Thursday, March 9, 2017

Year 4.5 - the Look of Life


Sometimes my fight is against cynicism. Sometimes it's against apathy. It's always against the fleshiest part of me that wants what I want when I want it, the part that is never satisfied, always longing, always turning away.

Lately, my fight is against the urge to shut it all down and sleep for the better part of a week. It has been a tiring couple of months (yawn.)

So, yesterday, when I found a rare ten-minute window, I decided to spend it sitting on my front steps in peace. Just ordinary me, the birds, the bare Maple limbs and the familiar wail of the train. No people. No words.

Not thirty seconds later she passed by on the opposite sidewalk, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She walks by a few times a day, her face lined with hardship more than age, her skin closely matching the tan of her backpack. If I had to guess how old she is, I'm sure I'd overshoot it.

Warily, she said hello.
A minute more and she crossed over to my side of the street.

This neighbor cares for her disabled granddaughter. She writes letters to her daughter at the women's prison every week and wouldn't you know, her daughter just won a coveted spot in the Dog Program. (I assumed this was an acronym for something. Drugs? Daughters? Who knows. In fact, it's a program where inmates learn to train dogs.)

I asked about her grandkids who, like so many others, broke my heart when the hard-luck housing market swallowed them up and they were forced across town. "Oh, they're much better," she smiled. "I still can't believe it."

She railed against mistakes made, injustices dealt. There's the daughter serving time downstate on a meth charge when "so many damn people are out there doing so much worse." There's the school who tossed her grandson out when he was just a kid. He's better now, back in school. He found a new friend and they share a name, but they also share the weight of the world pressing down on them, daring them to survive. "He's a good friend, a true friend." She paused. "I don't have many of those, myself. I'm too honest, I guess."

Tell me the truth. Show me what is real. This is my ten minute window, but I'm willing to stretch it to twenty if you are.

I did little more than listen and nod along, watching the ash grow longer between her fingertips then fall to the ground. "This weather is really something, isn't it? They say global warming is a bunch of BS, but I don't know, this doesn't make much sense. It's weird." She trailed away, we said our goodbyes, for now.



I recently sat with a late cup of steaming tea and listened to a message from a new friend, hundreds of miles away. Through tears she processed her own journey from safety and comfort to one marked by the weird way of Jesus.

"I'm so confused... I feel so disconnected from my old life but I'm lonely here, too... My life used to be so much simpler... When will this start to get easier?"

Staring out my window at the street that keeps pummeling my pride along with my heart, tears streaked my face. I shook my head and wept. Then I messaged her back, "It will never get easier."

We are four and a half years in and here's what I can tell you: I know my place. It is no longer unfamiliar to me. I know the smells. I expect the shattered glass gleaming underfoot on our slow morning walks to school. I know the cars and the kids. The sounds have formed a particular sort of white noise; the hammer, the chainsaw, tires on wet pavement, the train. I am no stranger here. I'm not new anymore.

This life is exhausting, it's not going to change. But there's more to the story, and that's where words often fail me. 

The longer we stay, the more closely I'm drawn to these struggling, optimistic, frustrating, beautiful, hard-working humans. I am bound to them inextricably. I know their pain. I know there's no sense bearing witness to it unless I'm willing to bear it physically, to hoist part of it onto my shoulder then walk with them in the same direction.

I want their pain. And that's a tough one to explain.

The faces change. They move away. They are sent away. They're locked up, driven apart, uprooted. They are talked over, looked over, despised for their poverty and the way it shines on our own. But the trouble they know is ground into the asphalt lining my streets and yours. Nine year olds casually mention there's no food at their house between hands of Go Fish. Men and woman talk without emotion about abuse, about shame, about what it feels like to plunge a needle into a ropy vein and know peace for a moment. Here, there is simply no point in making small talk.

Meanwhile, we buy toilet paper. We brown onions with meat, unclog the drain, scratch down reading minutes with the dried up marker found underneath the table. We laugh every day, especially when it's all we can do. We live mostly paycheck to paycheck, hunted down by the fact that we still have far more than we need. We field requests, praying our love is enough. We battle our own entitlement and frustration with every "No" we speak, and our energy bleeds out between the cracks of this very good life. We erect barricades of paperback books and stream Dawes from the speaker hidden above the kitchen cabinets. We sing along. We eat with our neighbors every chance we get, knowing this is the "work" we've been called to, knowing it isn't work at all.

It is exhausting.
It is liberating.

It doesn't get easier.
It gets harder.

But I have wonderful news - we were not called to comfort. We weren't called to be unshakable portraits of courage or calm. We were not intended to self-soothe with warm messages of false pride and emotional placidity. We were not made to be happy. And we sure weren't made for small talk.

We were made for the mess, that ridiculous mixture of suffering and gladness, that disquieting blend of love and grit that stresses us out and raises us up. This is our birthright.

Four and a half years in, I have never been more sure that the only way to live is at the razor edge of myself, in full view of my rebel God who prefers low places.

Life stopped being simple long ago. I still fight the chaos. There are days I so desperately want to believe the common narrative, that I should come first. That I should say no. That God does not need my exhaustion, so I can go ahead and hang it up. From every side I'm told I am enough, even if I never answer the door again.

I suppose all of this is theologically sound, if you hold it in the right light. Thankfully, I'm a neighbor, not a theologian. I'm no Biblical scholar, just a woman who has learned through tears, scheduling nightmares, lost keys, and the occasional, well-timed triumph that as image-bearers of Christ inching toward the character of a Holy God, we are promised a life that will only be saved if it's lost.

It's hard to put all of this into words, so hard that I sort of gave up for a while. But the world is on fire and the church is burning to the ground. This cannot wait. I need the truth in my ears, in my retinas, floating on the page and lodged down in my throat. We were called to so much more than comfort, and the cost will be our reward. 

Come with me. Find your chaos. Call it good.


14 comments:

  1. 4.5 years. It almost feels like a ...not a milestone, but a "this is what 4.5 years in one place might feel like" marker. Thank you for sharing. I wish I had a more meaningful comment to make but I mean it and feel it weightily.

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  2. It doesn't get easier.
    It gets harder.

    I've wanted easier for so long. The older I get the more I expect easier. But that's not even biblical. I don't know why I even think it might come. Well, the biblical part is our longing for heaven. I remember being in a women's group 15 or so years ago reading a book about hope. The bottom line was that our only hope is in heaven. I was so angry! My 30-year old self was so mad. Why even bother living today? I'm thankful that with age comes less cynicism. It's true. Daily we become more like Christ. Daily closer to heaven.
    Thank you for this post, Shannan. I needed the reminder.

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  3. So so true. thank you for sharing and thank you for your courage in speaking out and in listening. Sometimes that's all we can do - just show up - just be there.

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  4. I have to tell you. I live close to you, and there is not a single post you pen that doesn't make me wish I could stop by for coffee and hear your wisdom pour into my heart. Especially your posts about serving those who somehow stumble in and sleep under your roof. ❤ thank you

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  5. WOW
    This post singed me. Spoke right to my heart. I'm too settled, too comfy, too entitled.

    Going to have to chew on this & process it. See what changes are in my future.

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  6. Absolutely powerful. Breathtaking writing. Thank you.

    xoxo

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  7. From another exhausted mama, thank you. We weren't made for "comfortable". I needed to be reminded of that today.

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  8. So good. I have been uncomfortable for most of my 17 years of marriage. We moved far away from home to do ministry in a culture (still in the United States) very unlike the ones we grew up in and were familiar with. Now with other stressors, we are looking at change again. And I am finding that I am far more at ease here than I thought I was. God is good. He is good to remind us where our stability actually is and who our neighbors are.

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  9. I told my growth group yesterday that I wasn't sure I would do the thing I was called to do again. It's been so hard, so different than the life I imagined I would have...you know, that easy life I was promised if I did all the right things. But I was never promised easy only eternal. Thank you for speaking the hard truth for those of us who have forgotten how to listen.

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  10. Thank you and don't stop. I need to hear this over and over, too! I know, like you say , that it is hard to explain...but you are doing it! Your message (HIS message) is coming across clearly and with conviction. Amen
    Christine

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  11. Shannan -- My husband and I are almost 5 years in and this post felt right out of my own front window ...including the train ;) More than any other year, I've hit a "can I keep doing this?" moment as the stories of my neighbors have felt so heavy lately. God is remaking me these days and I'm trusting Him that the breaking of "me" will result in the breakthrough to living this out with His sustaining grace and mercy. I'm so appreciative that you were completely honest about it not getting easier. I don't know if I came in and thought somehow it's going to bring the Light of Jesus in and turn all the sadness to joy or what?? but it's just plain hard and yet I know this is where I'm supposed to be. These are my people. We are family. Thanks for understanding and as my neighbor says, "thanks for hearing me!" It's encouraging to know we're not alone. Thank you! Love and blessings.

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  12. Your message is wonderful. It's sitting on my heart and in my brain and I'm not so sure what to do with it...my flesh wants to file it away as "oh, that was good...next..." and my "heart wants to reread it over and over until it seeps into my being...easy is not always best...harder is where you discover who you really are...

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  13. My husband and I just "got away" from our crazy for two nights in a little cozy cabin. I read 1.5 books and took naps each day. My question to God was "Isn't this all too much? What can we cut out?" And what did God tell me while me were away resting? This. Just what you said. Just keep pressing forward into my people, into their stories, into the meals shared, into the not-many-moments to myself. Loving people is God's work, so I'll stay signed up. Thanks for your encouragement to me to do just that.

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