Picking Up Crazy on Benton Road
Picking up Crazy on Benton Road
Some things are just funny. It’s not a making fun of people kind of funny, or an outlandish coincidence kind of funny. It is just funny.
Driving home from Street Church, two of the Katies and I were having a deep conversation on the state of the homeless in NW LA. As we passed by a church that was just ending their Saturday afternoon service, an elder woman was walking away from the church. She had on a pink fuzzy sweater. Did I mention that it was 94 degrees and nearly 100% humidity, and rain was beginning to fall? She wore a purple skirt and a pink tightly knitted cap. On her feet were the biggest, fluffiest pair of hot pink slippers ever made.
I had to pull over and stop. I ran back to her. She did not seem surprised that I had stopped, almost if she was expecting me. I asked if we could give her a ride, she looked at me as if it was a stupid and obvious question. She was just going up the road… to the bingo palace. I helped her into the car.
A red van pulled over behind us. Out comes another woman to talk to the hot pink slipper woman, she wanted to give her a ride. “I’ve already gotten up in this car, I’ll just ride with these women.” The 2nd woman finally tells pink slippers that she’s her brother-in-law’s wife. After a short little family reunion, off we go to the bingo palace.
On the way, pink slippers explained to us that because 2 people tried to pick her up, it’s a sign from God that she’s going to win. In the five miles to the palace, pink slippers entertained us with a bizarre conversation about how God works through bingo.
Sometimes I think we want to see God in places He’d rather not be taken. I can’t imagine God looking for “B-8” nor can I imagine Him in some the swankier places I go. Maybe we all wear pink fuzzy slippers and walk down Benton Road sometimes taking God where He’d does not want to go. And maybe we all make wild claims about God’s character and His ways.
We might have picked up crazy in pink slippers on Benton Road, but for sure, God was in the car that day!
not complaining, just pondering
Mother’s Day. There are some days that I do not like. And I almost feel guilty for saying this but Mother’s Day is one of them. Each year, I celebrate thru April, grasping on each day so that it lasts until the very last drop. Then May comes with the jasmine smell deluding me into thinking that this year, Mother’s day will be different and I’ll be able to put away my dislike of the day and truly enjoy it. Don’t get me wrong. I love being with my kids- they’re the best and spoil me completely. And although most years find Paul with his mom on the day, he knows my love language is diamonds-or any other surprisingly wonderful gift!
The problem is that deep inside I find the whole day a little forced. It’s like people are forced to appreciate and honor their moms on this one day so on the rest of the days they can make fun of, take advantage of, and generally neglect. Doesn’t that seem a little weird, or is just me? Now, I’m not saying my family does that, not at all… although they do enjoy a good joke on mom! Just in general it seems like most moms are stretched pretty thin, even on Mother’s Day.
One mother told me, she was tired of the stress that Mother’s Day causes her. She’s never had one that was focused on her. She spends the day cooking for her mom, finding the perfect mother-in-law’s gift, and now making sure her children get to enjoy their mother’s day. She’s sandwiched between mothers. What she’d really like is a little peace and quiet, a day of no expectations. Wow, what would that be like? Can’t imagine, and I’m a pretty creative person.
I think my problem is that I like authenticity. I like emotions that come from a deep and special place from within. I like days to be treasured because of the spontaneity of emotions and connections. I want honoring a mother to be authentic, and coming on a random day of special meaning- like my kids’ birthday. That’s my real mother’s day, the day out of the year I feel most a mother. When my heart almost bursts with joy as I celebrate the people who’s birth most changed my life. Without them, I wouldn’t be a mother.
Maybe we’ve got this all wrong. Maybe we should celebrate mothers on the anniversaries of their children. And maybe we should celebrate birthdays on Mother’s Day, showing appreciation for making us mothers. Hummm, wonder if the same thing would work for Father’s Day?
Compass Man; Cowboy Haircut
I talked to a homeless man whose story reminded me of a compass spinning around the globe out of control. He had a cowboy haircut. In jumps and dives, he told one story of going to Iraq, coming home a broken man, making mistakes. His meth-cracked teeth told another story. I asked if he was sober. He stopped his stuttering story and asked what I meant. He denied any addictions. The denial signaled a new level of trying to sell the victimized broken man story. He ramped up the pressure when he asked if he could be baptized. He threw in a story of a girlfriend who belonged to our church. In the true sense of any good country music song, the girl left him high and dry this week.
His desperation left me exhausted. The compassion in me was extinguished by this lies. I found myself wondering what had happened to me. Once home, I did some thinking. I came to an understanding. I was physically and emotionally numb. My senses had become overloaded and stuffed. I was swollen with thoughts that needed to be flung out into the world and exercised. I needed to write. I was created to write. Writing keeps me grounded and safe. When I don’t write I become talkative and dangerous. Too talkative. Scary because words spoken easily become little darts and arrows. When I am exhausted I sling words around carelessly. Writing makes me careful, measured.
I am writing to prevent myself from becoming like the man with the spinning compass. I’m writing because when I write the ideas grow into a power I could never generate.
Max, clubs, and the Panama Canal
Max is gone. We don’t know where. Paul’s confident he’ll be back.
Max adopted Paul 11 years ago. Paul found him lounging in the bed of his truck two days in a row. Paul told Max if he was there the next day, he was taking him home. Max was there, ready to meet his new family. We never knew where he came from, how old he was, or the circumstances that brought him to the truck. Max is the smartest dog that was ever created. He understands language, knows how to manipulate his family. I wonder if he’s grown bored with us and has found another family that needs him more. Max likes to be needed. And lately the dog next door has been a major pain in Max’s life. Max is getting old, he doesn’t tolerate ignorance any more.
Max is Paul’s first dog. I remember my first dog, King. My uncle Toby ran over him in our driveway at our pink house. He cried. I was 4. I told him not to cry because my Dad could fix anything, he’d fix King. I have that same feeling about Paul. He can fix anything, even a missing dog.
I did think my Dad could do anything back then, but my opinion change. I became more realistic. This weekend was spent painting his house. I still think of it as his even though legally it belongs to my sisters and me now. (Well, actually we own half- a long and bitter story goes with the other half.) A friend pointed out to me today that we knew each other because we were in the same club. I’ve never been much of a clubber. I even turned down an invite to be a Junior Leaguer… too much of an individual, I guess. But I am a member of this club… a club of adults who have had their life changed by their experiences with a very sick parent. I’m a two time member… believe me there are no special privileges in this club. And its not a club you want to join. This club changes your life, and forces you to a new kind of normal that you never asked for… or wanted. The dues to the club are steep…. I wish I wasn’t a two time member.
There’s something else that I wish… I wish I was going to the Panama Canal tomorrow. Our friends Penne and Rory are. The canal makes me think of Teddy Roosevelt, he was an adventurer. So was the guy (Mark Childress) who wrote “Crazy in Alabama” which by the way is not about my family. He loved the Panama Canal so much he moved from Monroeville, Al to Costa Rica. That’s adventure- especially when you consider he went from his momma working at the Vanity Fair sewing mill to living in Costa Rica. He wrote another book about an alternative universe that occupied a physical space in Costa Rica. In this universe, Amelia Earhart lived next to Marilyn Monroe. Characters from all the world’s greatest mysteries were represented. I imagine floating through the canal and catching glimpses from his universe.
The canal opened in 1914, almost 100 years ago. It’s hard to imagine the hughness of the task, or the willingness to take the risk to build such a big ditch. It took people with imagination and a desire to be a part of something bigger than themselves.
Maybe there’s a connection with the club and the Panama Canal. Facing the illness of a parent- whether you have a close, comfy cozy relationship or not- is as huge a task as building the canal. It takes some engineering, some imagination, and a sense of adventure to survive. And it takes a lot of people working together. A club. Knowing you are not attempting the task alone. Someone else has gone before you and understands the unspoken heartaches you feel, the exhaustion, the duplicity you experience.
so I’m a member of a club.
Windmills, Star Wars, Don Quioxte, and West Texas
I’ve always liked windmills. The whole idea of making energy from something so present and so free conjures up a romantic feeling of being green and wise, saving the earth one turn at a time. I think reading about Don Quioxte fighting windmills as if they were dragons might have influenced me more than I thought.
As I rode through west Texas, the windmills changed from being a novelity to a little bit too sci-fi. I began to wonder if they were marching when I wasn’t looking, it was like I could almost catch them moving. The more I tried to catch a movement, the more the windmills looked like the soldiers in Star Wars in their white plastic uniforms. I think maybe my imagination was working a little overtime, or I’ve watched my nephew play his Star Wars game a little too much. It’s a bizarre experience to drive among the windmills all planted in rows like peach trees in an orchard… only much taller.
The center of the windmills are the size of an 18 wheeler. The blades are 3 rail cars long. I’m talking hugely huge! Yet, the wind blows them as if they are the little twirly things you blow to make them spin.
At midnight, I sat rocking on the porch of the retreat center; red lights blinked atop the windmilling monsters. I couldn’t decide it they were preparing for Christmas or signaling to their home planet!
The longer I rocked, my soul became quiet. I could hear God whisper, “its my breathe that gently blows the blades of those giants.” The very breathe of God; creating power from The Ultimate Source of Power. His gentle breathe sets the blades to turning, but does so much more. It sends a refreshing reminder of spring in the last days of winter. It blows away the tears from the broken hearted. And stiffens the resolve the of the weak. The breathe of God blows strong and without fail; unpredictable, a hint of mystery. a mystery that builds a sense of security in knowing that it will always be there.
I remember a few lines from a 2nd grade poem, “the wind comes knocking, knocking, knocking, as it is blowing, blowing, blowing.” Not the best poetry, but the airiness of it is itched on my mind.
The breathe of God comes knocking, knocking, knocking… as the windmills slowly work a pattern across the west Texas sky.
Shoeboxes, Tortillas, and Cardboard
Paul, Emily, Katie, and I went to Juarez, Mexico to distribute Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes. If you’ve watched the news, you know that Juarez is not the spot that most sane people would travel to right now. An average of 2 people per day is being killed there, that’s down from 2.5 people last year. I know; how does someone get half murdered, but it’s just an average. The bizarre thing is we felt safe. We had an armed escort, even some SWAT guys with us. God just protected from us from the knowledge of the danger… He did that by keeping us busy and preoccupied.
Another advantage to the busyness of the trip was that we could not immediately process the condition of the children we were giving the boxes to. If we had, we would have all been so overcome with mercy and compassion, that we wouldn’t have been able to accomplish our task. God does things that way sometimes. But now that we are home the images come crashing back. In a spiritual gifts inventory, I score negative in mercy, but the children of Juarez have yanked out my heart and twisted it a few times.
There are things that are tattooed on my heart and my mind, things I will never forget. Like the two year old boy who walked up the hill to us by himself, no adult in sight. Later we learned, he was “free.” Meaning no parents. Like the mother with 3 children in a stroller, all 3 sick. Like the absent look in the eyes of an eight year old boy, he looked hollow. Or the frightened look in the eyes of the children of the cardboard city- children so used to living a life without hope that they could not image we could be kind and generous.
Here’s what we did: We flew down from Dallas on Thursday to El Paso and crossed a bridge into another world. The difference is thick and poignant. Trash litters every inch. Beggars line the streets, some carrying small children. Vendors hawk their wares to waiting cars. The smell stings your nose. The river is dry so it became a shortcut to the Amigo Fiel compound. We bounced along with other vehicles, dust rising up to form a smudge on the skyline. After 15 minutes for unpacking and using the limited facilities, we board a bus to drive an hour away to the gym where we were to distribute the boxes. It doesn’t take long for all of us to be at work, sweating at the hurried pace. Set up 1200 chairs and empty a trailer truck of boxes. Set up 6 equal stacks of boxes. Exhausted but ready for the next day, it’s an hour back to the compound for a meal of the best guacamole ever and chili pie. We fall into bed an hour before the light’s out time for a sleepless night filled with anticipation of tomorrow.
It’s up at 5:30, breakfast at 6 AM, and off we go back to the gym. Paul, Katie, Emily, and I were to check the wrists of every child for their OCC bracelet. No bracelet meant no shoebox. We’re stationed outside to greet the children. Police officers, EMT’s, and secret service fill the street. We learn the mayor of Juarez is coming. School buses begin to arrive. The mayor arrives. They choose Emily and me along with some other blond and fair people to escort the mayor on stage to demonstrate Mexico and the US working together. There are interviews and lots of picture taking. The children love the mayor, they rush to touch him, it’s like he’s a rock star. He gave 5 children a box and told the children to tell us thank you in English. He had them practice. He departed and the program started.
The program is performed by former street children who are now in the Amigo Fiel program. They sing, dance, and do gymnastics. The kids love it. The program ends with a skit, “The Greatest Gift,” describing the greatest gift anyone can receive, Jesus Christ. 100’s of kids raise their hand in response to the invitation to accept Jesus.
Organized madness best describes the distribution. The rows of chairs are closely spaced. We climb over and squeeze thru tiny little spaces to present a box individually to each child. The eyes tell the story. Some children are afraid to open their boxes around the other children, in fear the contents might get taken, so they barely lift the lid and peak inside. Others tear into the boxes, squealing with delight. The distribution part of the program takes almost an hour, but it seems as if time is stalled. Slow motion. Garbled Spanish conversations. Eyes filled with stories. Little glimpses carved into my mind. And then it’s over.
Clean up and 30 minutes later, we are repeating the process. More stories. More moments with children that are more valuable than time itself. The children leave. We pick up the trash, it’s a disgusting job, but we are still in the zone with the children so we barely notice. Steaming hot burritos arrive from the compound. And then we are off to The Blue House. The Blue House is a refuge for discarded children. Street kids. Some have parents, but it seems disrespectful to all parents to call them as such; alcoholics, drug addicts, and criminals are their parents. These are the kids no one loves or wants, but God. They spend as much time as possible at The Blue House, receiving a hot meal a day, help with homework, a daily Bible study, and a safe place to play. These children are blessed. Amigo Fiel pays for all of these children to go to school (after 5th grade, tuition of $600/year is needed). The Blue House cannot rescue all the disposable children in Juarez. The plan is to build more Blue Houses across the city. The children of The Blue House owned our hearts. No one wanted to leave; as exhausted and dirty as we were, no one wanted to leave. After a supper of pork tacos and guacamole and salsa, we play cards pretending to be unaffected by the day. Our hearts were on overload, in need of a release.
Saturday morning and we do it all again. The mayor came. This time, I talked with his assistant Clara. She shared her vision for more centers for children across the city. Her passion for helping children was obvious. We exchanged emails as she left begging me to share with Americans the conditions the children of Juarez call home.
After a lunch of jalapeño and turkey sandwiches, we head into the mountains to the cardboard city. The conditions of the city are sparkling compared to the cardboard city. Its acres and acres of homes made of cardboard, wooden pallets, and concrete. Sewage zigzags across the dirt roads. There’s no running water, people walk miles to fill filthy buckets with water. Power lines are tapped into illegally and run exposed across streets. Mangy dogs strolled the streets. The smell. As the bus drives through with our police escort, people begin to run after us. They do not know why we are there; they just see us as hope.
We park at a church with a worship service in progress. As the children gather, we hand out bracelets. We rush to keep from any child being left out. After the program begins, we cannot give out any more bracelets. There are strict rules to be followed to prevent the misallocation of boxes.
These children are different than the ones in the city. These children have eyes glassy from fever, open sores, coughs, snotty noses, and rashes. As I put on bracelets, I wonder how many of these children will not survive to next year. It’s a morbid thought, but a realistic one. The children and parents watch the program with fascination. Hands are raised indicating a desire to accept Christ.
We begin the process of handing out the boxes. Many of the children physically cringed and sunk back at the touch of an adult, but their fear was overridden by a desire to receive a box. These children hugged their boxes to them and guarded them. They ran away to hide their new possessions. Mothers ask for the empty cardboard boxes and act as if they have received a great prize when they receive them. Within an hour we were left alone. Standing on a hill overlooking the community, we see the children reach their homes and open their boxes to examine what’s inside.
A woman with 3 children comes asking for boxes. No more boxes can be given out, the program is over. My heart breaks at the injustice of it until I learn the children have already received a box. The mother is trying to score more free gifts. We pack up and leave. There’s a lot of silence on the bus, until we pass a concrete house with a pig resting on the roof. There’s just something funny about a pig on a roof. The stories begin. And as we share the stories, we realize there had been a few moments of danger. 4 teenage boys were approaching us with bats and a crossbow, but SWAT team members had appeared immediately and dealt with the situation. God has protected us.
After a quick trip to the market, it’s back to the compound. At the market one of men was recognized from being on television with the mayor. He used this “fame” to share the Gospel. I found an elderly woman selling her cheap wares and gave her a Bible. I told her it was not for sale but a free gift. She hugged it to her and promised she’d read it from cover to cover.
Sunday morning, we packed up in record time and headed back to the border. As we sat in the line of cars waiting to cross into El Paso, Paul noticed a man in a little blue car reading one of the books, “The Greatest Gift” we had given out to the children. It was an affirmation of why we went. We will never know the impact that the 44 of us had on Juarez, but it was as if God was saying to us, “you did what I asked of you, now let Me work.” Our job is to continue to pray for the harvest to be great.
Prayer works. So does cash. Amigo Fiel needs money to continue to offer a place of refuge for discarded children and to pay the school tuition for these children. Prayerfully consider how you can become a part of what God is doing in the midst of drug-war infested Juarez.
Christmas Bizzare
If you come from a family with issues, Christmas is bizarre. It’s the norm, so you just expect drama, trauma, and other strange things to happen. Last week, I drove into the Lowe’s parking lot to the sound of alarms going off. I didn’t think much about it, after all it’s Christmas. Water was shooting out of the side of the building. No problem, they are probably flushing their system. I had only one thing in mind, getting in and out with purchases made before time to meet Paul.
I walked into the store, or I should say, I splashed into the store, and swam to a stop (literary license applied for!). Niagara Falls was pouring from the ceiling and shooting from the walls across the aisles of the Christmas and garden department! I have to admit, I consider myself to be a pretty hardened Christmas shopper, but I was stunned! Store employees were crawling out of their hiding places to discover what the problem was. After a few moments of starring in shock, customers were escorted out of the building.
Meanwhile, panic is growing inside of me because this means adding another stop in my margin-less day. Not a good thing. The having no margins thing. Margins built into the day keep me sane. Which explains why I’ve been floating away from sanity for a good while now. I need my margins. No, at this point, I need a few blank pages!
And I have to admit the word, “margins” is causing me extreme anxiety since I have struggled with getting the EXACT margins correct in my doctoral paper for what seems like decades! But that’s all done now. Printed. Copied. Edited. Revised. All those that make a non-detail person cringe! But it’s done and for the first time since I began this 4.5 year struggle, I can enjoy Christmas. I can enjoy life. It’s a grand thing!
Falling into Smoke
My mind keeps drifting away to a “happy place” which for me is in the Smokies. I can picture myself sitting on a creek bank, eating green apples and boiled peanuts. Hiking into the mountains, coming across a bear family. Standing on the tiptop of a mountain with the wind almost blowing me away. The air cold enough to burn my lungs. The first flakes of snow braving the sunshine to fall. Hurrying to sit fireside with hot chocolate and good conversation.
I miss the Smokies. The sounds. Wind rushing around the valleys and peaks. Birds hawking out their lonesome cry. Music drifting on the wind. Silence broken by animals sneaking to catch a peak of human intruders. Water dancing around rocks in the creek. The sound of Paul breathing in the moment as we sit looking out across two or three states.
The Smokies define fall for me. Woodsmoke drifting from houses. The first signs of Christmas lights being hung. A sense of peace that says the year is nearly done, the adventures of the coming year are just around the corner of Christmas. It’s like my Cherokee ancestors are calling me home, back to my roots in the deep woods. Reminding me not to get too “uppity” or too far away from simple things in life.
Fall in the Smokies is about turnip greens, sweet potatoes, fried pies, apple fritters, and catfish delicately fried. It’s about family and laughter. Restful nothingness of sitting on a porch. Hiking to places to meet up with history and legends and stories from long ago.
I’m homesick for the Smokies. Maybe soon I can take the long drive to Tennessee, until then, I can only dream of the winding roads, the oranges, reds, and yellows, and the unmistakeable feeling that life is simple, no matter how hard we try to make it.
