked to me about how hard it was to get help when you have an addiction in Alabama. I was aware of the difficulty, but hearing her struggles first hand made me realize the severity of the situation. When I left Highlands that morning, I found myself being surprised that I would learn so much information from a woman struggling to stay off of the streets and keep food on the table for her two children and a number of her nieces and nephews. A few days later I realized how silly it was of me to be surprised. We are all connected and can learn from one another no matter what our individual situations are. Tamera made true Adah’s statement in The Poisonwood Bible, “We are our injuries as much as we are our successes.”

I learned a lot about love. Watching and talking to the people that work at Urban Ministry and other ministry oriented places in Birmingham, Gregory Boyd’s words from The Myth of a Christian Nation rang true in my head. “Love, not religiosity is the defining mark of the kingdom of God.” I’m thankful for the people I was surrounded by this summer and for the example of love and bringing the kingdom to earth they set. Through them, in the words of Anne Lamott, “I have learned that most of the time, all you have is the moment and the imperfect love of people.” No statement is truer for the things I experienced this summer.

Mostly, though, I learned to be thankful. Thankful for the experiences I had and people I encountered this summer. Thankful for God’s grace in the lives of his children. Thankful for the glimpses of the kingdom on earth that we are blessed to see through the simplest things. Thankful for the opportunity to add the experiences of this summer to my life’s story.

“To live is to be marked. To live is to change, to acquire the words of a story…”

-- Orleanna, The Poisonwood Bible

Life Is a Beach

I’ve been at the beach for a week. I must say that it was much different (obviously) than being in West End and was a bit of an adjustment at first. Last Saturday morning I woke up, made some coffee, and sat on the screened-in porch to read like I do every morning. This morning was different. Instead of the usual, low hum of the air conditioner and occasional screeching tire, my reading time was accompanied by the steady popping of a tennis ball as it was volleyed back and forth over the net. Call me crazy, but for a second I actually missed being in West End.

The last week at Urban was great. There is an alternating pattern of good and bad weeks beginning to form. The group this week was from Decatur. They were the only group and there were only 20 kids, so it was a nice reprieve. My group worked at Ms. Mac’s house.

Ms. Mac was recently diagnosed with cancer. Her prognosis is not very promising. She has one daughter, Terrica. Terrica just graduated from high school in the top of her class. She will be going to UAB in the fall on a full scholarship. When I pulled up to Ms. Mac’s house, I was surprised. I’m used to seeing low-end houses. If they weren’t low-end, we wouldn’t be working on them most likely, but Ms. Mac’s house made the others look like those in Mountain Brook. Okay, so that was an exaggeration, but you get the contrast.

None of the windows fully meet the walls of Ms. Mac’s house. The front door has a five-inch gap between the door and frame that I could peer straight through while I was painting the trim. Her floor is rotten. Every day she is worried that the floor in her bedroom might cave in. Ms. Mac is predominately bed ridden, so this is obviously a huge problem. Until two weeks ago, there was no comfortable way for her to get in and out of her house. After her watching her struggle down the ramp that a group built her in lots of pain, I couldn’t imagine what she did before. Her car looks like it might kill over and stop running at any second.

Despite all of these problems, we painted Ms. Mac’s house “hyper blue.” If you’re wondering what color hyper blue is, grab the next smurf you see and cut off its air supply for about thirty seconds. That’s the color of hyper blue. To Ms. Mac, hyper blue is a happy color.

As the group was finishing for the week on Thursday, Ms. Mac sat outside and talked to us for a little while. She talked about how much faith she had in God and how that faith was made manifest in Terrica’s scholarship because she could see no way possible to pay for her college tuition. She talked about how thankful she was for the group and for Urban and that she knew that God would answer her prayers for help.

As I sat on the beach later Saturday afternoon, I couldn’t help but become silently angry at some of the people around me – the people who were at the beach, taking a break from life for a week and still complaining because someone else’s umbrella was obstructing their view. I wish Ms. Mac could take a break from life – a break from the chemo, the worries, the struggle and the pain. But, something tells me Ms. Mac wouldn’t accept a break. You see, Ms. Mac is one of those people that can find the good and the blessings in the most bleak of situations. She’s a special lady.

I’m sure by now some of you think that my view of West End and the people that live there has become overly romanticized as I write about this summer. That’s not true. I know that there are both the merciful and merciless in West End. A few weeks ago, a homeless man approached me as I was walking into the local CVS. He asked me for money because he was hungry and assured me that he wasn’t going to buy drugs with it. “I can’t give you any money,” I told him, “but I’ll buy you some food if you tell me what you want.” “ Can you buy me some chicken down there from the KFC,” he asked. “I don’t see a KFC, but I’ll go get you a burger and some fries from that McDonald’s across the street.” “Can I ride with you,” he replied. “No you can’t ride with me, but if you wait right here I’ll bring whatever you want right back,” I promised. “Well, can I have a drink,” he asked beginning to look defeated. “Yes, you can have a drink. What do you want?” I answered. He thought for about twenty seconds and said, “No, I don’t want no food, I don’t want no food…” He hung his head as he walked away.

I don’t know if he wanted drugs or why he wanted to get in the car to go get his food. Maybe he did want drugs and want to hurt me. Maybe he didn’t.

A week earlier I walked into the same CVS to get a picture printed off at the photo station. As is the case in most places I walk into in West End, I was the only white person in the store. When I walked up to the photo desk to pay for my things, it was clear that the woman behind the counter was not thrilled to be helping me or at my presence in the store. I know this because the opposite was true for the black woman that was in line behind me. I left feeling offended and a little sad.

By the end of the week, I found myself starting to get a little restless and bored with the beach. (Not that it wasn’t relaxing and great!) Life is not a beach, and as great as vacations at the beach are, it’s the laughter, and the tears, and the trials, and the joys of everyday, mundane life that makes us feel alive. It’s the ability to see situations for what they are, without putting on rose-colored glasses, and learn from them. It’s knowing that being white does not mean good and being black does not mean bad (and vise versa). It’s knowing at the end of the day, even if you are on vacation, there is more to life that complaining about the umbrella that is obstructing our view – whatever that umbrella may be.

It’s now Saturday again, and a new group comes tomorrow. I’m excited to get back to West End, my home for the summer. Paz y amor!

Worlds Collide

This week had a much different dynamic than the past two. One group was from a church in Murfreesboro, TN and the other two were from Community Church Without Walls and East Lake, two inner-city Birmingham churches. When the groups pulled up, I immediately became nervous about how they would all interact with one another.

Unfortunately, I felt like I had been transported back to the 1960’s on the first night when after the evening program was done there was a very clear line down the middle of the room separating the groups into the white kids and the black kids. I became even more discouraged when during evening programming on the next night the youth minister from Murfreesboro completely turned his back and ignored a groups of inner city kids when the groups were told to combine into one larger group.

On Monday I went with a group to Highlands United Methodist Church in Five Points. We served nearly 140 homeless individuals bagels, coffee, fruit, and juice. Highlands has a wonderful homeless ministry and is doing great things to reach out to the homeless population in Birmingham. Volunteers serve breakfast six days a week at 9 a.m. There is also a clothes closet where people can get clothes as well as a laundry service where people can have a load of laundry done every week. Because many do not have a permanent address, people can choose to have their mail delivered to the church. Highlands also has an I.D. ministry. They help people who are homeless and no longer have documents such as a birth certificate or social security card get a new copy. Without these documents it is impossible to get into many treatment programs or get many available jobs.

Even though getting to serve breakfast was a humbling experience, getting to sit down and talk with many of the individuals was even more humbling. The first man I met was a man named Herman. Herman reminded me of Nathaniel Ayers, the main character in the movie The Soloist. Herman and Nathanial are both rather eccentric in their choice of clothing. Herman had on short, colorful shorts that reminded me of something a professional wrestler might wear. Combine that with the British flag tied around his waist, over-sized leather vest, and shin-high leather wrappings on his legs and you've got a Nathaniel look alike. I’m not sure if he’s ever been diagnosed, but Herman spoke in long, unrelated sentences as if he too was schizophrenic like Nathaniel. After hearing about his wife, eight children, and how much he hated Birmingham, I left Herman to continue his job of making sure no one stole the sugar canisters at the coffee table. He took his job very seriously.

If you haven’t seen The Soloist, I highly recommend it. Here’s the link to the trailer. http://www.soloistmovie.com/

After getting the scoop on Herman’s life story, I talked with Kesha and Raquel. Kesha looked to be in her mid fifties, Raquel in her late twenties. We talked about the weather and other surfaced things. As we talked different people would walk by. “That’s my nephew,” Kesha would say. “That’s my brother,” Raquel would point out. I guess the confusion on my face was evident because Raquel turned to me and explained that everyone who lives on the streets is family. “On the streets, we really are family. We take care of one another. If one of us gets something that other people need, we share it. It’s not like the corporate world where people say, ‘That’s my doctor, my co-worker, my lawyer.’ On the streets we call each other brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers. Sometimes I think we’re the lucky ones.”

I heard story after story of spending time in jail and being released only to find that everything had changed and there was nowhere for them to return. I heard stories of drug addictions, sleeping in doorways, and being assaulted by police officers just because they looked like drug addicts. The morning ended with two men playing the piano and flute together. For a moment, it seemed not like 140 homeless men and women surrounded me but that the world was exactly like God intended it to be. “Let the fellowship of Christ examine itself and see whether it has given any token of the love of Christ to the victims of the world’s contumely and contempt, any token of that love which seeks to preserve, support, and protect life,” says Bonhoeffer. I thank God for Highlands United Methodist church being a body willing to respond to a need, err on the side of grace, and be a people of faith instead of fear.

Later Monday afternoon we began work on Mr. Chambers house. Mr. Chambers is a recluse who suffers from seizures and is afraid to get behind the wheel of a car for fear of hurting himself or someone else. He rarely leaves his home. He looks a bit like the Unabomber, but I assure you their personalities are completely different.

For programming on Monday night we did a poverty exercise. In the United States, the poverty threshold for a family of four (including two children) is $21, 834. The goal of the exercise was for the kids to try and make a budget for various, unconventional families with a poverty threshold income. Many of the kids from West End and East Lake were from families much like the ones in the exercise. It was good for the kids from Murfreesboro and Birmingham to work together in the exercise and for their worlds to collide.

For information on poverty in Alabama visit www.alabamapoverty.org. Be sure to check out the facts and myths section! (P.S. – Alabama is the only state that has a tax on food – 4%. We tax our poor, but that’s another blog entirely.)

That night, the Berlin Wall again erected itself in the middle of the common room. After a fight had been broken up between Eric, a 4’10’’ 160 pound boy, and LaQuisha, a 5’11” 200 pound girl, one of the boys from East lake asked their leader as he looked across the forbidden line, “Don’t you sometimes wish you had a group like them, Cheryl?” She looked at him and said, “No! I had that once, and I chose you.” She had tears in her eyes when she told me the story. I don’t think I will every meet someone with more grace, patience and silent strength as Cheryl.

By Wednesday, my frustration and anger with the youth minister from Murfreesboro had become almost debilitating. His lack of interaction with and love for the kids from Birmingham had pushed me to my edge. Then I realized I was becoming idealistic, and I was no better than him. I didn’t love him the way I wanted him to love the Birmingham kids. It’s a dangerous place to be when you think you’ve got Christianity, love, and grace figured out. It’s as if we are equating ourselves to God when we do that. In a way, it’s easier for me to love the homeless man or the small child from West End than it is for me to love the privileged youth minister from suburbia. Yes, God calls us to love “the least of these,” but in doing that I don’t think he intended us to forget about those who have more in this life. So, I now step off of my ivory tower because when you’re up that high, there’s nothing left to do but fall.

Christianity knows no borders or people groups. In the words of Rob Bell, “We see all of the differences first, and only later, maybe, do we begin to see the similarities. There should be only one label: human. And, there should be only one response: love. With every action, comment, or gesture we are inviting either heaven or hell to earth regardless of whom we encounter.

One more week, and I’m beach bound. Peace and love.

Jesus Lives in West End

Week two has come and gone. We had three groups this time. The difference in the kids this week was like night and day. They all arrived around the same time Sunday afternoon. After dinner, orientation, and a couple games of Egyptian Rat Slap (a card game), I could tell we were in for not just a productive work week but a productive growing week as well.

We started work on Ms. Gibson's house on Monday. She is a woman in her late forties to early fifties. She lost her job as a result of the poor economic times. She was recently elected president of her neighborhood and had a beautiful garden that brought a sense of hope and brightness to her otherwise run down street. As we pulled up to her house, a red bird flew in front of my windshield. It reminded me of my Gran and gave me a feeling of affirmation in what I have chosen to do this summer. Gran loved red birds. I miss that woman. I miss the sight of her hands - arthritic ridden and curled as though she was constantly holding on to an imaginary something. I miss the sound of her voice and the feeling of love and belonging I had when she called me "Sweets." I miss her smell. She always smelled so clean as if she had just applied non-scented lotion not minutes before. Sometimes when I'm home, I'll catch a faint lingering of her scent. I always pause for a moment to allow myself to fully inhale the clean scent that was once hers.

I tell that antecdote to attempt to describe the woman my grandmother was. I'm thankful for the red bird I saw that day not just for the nostalgic feeling and sense of purpose it gave me but for the reminder of the importance of grace and hope it gave me after the last frustrating week. Never had there been a woman filled with so much kindness and grace towards people and hope for the future like my Gran.

We made fabulous progress the first day on the site, and my group was determined to finish the house by the end of the week after seeing how much they had accomplished in one day.

On Tuesday night, Michael spoke about his life growing up during the Civil Rights movement and his struggle with drugs. He talked about being arrested multiple times for marching and protesting in Birmingham. He talked about first becoming addicted to marijuana and then moving to more hard core subsintences. "Life will probably be a struggle until the day that I die," he said. When he bagan to talk about his children and being addicted to drugs when they were younger he started to choke up. It was his daughter that finally pushed him to get help. With tears in his eyes he told us that she looked at him one day and said, "Daddy, I'm tired of people saying bad things about you. When are you going to wake up?" With that, he got help from a local church and lived there for eight months while getting clean. He and the pastor then formed a program that 1,400 drug addicts came through to get help. Michael helped lead the program and every one of them in their struggle to recover. Dietrich Bonhoeffer says in his book The Cost of Discipleship, "As Christ bears our burdens so ought we bear the burdens of our fellow men." Michael is the perfect example of one who is filled with grace and lovingly lets that grace overflow to others through the bearing of their burdens.

Michael used to sing in various gospel groups. He still loves to sing. After his talk, with tears still in his eyes, he sang a song. As he sang, he stood with such a commanding confidence that not an eye could look from him. The tears then transferred from his eyes to my own.

By Wednesday, most of the big work on Ms. Gibson's house had been completed except for small trim and touchup work. When we brought her outside to show her the look of pure joy and appreciation on her face was indescribable. She bought small thank you gifts or all of the kids and gave the group a beautiful wall hanging and card. In the words of one of my favorite authors, Geraldine Brooks, "And so, as it generally happens, those who have most give least, and those with less somehow make shrift to share."

On Thursday, I took my group to the community garden, a garden in the middle of West End where people can come work for an hour or so in exchange for fresh produce. Families can also rent small plots and grow their own food. Fresh produce is hard to find in West End.

Jesus lives in West End. I saw him on Thursday. Her name is Tamisha. As I dropped my group off at the community garden some of the kids from the Urban Kids Program, an enrichment program for 25 urban children during the school year and summer, were walking towards the building. Tamisha and I were about five feet away from each other when I got out of my truck. As soon as she saw me, her face lit up with pure joy. She gave me one of the biggest, most heart-felt hugs I have ever received in my life. I had never met Tamisha until that day, but the love that she looked at me with and hugged me with was unmatchable.

Later that night I was thinking about Tamisha and our encounter. I had done nothing to deserve such an act of love and kindness from Tamisha. I had never even met her until that day, but she showed me a kind of love in that one hug and five minutes we spent together that is rarely felt. I think that is what Jesus was getting at when he said, "Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." The older we get, the harder it seems to become to show people unwarranted love. I'm thankful for Tamisha, not for just the love she showed me but for the lesson she taught me.

Whereas my last post was more about grace, this one is more about love - the love that we receive and don't deserve and the love that we possess but fail to give. That's my goal for the next week - to flood these groups and West End with pure, unwarranted love.

With that said, I love all of you! Peace.

And So It Begins

Apologies to those of you who have read this in an e-mail. After sending and resending the same e-mail at least ten times last night, I thought this would be a bit more efficient to keep all that care updated on my summer.

We don't have internet connection in West End, so the updates might be sporadic at best. Regardless, I hope you enjoy.

I started work at the Joe Rush Center for Urban Missions, a program run by Urban Ministry, two weeks ago. For those of you who are still a little unsure what exactly it is I'm doing this summer, let me explain. Urban Ministry is a Methodist based ministry in West End, Alabama. West End is a municipality of Birmingham. It is the poorest municipality in the Birmingham area, only one in four households have a car, and 80 percent of released prisoners live there. All of that being said, Urban strives to help people in West End both in the short and long term. From a hot kitchen, to a community garden, to helping residents pay bills when life hasn't exactly worked out as they might have hoped, Urban Ministry is caring for the least of these just like ol' Jesus Christ calls us to do.

Anyone that gets off at the Birmingham Southern exit will tell you, "Don't turn right when you leave campus." Turning right leads to West End. Single mother homes, drugs, and violence are the way of life. Emergency sirens and screeching tires are the melody of the lullaby that soothes West End to sleep. Why is it this way? I think it's a mixture of things. It's partly a result of not being able to live in harmony with one another and white backlash from the Civil Rights era. I'll spare you all my tangent on that one. Mostly, however, it's a lack of love and grace. I have hope, though. Hope that better things are in store for West End and places like it. As Jim Wallis says, "History is most changed by social movements with a spiritual foundation."

My job will be working with the Joe Rush Center leading different groups in painting houses every week. The first week was spent training, receiving first aide and CPR certification, and painting a shed with John Carl and Michael. MIchael is a full-time employee at Urban who is a recovering drug addict and alcoholic. He just turned 64 and is full of life, love, and most profoundly grace. His stories, at times, are hard to listen to. After each one, I'm thankful to have heard it. It makes the situation in West End real to me.

This past week we had our first group. I didn't realize long it had been since I had been around a group of junior high students until their energy and attitudes became almost unbearable by the last night. My group worked hard for the most part. We completely repainted a house in two days. Painting houses all too often feels like we're just putting a Band-Aid over larger problems. I can only pray that a new clean exterior gives people hope. Hope is contagious, after all.

I found myself getting frustrated very quickly. The kids this week were blatantly disrespectful for everything and everyone but themselves. I was constantly wondering why they had even bothered to come. From pushing each other out of the way to be the first in line for dinner, to having no motivation on the job site, to talking about one another behind each other's backs, my frustration mounted as each day passed. I don't know that I was so much frustrated at them as I was the situation. I felt like everything I had said and done the past week had fallen on deaf ears and none of it really mattered.

Then, I not only began to question why they had come but why I had. I didn't come to Urban to paint a house every two days or even to try to instill compassion and servitude in young teens - though both are a great bonus. I came to give and receive grace and love. So what if the kids attitudes were terrible? That's my opportunity to love a little harder and show someone a little mercy and grace. Did I do that well this week? Not at all. In fact, I nicknamed one of the girls Queen Bitch in my head. She thought she was a queen. I thought she was a bitch. All of that aside, I can only hope they saw a little bit of Jesus in me, that I will be more freely giving of grace, mercy, and love next week, and that Ms. Bailey, as dilapidated as her house still is on the inside, now has a little bit of hope.

So what are the themes of this post? You got it. Love, hope, and grace. That's the theme of this post. That's the theme of the summer.

Love and peace to all of you!