Lesson (not quite) Learned

Lesson (not quite) Learned

My heart is stirring; this pounding in my chest making my head spin and my heart ache and I’m in tears.  Lord, what are you doing?  

I knew that I needed a good spiritual slap in the face to wake up from my complacent slumber.  Let me be real with you, this past year has been quite the journey.  My husband and I decided to move to Seattle to start chasing a dream that we (sadly!) couldn't achieve in Bozeman.  Thus, over the last 12 months, the long season of waiting; mostly impatiently as we tried to figure out what was best for our little family of two.  Don’t misunderstand me, this last year has had so many amazing adventures and I wouldn't change a thing about it.  Learning to be married (to the MOST amazing man!), chasing dreams together and scripting new ones, living life with some of our closest friends in Bozeman, going on a medical mission trip (a personal bucket list item), and SO much more.  However, spiritually it has been a long (and sometimes dry) season of learning patience.  (I don't remember praying for that...).  Of which I spent a lot of time being complacent and thinking "well, God knows my heart so why should I just repeat myself over and over?"   And, with the possibility of moving back to the big city, a lesson emerged that I once placed on the top shelf (in the very back of my spiritual lesson storage room) causing my heart to begin a journey I've been avoiding for a quite some time.  A concept steeping in my heart and yet I have not fully grasped...  

I love people, I really do (or so I think). I love learning about people's lives and hearing stories of their adventures.  I love being able to cook a meal for a family with a newborn who needs help.  Or hanging out with a single mom and her kids for a day and blessing them with some groceries because they are struggling to make ends meet.  Or simply striking up a conversation with the stranger sitting next to me on the plane.  

But this one area tends to echo quiet murmurs in my thoughts over and over. 

Homeless. 

I thought I understood what it meant to love the poor and help the needy.  After all, my mom used to take my siblings and me to the local rest homes to spend time with the elderly.  We would also find a local church who served meals to people on the Thanksgivings or other holidays when our dad was serving our country overseas.  On many occasions, my family went to the shelter downtown Sioux Falls and served meals to the homeless people.  I loved starting conversations with these people; hearing their stories and making them laugh.  

I thought I got it.  But somewhere along the line I lost part of it.  The fervor that impelled me to serve others in need…but maybe that was never really there.  Maybe I just tagged along and did what my family asked of me.  

After high school, I moved to Seattle for a short while to help my cousin and his family with their transition into a larger family.  While there, I met some pretty incredible people, and they loved serving the needy.  We would go out to eat downtown and give some meals to the homeless afterwards.  I made it a habit to buy an cup of coffee or hot chocolate and give it to a homeless person when I was downtown for the day.  

Until one day I heard a statistic.  I forget the source, but have since reviewed other stats very similar.  I began hearing stories about how much money some panhandlers/homeless people actually make.  I began keeping a mental bank of these stories; keeping them on the forefront of my mind so I was locked and loaded with a response when the Holy Spirit asked me kindly to love.  Stories of how some people dress up to look homeless and then leave their comfortable homes and sit on their favorite street corner to earn their keep.  Or hearing about a  panhandler who got annoyed when this person was keeping them from making money when they asked them questions and wanted to hear their story (while being fully prepared to help them out, but wanted more of an interaction than just “here’s some money”).   Or when I would see a homeless “looking” person counting pennies at the counter to pay for his liquor.  I’m not saying it’s all roses and butterflies, or that all people in need are this way, but it began to turn me off to that possibility. That someone was just going to take advantage of this rich, white girl who just wanted to help.  That if there was the possibility of rejection or ungratefulness, I would rather not waste my time or efforts at all.  And although I’ve never been one to give money to the poor, rather something tangible, it still struck an off key chord in my heart to hear these kinds of stories.  In response, I began putting the poor into a separate category; leaving it someone else to do the work and take care of them.  I’ll just stay here in my comfortable christianity and help out when I think they deserve my help.  

It was those kinds of experiences and stories heard from other people that this calloused and negative heart towards the poor and homeless started growing.  I grew more and more annoyed in my heart; ignoring completely the inner tug of the Holy Spirit pleading with me to love his children.  There have been few times over the last 8 years since that time of living in Seattle that I have helped those living on the streets…giving in to the pull and ultimately leaving me feeling refreshed and humble towards God’s leading me.  But there was always a struggle that followed. Those statistics continued to whisper back into my thinking and backwards I fell again.  Into that comfortable mindset of ignoring that cold, homeless person on the street because heaven forbid I waste a cup of hot coffee on them.  “But, God, listen, YOU don’t understand.  They have a choice and they are choosing to sit outside and not help themselves.  If you want somebody to help them you’re gonna have to find someone else to do it.  Not me!”  Why this inner hostility?  Have I become so calloused and busy that I really can’t spare my comfort to help them out?  I have mistakenly made quick judgments about why I thought they were there and how I imagined they got there.  

But, this last year I heard something.  Something resonating deep within.  As I heard the Lord pleading with my heart to listen, I would let it sink in…and then quickly push it out of my mind.  I began having these plans in my mind to help someone out and give them food and strike up a conversation with them. After all, I knew every corner in Bozeman where the homeless and panhandlers sat. (And, ashamedly avoided them or took a different way out of the parking lot so I didn't have to look them in the eyes...how ridiculous; it leaves a nasty taste in my mouth even thinking about the lengths I went to to avoid having to learn this unavoidable lesson) And every time that opportunity arose, I quickly responded, “yeah, not today.  I’m on a mission and what I have going on is way more important.”  (For the love of all that is good, what is it going to take for me to rid me of this mindset?)

For my birthday this year, my husband bought me a book.  (Why do I ask for things that I know are going to be uncomfortable?)  I asked for a book by Jen Hatmaker.  After hearing several stories about how spiritually challenging, uplifting, uncomfortable and refreshing her writing is, I had to read them for myself.  And, after reading the first part of “Interrupted” I thought, “oh boy, this is not going to be a very comfortable book to get through.”  Can you guess what the common theme is?  Ding, ding, ding!  The poor.  And how poorly the church has responded to the aches of this world…because it doesn’t fit within our framework of what we think the gospel should look like in today's society.  At this point, I’m beyond the half-way point and it has rocked my thinking.  It’s as if God was saying “alright, you don’t want to hear it from me anymore?  Then you are going to learn it from one of my children who did listen to me."  You see, I don’t learn things very easily.  It takes me and my little heart a LONG time to grasp concepts until a change is made.  I fight and fight.  And I end up spiritually exhausted from wrestling my way around going through the actual process of change.  I scroll right over those versus that pop up on my Facebook news feed from others’ and think, "yeah, I know, I’ve heard it, and I’m working on that; just give me some more time."  And yet, time never changes anything in and of itself.  Change occurs only when we choose to do something different.  Each day, hour and even minute we have to CHOOSE to do something different.  We have to choose to love people, to listen to their needs, to actively position ourselves to become more like Christ.  

Jen writes, “I started noticing not so much their need but their humanity.  I realized these were daddies and sisters and lost sons and daughters.  They had stories and dreams.  Their wallets were full of pictures, and their histories were full of heartache.  They were funny and wildly talented.”  

This is why I’m crying, why my heart aches and stirs.  How many times have I passed by someone in need and said “no, I’m sorry” when they asked for help.  Am I?  Have I really been ‘sorry’?  Have I wept over their lack of shelter, food, proper clothing, (insert struggle here)?  Or said “hey, let’s go buy you a warmer jacket and some nice gloves to keep you warm” or “hey, I was just going to grab some lunch, want to join me?”  Just yesterday I said those exact words to a girl who asked for spare coins..."no, I'm sorry" knowing full well I had spare time AND change in my bag. It was around lunch time and I could have easily invited her to grab a sandwich with me or struck up a conversation with her.  It has become an automatic and unattached response that I don't even have to process before the words fly out of my mouth. 

You see, it doesn’t matter how I think they came to be sitting on the corner, or how much money they have in their pockets.  Because, in reality, I have no clue what it’s like to be in their position.  There are real hurting people on those corners and it doesn’t matter what kind of story I make up to justify me not helping them.  They are somebody’s sons and daughters.  They belong to someone.  They were hurt by something.  They were dealt a nasty hand, whether by their own choices or life’s unfair ways.  It doesn’t matter what I think happened to get them where they are, they’re there.  And I can either choose to listen to their story and live like Jesus, or choose to walk by remain comfortable.  And quite honestly, I have chosen the latter too many times.  

I’m tired of talking about the poor as if they are some estranged group of people that I “should” love but never do because it’s never "convenient”.  I want to be the type of Christian who actually looks like Christ…who actively seeks those who are poor and less fortunate than myself.  After all, what is just a cup of coffee to me might mean the world to someone who needs it.  Because it's never "just a cup a coffee" to the person who really needs to be remembered, to feel loved, thought of, cared about, to feel human again.  Maybe I need to not thinking of "the homeless" and start seeing their humanity.