a surrender - 41

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter six, "there are no heroes in the kingdom of God")

The weeks that followed were hectic and fun. I remember enjoying coffee and breakfast sandwiches, egg and Canadian bacon on fresh-baked biscuits, with our guests out on the front porch, warmed by the sun after a cold night. I remember not being able to hear while I was talking on the phone, because all the people at supper were laughing so loudly. I remember Heather playing a board game one evening with four boys in the dining room—and trying to keep the two-year-old from stealing the pieces—while the other guests ate popcorn and watched a movie in the living room. I remember a lunch guest happily firing up the grill out back to cook some steaks he had found somewhere. And I remember hearing a young woman crying with relief when she heard she could stay on our couch. She was trying to move away from an alcoholic husband, and four other places had turned her away. I remember watching Heather carefully sew a torn down-filled jacket so we could give it to one of the guests. I remember surprising a homeless couple by inviting them in to eat the pizza I had just made, when they knocked on the door as we were sitting down to supper. I remember hearing a guest offer to come back and volunteer when he and his wife move into their new apartment. He had already cooked for us, washed dishes, and scrubbed our porch, where he had been sleeping.

And I remember James. He sometimes slept in our back yard, and we would find his power wheelchair on the porch, plugged in. His legs were missing, just below the knees. We heard James had lost them after passing out on the train tracks one night. He had prosthetic legs that he could walk on, but they seemed uncomfortable to him as he lurched around. I saw him here often, helping out at the lunch meal, cleaning up and mopping. I remember him clearing the table while I ate. But he didn’t have his prosthetic legs on then. He was moving around the big table on his knees, taking people’s plates when they were done and wiping the place clean for the next person. Quietly, on his knees. 

Continued... 

a surrender - 40

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter six)

 

there are no heroes

in the kingdom of God  

Our new home was a homeless shelter. It was a big, old house, with the upstairs rooms available to women and children who needed a place to stay. Downstairs there was a big kitchen, where meals were prepared by volunteers, some who lived there, like us, and many others who came for a few hours each week. Lunch each day was served to whoever showed up at the house, usually a pretty big crowd. Breakfast and supper were just for the people living there, the women and children, and us resident volunteers. The idea was that people who came for help were welcomed into our home. We lived with the people we served.

When Heather and I arrived, the volunteers were still preparing to reopen the house after a month-long break. So we had a little time to settle in. Before we were ready, though, while we were still cleaning and making plans, there was a knock on the door. 

I opened the door, and met Richard and Cassie. They said they had nowhere to stay; a pastor had paid for a motel room for two nights but they had to leave this morning, and there was no room in the other shelters. I wasn’t sure what to say. Our house reopening was four days away, and even then we only accepted women and children. But then I had an idea. I discussed it with the other volunteers. Could Richard and Cassie both stay, just until the house opened, if I took responsibility for their needs? The others agreed, and I felt flushed with excitement. I was really helping someone. And so I started down a long, bumpy road with Richard and Cassie.

Continued... 

a surrender - 39

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

I didn’t think I would ever have a family of my own. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, it was just that I didn’t think anyone would want to marry me. I had nothing, and thought I would probably always have nothing. And my life seemed so unstable and uncertain, I just couldn’t imagine any woman wanting to start a family in those circumstances. So I just accepted that. And I enjoyed my relationships with people in the community, including my new friendship with Heather. I felt like we were in God’s family together.

In the weeks that followed, there were more long talks with Heather. One evening, we came back to the house after a walk together, just in time for supper. But as we climbed the steps to the big porch, we were so deeply engaged that we just kept talking. I noticed through the window that the meal was starting, but still we talked. Occasionally someone from the table peered questioningly at us. By the time I finally said goodbye to her and came into the house, supper was over. 

Heather wasn’t put off by my life choices, not even the walking. She had actually imagined doing something similar herself once, but had reluctantly decided against it because of the dangers for a woman traveling that way alone. She had a strong sense of the corrupting influence of wealth. She liked what Jesus said about money and power, like I did. And our long conversations about how Jesus lived didn’t leave her feeling scared or guilty, like they seemed to with most other people. They left her feeling refreshed and excited. They left me feeling the same way.

I remember the day she told me to keep her teacups. She liked to serve tea to friends, and had a simple but elegant tea set, hand-painted with blue dragonflies. One day, after sharing tea in my tiny room, the only single room in the house, she left two of her tea cups behind. The next day, when I asked her if I should bring them to her, she said no, I could hold onto them. “I’m sure we’ll be having tea again soon,” she said.

And I remember kissing her, on a wooden bench in the corner of a small city park in the spring. With a tree for our canopy, filled with tender blossoms, occasionally casting their soft, pink petals into our laps.

Soon we were wondering if there was a way we could have a life together, and a family. We didn’t know if it was possible, but we wanted to try to find a way.

And we wanted to try to make a difference in the world. We were young and eager to confront the wrongs we saw around us in society. Wasn’t that what Jesus did? We thought his followers should do the same. I remember during that time copying down a quote by Leon Bloy: “Any Christian who is not a hero is a pig.”

So we left the community and set out to be heroes.

Continued... 

a surrender - 38

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

I had thought a lot about family over the past year. I had had a good family experience while I was growing up. And this community offered a good experience of family also, a family that was a chosen one, based on a person’s own beliefs and convictions. Both of those seemed good to me. But I had also experienced something more unusual, an experience of family that had surprised me, because it was among people I had not chosen and had not been born to. People that I had never met, yet who had welcomed me into their homes and had treated me like a brother. People who seemed to know my needs before I asked. People I recognized as family by their spirit and their actions. It made me think of Jesus’ words, when he heard that his mother and brothers were looking for him. “Who are my mother and my brothers?” he replied. And gesturing at the people gathered around him, listening to him, Jesus said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and my sister and my mother.”  

This family that Jesus was talking about seemed to be God’s family. All those who did what God wanted were included in God’s family. It wasn’t their birth that determined it, or becoming part of some organization, or their common interests or convictions. It was God who determined it. Only God could decide who was in and who wasn’t. And the purpose and the nature of this family was determined only by God. “Whoever does the will of God is my brother and my sister and my mother.” Only those who are doing what God wants are God’s family. And everywhere that people are doing what God wants, God’s family is there, which is what I had experienced again and again. 

I remember one of the older members of the community once describing the “life cycle” of human communities. He said a community is like a living thing. It is born, then grows bigger and stronger, then eventually it weakens and dies. I thought about that. It reminded me of my thoughts about organizations, that they all eventually collapse and disappear. But when I thought about the family that Jesus described, it seemed different. It was God’s family. It existed because of God. Its life depended on God, not people. So did it die, like every human organization or community? I didn’t think so. 

These differences of the family that Jesus talked about inspired me and stirred hope in me. Maybe there was a family that would never end, that would always be there for me. A family that I could always depend on, no matter where I was. A family that was open to all. A family led only and always by God. If this could be true, I didn’t think I could be satisfied with anything less.

Continued... 

a surrender - 37

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

The days that followed were a blur of nurses and tests and no new information. She felt stronger and grew impatient with nothing to do but sleep and watch TV. Her muscles itched to be used. And the hospital had no answers for her. No one had come for her. Maria was faithful, even bringing her daughter a few times, and she liked them both. Missed them when they weren’t there. But she felt an increasingly urgent need to know more, to find her connection, her real life. 

Then, the day after Maria brought her some clothes, she just got up and walked out of the hospital. The sunshine felt good. But she didn’t know where she was going; she just followed the main street, hoping something would look familiar.

She hadn’t walked five blocks when someone approached her. “Ange… Hey, Ange!” She didn’t recognize the rough-looking woman, who was definitely talking to her. “Angel! Girl, where you been?” She didn’t know how to respond. “And what you doin’ out here? You gotta lay low, I thought thas what you was doin’. They’s lookin’ for you.”

She finally found her voice. “Who?” The young woman stared at her, unbelieving. “Whatchoo mean who? You knifed their girl. She dead now. So now they want you dead.” The woman looked around, then pulled her off the street into an alley. “But don’ worry, we got you covered. There’s a place you can go, jus’ let me get holda K and we’ll get you there. They won’ be able to touch you.”

She stepped back from the woman. “I don’t know… I don’t remember….” The woman had her phone out, making a call. “I got her. Yeah. Yeah, I know where it is. Okay.” She took another step back, looking to see if anyone was nearby, and said again, “I don’t know….” “Angel, trust me. You gotta do this. We ever let you down before? C’mon.” But when the woman took her arm, she pulled away. “Wait… hold on… who… I don’t know you.” That stopped the woman, her face darkening. “Angel, quit that. You known me since forever. I know you scared, but you gotta trust me.” When she showed no sign of moving, the woman took a step closer, lowering her voice. “The gang took care a you when your momma flipped and killed your brother an’ herself, and we’ll take care a you now. We the only family you got. So c’mon, we gotta get outta here.”

Her brother. Crying. Something stirred in the dark place inside her head. Slight at first, then rushing over her, pulling her in, gathering intensity until she thought she might throw up. She staggered a little, and the woman grabbed her. The grip was firm and sure. She felt power in the hands that held her, a fierce power in the gaze that urged her to follow. The only family you got. Momma flipped. You knifed their girl. She dead now. Your brother an’ herself. Only family you got.

“Angel… Angel!” She looked into the eyes of someone who knew her, who was holding her up, who would protect her. Her sister. Who knew her. “We gotta go. Now!” She felt like she was falling forward as they started to move, out of the alley and down the street. She stumbled, but the strong hand kept her upright and moving. 

The cars and people and storefronts flashed by them, indistinct, a wash of color. She fell faster. Then a sudden cry startled her and she tripped hard and hit the pavement.

When she looked up there was a child. A young girl, with tears in her eyes, her mother bent over her. Lifting her and gently brushing the dirt from her dress. “It’s okay, honey. See? Good as new.” The girl wiped the tears, then for a moment their eyes met. 

“Ange, c’mon!” She was lifted from the pavement by the strong arms, but then she didn’t move. And this time she answered the fierce gaze with a shake of her head. “You got the wrong…” She pulled away from the insistent grip. “I’m not who you think….” She turned and started the other way, ignoring the shouts.

Within a block, Christie found a pay phone. She pulled the phone number from her pocket.

Continued... 

a surrender - 36

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

After that, we would occasionally take long walks down to the lake and talk. Often about life in the community, or about Jesus. She was also very inspired by his life and teachings. Sometimes we talked about writing too, and she helped me with some of the stories I was working on. 

One of ones I liked best was called “Angel”:

“… finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it….” The rhythmic voice pressed into her head, then droned on, buzzing in the fog that surrounded her. And slowly the darkness lifted. Light crept through the haze, spreading with a pinkish glow, and then her eyes opened to life again.

As her vision found its focus, she saw the shape of a woman, her face averted. Then the woman suddenly turned, looked right at her, and smiled warmly. The droning voice clicked off. The woman’s voice was softer and richer. “Hello, honey. My name is Maria.”

She was in a hospital room, attached to beeping monitors and tubes poked into her arms. She didn’t remember how she had gotten here. She didn’t remember what had happened to her. The woman, Maria, told her that she had been in a fire, that she had saved Maria’s daughter and had come back for Maria but was unable to free her and was knocked out when part of the ceiling fell on them. She had been fearless, the woman said. A hero. Firefighters had arrived in time to pull her and Maria out of the house, but they had a hard time reviving her. Maria had been praying for her life. She tried to speak, croaking “I…,” then stopped, surprised at the strange sound of her own voice. The older woman nodded, waiting. “Who…,” she began again, then faltered, her voice dropping to a whisper, “do you know my name?” 

Christie. Maria told her she overheard the paramedics asking many questions when they got her breathing again, to make sure her brain was okay, but she had only answered, “Christie, Christie.” She didn’t remember that name. But when the orderly came and Maria had to leave, she saw it. The orderly removed her shirt to bathe her, and there on her arms were dark tattoos. On one arm a rose etched in red, drawn with blood dripping from the petals. And the other arm was wrapped with a band of thorny vines woven together, with elaborate lettering above and below: Domine Iesu Christe miserere mei peccatricis. She didn’t understand the words. But she saw the name.

After her bath, she slept. When she awoke, Maria was there again. This time the older woman spoke of herself and her daughter. They were leaving soon, moving far away to live near Maria’s relatives, where they would be safe. Maria was sure that the fire had been set by her ex-husband, and she wasn’t going to give him another chance. They had nothing left here anyway. 

“Where do you live, dear?” She couldn’t answer. She didn’t know where she lived, or even if she had a family looking for her. It was a horrible feeling, as if she had been thrust into a place where she didn’t belong… yet in some unknown way, she did. She needed a connection badly, a connection to her lost life. Something Maria couldn’t give. Something the hospital couldn’t give, either. The orderly had told her they had no identification for her, assuring her, though, that the memory almost always came back in time. “I don’t know.” It was all she could say to Maria, her voice trembling. “Oh honey, I’m sorry. Don’t worry about that. I’m sure that will be taken care of. Someone’s looking for you right now, you can be sure of that.” Maria took her hand. “And you’re always welcome with us, any time, for as long as you need. It’s just me and my girl now. We owe our lives to you.” The older woman’s eyes were wet. She began to look through her purse. “We’re not leaving for a week, if I’m not here call me, for anything… you could even go with us. You’re family now.” Maria gave her a slip of paper with a phone number on it. “But I’m sure someone will come for you soon.”

Continued... 

a surrender - 35

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

Soon after I got back, I found out the young woman was now living in the neighborhood. We crossed paths a few times in the weeks that followed. I had started doing grocery shopping for a woman whose activities were limited by bouts of chronic pain, and one day when I dropped off the groceries, the young woman was there. Her name was Heather. She was helping the woman with her house cleaning and laundry. And then I saw her again at one of the weekly community discussions. I don’t remember the topic of conversation, but I remember making an incisive point, boldly—and not very politely—and then Heather, boldly and politely, explained that I didn’t know what I was talking about. That annoyed me, I’m sure. But I only remember being more interested in her.

Heather had also been cleaning the community church every week. Her uncle was the pastor. But then I heard she was looking for some help with that job, and I was still figuring out how I could help out in the community again. So I stopped by her house one day. When she answered the door, she didn’t seem too happy to see me. I started haltingly, and she looked a bit impatient, but I managed to explain that I was offering to do some of the church cleaning. When she realized what I was saying, her expression softened. “Oh,” she replied, with a small smile, “yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

As the weather got colder, I started combining my dog walking with the church cleaning. The border collie loved attacking the noisy vacuum cleaner while I worked, barking madly. It was fun for both of us. That’s what I was doing one day when Heather happened to come in to do her part of the cleaning. For quite a while, we each did our work quietly (except for the loud vacuum and the barking). Then the dog heard something and ran into the kitchen. And Heather came out with him. She was grinning and was apparently done with her work. So I said, “I heard you’re a writer. What kind of writing do you do?” And that question started a very long conversation. She had recently graduated with a degree in creative writing and was working on a novel. Like me, she liked the community and was helping out in various ways, and living in one of the shared households. She was younger than me, but we were closer in age than most of the other community members, the only two young people there at the time. And I had gotten more interested in writing lately. I’d even tried writing some short stories, though they weren’t very good. So we had a lot to talk about. We sat on the floor in the middle of the church for so long, both of us secretly needed to use the restroom badly, but neither of us wanted the moment to end.

Continued...

a surrender - 34

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter five, "who are my mother and my brothers?")

The community tried to provide an alternative to the individualism and isolation felt by many people in our society. Community members lived close to one another, sometimes sharing a house. They met together regularly for worship and prayer times and meals. They were committed to consulting one another before making important personal decisions that would affect others in the community. And they also shared all their income. Everything they earned went into a common fund, which paid for the needs of everyone in the community. They owned all their houses and cars as a group. And they gathered together to discuss and make all the major decisions about how community money would be spent. The hope was that people would be able to see themselves not as isolated individuals but as members of a large extended family, who took care of and depended on one another. They seemed to truly love each other, and it felt good to be among them.

I only saw that young woman at church, though. She didn’t seem to live in the neighborhood. 

The fall and winter passed, and I got used to my new routine. I would get up early to help my friend shower and get dressed, then help him with breakfast at a big table with the others in the house. The rest of my day was mostly free, and I read a lot and began writing more. Once a week I would cook supper for the ten people in the household. I helped with the grocery shopping and mowed the lawn. One of my housemates had a border collie, really smart and very well-trained, and I loved to take him for walks to the park or down by the lake shore.

But when the spring arrived, I was ready to start walking again. I planned to go east that year, to join some friends at a conference, but it would take me all summer to walk there and back, about 1600 miles. During that journey I had a chance to walk a few days with another pilgrim like myself, though he had been doing it for many more years. And then I returned to the community, to a very warm welcome. 

Continued...

a surrender - 33

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter five)

 

who are my mother

and my brothers? 

The first time I remember seeing her, she was happy, waving a big colorful flag near the back of the church, with the music loud and everybody singing. She would flick her head as she sang, sending her long brown hair flying like the flag.

I came to this church because I had heard about it from some friends. It was the church of a community of people who had chosen to live together in one neighborhood in this city, to try to share their lives together, based on the teachings of Jesus and the practices of the first Christians. It was a very close community, and I was recognized as a visitor right away. An older couple invited me to lunch after church. And when they found out how I had been living for the last few years, they quickly began looking for somewhere I could stay and help out in the community.

They soon found a place for me. One of the larger houses owned by the community was shared by ten people, mostly single, some older and some younger. One of the men who lived there had muscular dystrophy, and others in the household helped him. So I was invited to move in there. If I would be a caregiver for this man, I could live there without paying anything, meals included. This sounded just right for me. I had been looking for a way to be more helpful to others, especially in the colder months when I couldn’t walk. And the people in this community seemed to care about a lot of the same things that I did. So I stopped walking in the middle of that summer and agreed to stay. 

Continued...

a surrender - 32

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter four, "the anawim")

The following Sunday was fun and memorable also. I came to a small church. And I was the only white person there. Everyone else was African American. The people were very welcoming and the worship was joyful. Then I was invited to join them for a meal after the service. Everyone was invited, but the dinner was at someone’s house, with just one large table in the kitchen. So we took turns. When one person finished eating, someone else took their place at the table, with the cook still cooking and continually refilling the serving bowls. There was lots of lively conversation and everyone seemed to be enjoying their time together. I did too.

Near the end of my walk that summer, I came across these words in one of my favorite books, by Fyodor Dostoevsky: 

Sometimes 
even if he has to do it alone, 
and his conduct 
seems to be crazy, 
a man must set an example, 
and so draw men’s souls 
out of their isolation, 
and spur them to some act 
of brotherly love…

That seemed to me a fitting description of my walks. At times, I felt that I wasn’t offering people anything more than the opportunity to do good. And that seemed like enough, because often God seemed very close to us in those moments. But these words also reminded me how often I had felt alone.

My many meetings with kind, welcoming people had convinced me that there was a love that could draw people together into a real family, no matter where or who they were. And I began to realize I was wanting more of that.

I wouldn’t have to wait long.

 

Continued...