PearlS | The Average Pearl

Bernita

There once was a young woman named Bernita. She was petite and outwardly demure, her only physical landmark a prominent, aquiline nose. She was a widow and a mother to three grown men. A surprise baby born to her late in life–age forty-five, to be specific–turned her progressive, the wife of a man that gave her no choice in the matter. In public she was tight-lipped; in private, a fiery freedom seeker. Her eyes were still soft and kind, but a mere question could stir up every strong opinion that bubbled just below the surface.

I met her when she was ninety-six. She was fascinating, a sharp and witty time machine. She wore a wig and lived with three tuna-fed cats that defecated regularly on her green carpet, especially when visitors like me stopped by the house. It didn’t matter; she couldn’t smell it or see it. The housekeeper would take care of it in a week’s time. At least there would be fresh vacuum lines. The stagnant odor found a home in the plastic covered gold couches, the gilded, framed cross-stitch “Mother” poem, the dusty shelves of knick knacks. I made it a habit of removing all outerwear–coat, hat, gloves–before entering the front door. Three hours every Tuesday could pick up an aroma that no washing machine could shake out.

We had a general schedule we followed. I would find her in her sitting room, perched atop a hernia donut cushion in a blue recliner. Her feet were always up and she waited for me to release the footrest–she couldn’t reach it on her own. We chatted about the weather and news while CNN blared on the TV not three feet away. After a bit Bernita would remember to turn the volume down. Then she would pat my hand and with a twinkle in her eye say, “I thought we might go for ice cream today.” I’d load up the walker and tuck her in my passenger’s seat, taking care to buckle her gently.

She was almost a doll to me. I had worked for many seniors before her, but she seemed especially fragile and precious. I had the privilege of accompanying her to the manicurist, where they trimmed her nails and plucked her facial hairs. We remained proper–chin whiskers are a pesky matter, not a laughing one. We made trips to the hearing aid specialist and the mall. One day, Bernita convinced me to get my ears pierced. She sat proudly in her wheelchair at Claire’s while I got my first studs. I didn’t care to wear earrings–I just did it to please Bernita.

We traipsed through K*Mart for hearing aid batteries and birthday cards, me bent, fumbling over the controls on the store’s electric wheelchair. She was too busy shopping to bother with learning how to steer it herself. Once a month she would pick up a new compact of powder foundation, classic ivory. The exact foundation I used. Bernita and I, we had the same pale skin and covered our blemishes with chalk dust.

We’d drive to Coldstone, taking our time, smiling at each other over bowls of ice cream, reveling in a regular Tuesday afternoon. Then return to the house for Yahtzee at the formica table. We played hours and hours of it, so much that I dreamed about rolling Yahtzees with Bernita chuckling softly.

I would hug her one more time and leave, incredibly frustrated. What was I doing with my life? I was twenty-four years old with a college degree. How, exactly, could this Yahtzee and manicure nonsense possibly be any good for my future job prospects? Weren’t other twenty-four year olds starting businesses, repping companies, slaying med school, making money? Where was the future in senior care? Even the specialist at the hearing aid place tried to recruit me to work for her!

I couldn’t reconcile it; I loved Bernita. There is nothing holier than holding life gently, treading the space between breath and death. I helped her bathe, I changed her sheets, I organized her closets with the team bowling shirts from 1961. She never asked for me to make a moment special, she just didn’t want to feel lonely on a Tuesday this side of Heaven. Who knew how many Tuesdays she had left.

It really didn’t have anything to do with moving on and up, these three hours a week with Bernita. She couldn’t have offered me a reference or even a line on my resumé. But she let me enter her humble home. She let me in on her whole world, chin whiskers, ear wax, donut pillow, cat poop and all. By just being Bernita, I had to match her pace, an agonizingly slow, seems-like-we’re-not-accomplishing-much-here-today pace. I learned to enjoy eating my ice cream melted. I improved my dice rolling technique.

Bernita made me realize it’s okay to be human. It’s okay to need people. It’s okay to get old.

Those are all pretty good lessons to learn early on, I think.

Stay for the feast.

I haven’t updated much about our transition back into the public school. We made such a drastic 180 that only now do we have the gift of hindsight.

We traded isolated, rural, big-sky freedom for city chains, if you will. (Anyone who must drive in traffic on the regular knows the gridlocked feeling of despair.)

Before, we didn’t have to answer to anyone. I set my cell phone to silent as to not be disturbed. Now we must call the attendance hotline before 7:30am if a kid wakes up with a fever or runny nose.

A year ago, there were no grades. I simply marked the days of homeschool completed on my calendar. Now there are parent-teacher meetings, evaluations and report cards sent home quarterly.

With homeschool there were stacks and stacks of books piled all over the house, begging to be opened and devoured. Now there are still books, but they lie quiet, waiting for the school bell to signal the end of the day.

We deal with real life junk. My first grader wonders aloud why other kids watch R-rated movies–who is Jason? Who is Freddie? My third grader wants to know if g-a-y is an insult. About once a month we stomp home from school and I do a little emotional triage over cookies and milk.

There are complaints of homework and school cafeteria lunches. Bullies. Screaming teachers. Boredom. Inside recess. I can add to the list my own concerns: the weird social and political climate, social media, technology, safety.

Am I tempted to homeschool again? Well, it’s crossed my mind.

Last spring as we were wrapping up the homeschool-for-a-year experiment, I picked up a freebie classical curriculum magazine at our church. I was flipping through it, perusing the articles. Inevitably they were all written by homeschooling parents singing the praises of this particular curriculum, specifically at the high school level. I landed on a piece written by a mother who told the story of working tirelessly to prepare a huge feast for Thanksgiving. She was sad and disappointed when the whole family came down with the flu right before the celebration–no one was able to enjoy the Thanksgiving meal! Then she compared the Thanksgiving incident to the act of homeschooling her children. To the author, educating her kids at home through elementary was equivalent to preparing a feast. Giving up on homeschool–sending them into the public scene–once it becomes academically challenging or all-consuming, then, was like forfeiting the culmination of a meaningful, family celebration.

It raised, as many of these Christian homeschool articles do, questions of what if?

What if you only homeschooled your kids for a little bit and then sent them out into the wild world?

How could you prepare your children and not stay to enjoy the feast?

You know what strikes me as interesting? Human nature intensely seeks others who can tell us exactly what we want to hear. We want friends who pat us on the back, who shoot their arrows at the same target. Christian curriculum magazines work in a pinch with their cozy pictures of mothers spending quality time with their children. But hear me out–planting doubt or ideas of neglect and fear is anything but Christ-like.

I am still on the email list of the Homeschool Legal Defense Association (HSLDA). I get weekly updates, and some include contests with lovely writing prompts like, “I’m thankful I homeschool because…”

But there are more scary emails than encouragement. Tales of school districts purposefully “losing” homeschoolers’ paperwork. Incidents involving child protective services. The looming presence of an interfering government.

Surely the association serves a purpose–it is necessary to keep homeschool legal and free. HSLDA offers a service that informs parents and helps them understand their rights in home education their kids. But I wonder if they could go easy on the horror stories.

When I look back on our time spent homeschooling, I am in awe that we ever advanced in our areas of study. Of course we had fun times, too, but daily life was so all-consuming. Every interaction felt like it had a mirror attached to it. Whether they listened obediently or fought me and cried–whatever they did seemed to reflect my overall success as a mom. I was ultimately responsible for not messing them up. Add to this the classical education pressure of producing kids that are exceptional, above average, regular scholars. The weight of it narrowed my worldview. My whole hemisphere was my cul de sac. What works for us today? Nothing else matters.

I think sinking into this feeling of false confidence shocked me into pulling the plug on homeschool. My motivations were all wrong. My perspective was skewed. My rights and freedoms were tangled in a wad of indignation.

To loosen the knots I had to release control over my kids’ education.

I know this sort of thinking might terrify some people. But there is no place God won’t follow your child. He equips and enables. He works everything out for our good and for His glory. Shouldn’t these promises liberate us to set out on our own wild adventure? If we are parenting at home with the Word of God as our life’s template, do we really have anything to fear?

Life isn’t any less intentional now in the public school system. For me, I’d say it is better. It’s richer. The moment to moment stress of keeping small boys engaged has mellowed. Now they have a job: it is to get up and go to school in the mornings. When they come home we have six hours before bedtime for playtime (fighting, don’t get too precious), chores, reading, homework, music, family time, supper.

Some days are really great. Some days aren’t so hot. Just the same as homeschool. No, we’re not perfecting our Latin, memorizing timelines, or milking goats. We’re learning how to be brave and kind in a not-so-kind world. We fail more often than we succeed.

But I hear kids are resilient, and practice makes perfect. I keep praying that our experience in this world, this neighborhood, this school would open our eyes to see people the way Jesus sees them. Love hopes and believes all things.

I want to stay right here. I will drown out the what ifs with my own battle cries: what if we stay? What if we support teachers? What if school standards were raised and we, the community, helped kids reach them?

I believe He rewards those who earnestly seek him. I intend to stay for the feast.

Christmas waiting.

We don’t celebrate Advent. Call me a slacker Christian, but I don’t even know exactly what it means. Something about getting ready for Christmas, I think, with a nod in the direction of the second coming of Jesus. Several years ago (out of self-consciousness, possibly the Sunday school variety) I bought a Jesse Tree devotional book for my small children. It is lovely and simple. I’d recommend the book to anyone. It is definitely more wholesome than a dollar store calendar with chocolates–my entire understanding of Advent up until ten years ago.

To tell the whole truth, though, I attempted to make 25 ornaments and read daily devotionals and sing the recommended hymns, but couldn’t summon enough energy in the evenings to make it really count. Plus my husband, bless him, doesn’t sing hymns out loud.

I had enough trouble keeping the tree from getting knocked over by rowdy little boys. Every time it tipped another homemade ornament would shatter on the floor. The rainbow over Noah’s ark, gone. The snake wrapped around the glittery apple, the cute little sheep, Jacob’s ladder–all in the trash. Now when I pull out the ornaments of a December morning there are only odd reminders. A broken red chimney (symbolizing the wall of Jericho or the fiery furnace? I can’t be sure), a purple chipped salt-dough bunch of grapes.

The encouragement to parents to make Christmas “really count” can be the straw that breaks the camel’s back–the one glued to the side of Abraham’s felt tent. For me, elevating ordinary life raises standards that I cannot maintain. It’s a carrot dangling in front of me, an imaginary promise. If I only hustle and say all the right things my kids will turn out and Christmas will be more meaningful.

It’s just not true. Our lives are ordinary, and in this ordinary life there are days when I struggle to prepare frozen chicken nuggets with a hearty side of ketchup for supper. I, a lover of Christmas, decorations, and every holiday on the calendar, stake my claim in the mundane. There is no love, hope, joy, or peace in adhering to traditions as though they give life–particularly around Christmastime.

In the ordinary, we develop habits. In the quotidian we tread paths that, as Christians, should be marked by a self-giving love. I’m not talking about Giving Tuesday or dropping quarters in the red Salvation Army bucket. The words that come out of our mouth, our flexible bank account, our reverence for the garbage man, the gentleness in correcting a child, the patience we exhibit in the Kroger self-checkout lane…(I’m telling you, practicing those last two will break you like a Christmas ornament in the hands of a two year old.) We are capable of maintaining a high love frequency. Everyday love routines speak our hope of His coming.

My friend Alex likes to say “We are people of the towel.” He means this: we follow the example of Jesus. We serve, we wash one another with daily advent encouragement: He is coming.
Being prepared, then, is the goal of habitual training in ordinary life. We make room for Jesus in small and large ways by living. We are only branches, abiding.

Jesus, who entered into our ordinary in the form of a baby, did not show up to school us in the ways of tradition, as if our parties and Advent readings give us bonus points.
He showed up in the womb of a single teenager when women were stoned for adultery.
The King of all creation arrived, a defenseless infant, in the time of the Roman Empire. As soon as Herod heard the news, he ordered the slaughter of all the baby boys in the region. His family escaped. I can’t imagine they forgot the price other families paid.
He who was with God in the beginning donned a human body. He cried. He learned to walk. He felt hungry. He worried his mother.

Jesus was a refugee, a carpenter. He celebrated, he engaged, he encouraged, he retreated.

He became one of us.

He loved people.

He was the Christ the Jews had been waiting for for hundred of years. And they crucified Him.

See, my servant will act wisely;
he will be raised and lifted up and highly exalted.
Just as there were many who were appalled at him—
his appearance was so disfigured beyond that of any human being
and his form marred beyond human likeness—
so he will sprinkle many nations,
and kings will shut their mouths because of him.
For what they were not told, they will see,
and what they have not heard, they will understand.

Isaiah 52

We are two thousand years out from that baby in a manger, the Son of Man on the cross. We still wait, for the sprinkling of nations, the shutting of kings’ mouths.

We wait and we don’t stop waiting. May our children witness our fervent hope in the mundane, when we put up the tree and when we take it back down. Or in our case, as it gets knocked over.

Costco Samaritan

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the story of the good Samaritan. It’s been on my mind constantly.

Of course I love it. I am in the business of noticing everything at turtle height. This is the advantage to not having an important career, pressing schedule, scads of followers, insert-your-definition-of-success-here.

I love that a man happened to be traveling, noticed an injured fellow, took care of him, and went about his business. This is the lifestyle I want and the one I’m capable of pursuing.

Today I had a few errands to run. Return some shoes, deposit a check, run to Costco to see if I could develop pictures. Before I gathered the kids into the car, I scribbled down on a scrap of paper: I see you. I care. You matter.

The good Samaritan embodied these seven words. Jesus lived them in the world, and God has designed our hearts to beat it out in an unbreakable rhythm.

We exited Costco, sixty-four toilet paper rolls richer, and opened the hatchback when she approached us. “Excuse me?” she said shyly in English, and held up a small paper, gesturing for me to read it.

She needed money for gas, food, rent. She had two babies in the car. They were living in the parking lot until they could save enough.

I hate to admit how sensible I am, to my shame. I want a little proof that someone is really needy and not just trying to take advantage of me, especially in the parking lot scenario near the pot shop. But maybe in our good samaritan tale the man on the side of the road had deserved to be beaten and robbed–it wasn’t the point of the story. The two guys who had passed him on the road and didn’t stop to help–they had judged their own status and itinerary as more important than a dying man. In fact, they went out of the way to avoid getting tangled up in his mess.

Jesus wants us to see, to care. Do we drop our agenda and show mercy to people in their time of need?

In Matthew 25, Jesus paints a picture of Heaven.

…the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’

First, notice how awesome Heaven is going to be–a place God has been preparing for his people from the beginning of the world. Second, take a look at what God says He cares about: hungry people being fed. Thirsty people given a drink. Providing shelter, visiting the sick and imprisoned.

He doesn’t say, “Get over here, you awesome Bible college homeboys! High fives for all you in the paid ministry! Doesn’t get much holier than wearing skinny jeans on stage and reinventing the hymnal!”

The mark of the “righteous” who will inherit the kingdom isn’t flashy. He is commending folks who simply paid attention to the needs of their neighbors. Kingdom people, as we learn in verse 37, are actually too busy loving others to realize that every single act of mercy is a service to their King. Funny, the “good” Samaritan in the Bible isn’t ever described as good. He just did the right thing. He saw. He cared.

God gives us these gifts–time, money, energy–and he waits for us. Will I spend it all on myself or will I keep an eye out for the stranger on the road? Will I take her into Costco with my cranky kids and buy her a cart full of food and baby items, trusting that God can redeem the time, money, and energy I spend on someone else?

My mother still writes out hundreds, probably thousands of checks to various ministries and organizations. She sits and signs checks in the kitchen at an old table (garage sale find) next to a refrigerator that is orange with rust. The ceiling is drooping, the floors are plywood, the chipped siding is slowly turning green. My dad likes to quip, “we’re building a mansion in glory”–a wise thing, because this earthly one is falling apart. They are giving their best away. Am I?

I put GK back into the cart and we diverted from our plan for the morning. Our new friend did not understand English, Spanish, or Portuguese–the only languages I know. She knew some French, but when we got to the table stacked with plastic boxes of croissants, there was no recognition in her eyes. Big American dummy–I had assumed because of her French she was from France. France=croissants.

No. French probably wasn’t her first language.

We approached the diapers. I make exaggerated sign-language gestures with my arms–”How…heavy…is…your….baby?” I pointed at the boxes. “Seven to ten kilos?”

She shook her head. She couldn’t read the words. I picked up a size 3 and said a quick prayer for them to fit.

We muddled through the aisles and ignored the faces of impatient shoppers around us.

Costco is not the place to stock the car of a homeless person. No one except a rich person like me buys a membership card to a place that sells computers, 32 ounce bottles of shampoo, and key lime pie the size of my bike tire. It isn’t practical. But that is where we were, so I loaded the cart.

She held my four year old’s hand as we paid at the cash register.

“God bless you,” she whispered. “God bless you.” I hugged her, gave her my phone number, and watched her push the cart away.

I wanted to hop in my car and follow her to see if there really was a car with babies in it. But my two year old decided she’d had enough Costco shopping. She was throwing a tantrum and arching her back so that I couldn’t buckle her carseat. Our friend disappeared. God meant for it to happen that way–generosity doesn’t need to see the receiver’s budget.

It was time for me to go on about my business again.

I see you. I care. You matter.

Strangers and Freedom: Post 2

Psalm 119:19 says I am a stranger on earth; do not hide your commands from me.

Maybe you are an oddball yourself?

It is interesting to think we could ever be better, smarter, healthier, richer, prettier, or more successful than the person next door when we are all living breath to breath, dependent on our Creator. If we could zoom the lens out from our circumstances, we would behold a vastness of creation that would indeed make each of us seem strange.

I am not the big cheese I think I am, even though most days I act like the world revolves around me. That if I don’t get my first cup of coffee by 7am, I’ll potentially die. That my best self requires nine hours of sleep, music, a morning jog, and whole evenings of alone time. I need a steady supply of floss, salads, wool socks, and non-fiction library books. And tea and chocolate, and curbside grocery pick-up. One NFL game per week is ok, but Monday and Thursday night football is asking too much. I like discussing history and vegetable gardening and I abhor romantic fiction, potty jokes and crumbs on my couch cushions.

It seems reasonable. Why can’t everyone be like me?

You can make your own list of pros and cons, favorites and pet peeves. We all have a unique perspective, language, physique, odor, opinion. Perhaps this draws people in, and perhaps it repulses them, but it should not be so. We each reflect the image of God, and in His sovereignty no image is skewed.

Let’s say it together now: We are all strangers.

It’s the one thing we all have in common.

The thing to really contemplate is this: What fellow stranger is God wanting me to notice? And more importantly, how do I stop focusing on myself long enough to really see them?

Overall I think I’m a pretty good person. I like me. I like my weirdness (except for my awkward conversational skills and a new revelation, imposter syndrome! For real, this explains my whole existence) and I imagine it is just everyone else’s problem if they can’t get along. Maybe everyone else could come up to my level of understanding. If you could homebody like me and love children, well, then we could straighten out the other issues where we don’t see eye to eye.

Paul, in 1 Corinthians, details this idea of being “all things to all people”.

He may have been a star when it came to persecuting Christians, but when Jesus put him on His team as a free agent, Paul radically upped his offensive game.

For though I am free from all, I have made myself a servant to all, that I might win more of them. To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews. To those under the law I became as one under the law (though not being myself under the law) that I might win those under the law. To those outside the law I became as one outside the law (not being outside the law of God but under the law of Christ) that I might win those outside the law. To the weak I became weak, that I might win the weak. I have become all things to all people, that by all means I might save some. I do it all for the sake of the gospel, that I may share with them in its blessings.

1 Corinthians 9:19-23

He knew the advantage of adapting to the culture around him. He was a pro traveler, keen on noticing differences and making sure it didn’t hold him back from getting to know the stranger.

Paul–originally named Saul–started out on the Jewish A team. He had the wit, heritage, and tassels to prove it. But when Jesus changed his heart, he realized what a mess he truly was. None of his AWANA badges and Bible bowl trophies meant anything if he wasn’t willing to get dirty. He could rattle off the first five books of the Law verbatim yet was too proud to kneel down to the level of a hungry child and hand them bread. God opened his eyes to the inconsistency of his nature, his social status, and covert racism. He had to put off his old self so he could do what Jesus was asking him to do.

The passage by Paul in Corinthians blows me away with its insistence upon finding similarities and settling in. Paul found peace freely pursuing the lifestyle of a cultural chameleon. He knew how to play the Jewish card around the Jews–that’s how he was raised. But he could drop the tassels just as easy and pull up a chair for bar-b-que with the Gentiles. “To the weak I became weak, that I might win the weak.”

He sought out people so he could create relationship. He wasn’t just knocking on doors, handing out tracts. He moved into their neighborhood and became one of them. He listened. He tuned his heart radio to their frequency until he could speak their language.

This is not what some people call stooping to their level. Simply put, he learned how to proclaim Jesus in every cultural context. By familiarizing himself with the cultures of his day, he was able to discern the areas where he could slip in truth that would change their lives for the better. Paul did not wait for those Gentile folk to straighten up and get circumcised already. He didn’t wait for them to come around to his way of thinking. He entered their world, humble and aware of his surroundings. He used logic in a bold way: understand the culture, preach to the people, let the Lord change hearts.

In Acts 17, Paul is spending time in Athens, waiting for his friends to show up. He doesn’t stay holed up in his hotel, though. The Scripture says,

While Paul was waiting for them in Athens, he was greatly distressed to see the city was full of idols. So he reasoned in the synagogue with both Jews and God-fearing Greeks, as well as in the marketplace day by day with those who happened to be there. A group of Epicurean and Stoic philosophers began to debate with him. Some of them asked, “What is this babbler trying to say?” Others remarked, “He seems to be advocating foreign gods.” They said this because Paul was preaching the good news about Jesus and the resurrection.

Acts 17:16-18

Immediately upon arrival, Paul noticed the idol obsession. It wigged him out, and he felt some obligation to confront it. So he began to strike up a conversation with Jews and non-Jews and your everyday farmers’ market vendor and chatty philosophers. He knew the way to their prattle-loving hearts!

Then they took him and brought him to a meeting of the Areopagus, where they said to him, “May we know what this new teaching is that you are presenting? You are bringing some strange ideas to our ears, and we would like to know what they mean.” (All the Athenians and the foreigners who lived there spent their time doing nothing but talking about and listening to the latest ideas.)

Paul then stood up in the meeting of the Areopagus and said: “People of Athens! I see that in every way you are very religious.

Acts 17:19-22

Paul’s first impression in the marketplace garnered an invitation to a bigger stage, the Areopagus. He was asked to speak, and he began by commending their obsession with idols as “very religious”–a sort of pat on the back regarding their chatty past time. Then he gives them a short, breathtaking sermon.

The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by human hands. And he is not served by human hands, as if he needed anything. Rather, he himself gives everyone life and breath and everything else. From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands. God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us. ‘For in him we live and move and have our being.’ As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring.’

“Therefore since we are God’s offspring, we should not think that the divine being is like gold or silver or stone—an image made by human design and skill. In the past God overlooked such ignorance, but now he commands all people everywhere to repent. For he has set a day when he will judge the world with justice by the man he has appointed.He has given proof of this to everyone by raising him from the dead.”

Notice the kindness in Paul’s tone, the wisdom in his words. He was talking to Athenians. He referenced their hometown poets, gave a nod to the incredible marble temples and sculptures, and quickly summarized the history of the world. All these things were incredibly relevant to his audience. Paul was on point, perfectly courteous and succinct.

When they heard about the resurrection of the dead, some of them sneered, but others said, “We want to hear you again on this subject.” At that, Paul left the Council. Some of the people became followers of Paul and believed.

Some of them sneered, as expected. He might have felt a twinge of imposter syndrome. But the others invited him back.

He had told them about their Creator, Jesus, repentance, and freedom. He didn’t waste their time. And he didn’t waste his time, either. He just showed up within their culture and was completely reasonable and appropriate.

I wonder if we don’t need to check ourselves more often with Paul’s checklist.

Have I put off my old self?

Am I intentional?

Am I trying to flatter? (Hopefully no.)

Am I approaching them with respect and humility?

Who am I serving here, me or God? Who gets the glory?

It seems easy, but I think it is tricky to nail down the right attitude. We step on our own toes because our natural tendency is to remain comfortable. But the essence of knowing the stranger is becoming uncomfortable, losing a bit of oneself to blend in.

I must be malleable, playdoh in the hands of God. Ready to engage, but not on my terms of play. Wit counts for nothing, sincerity wins hearts. Submissiveness is crucial.

It encompasses every culture in the world, every color and creed. Every homeless person, jailbird, refugee, annoying classmate. Old folks in the nursing home, babies in the nursery.

There isn’t a stranger stranger than me.

What of my old self have I put off so that I may put on something more appropriate, more approachable?

Jesus, who has freed us up to lose the robe, fake eyelashes, tidy house, the facade of having it all together, wants us to put on sweatpants to talk to other people in sweatpants.

Now that is freedom.

Strangers and Freedom: Post 4

In high school, I was tired of being around teenagers (this is a whole story unto itself, and I was mostly unaware I was just as teen and angsty as the next). I knew I wanted to see the world. There were people out there somewhere that I needed to meet. I was ready to fly the coop. As soon as I was old enough, I applied to study abroad.

This landed me in Uruguay in a town on the border with the southernmost tip of Brazil.

I spoke no Spanish, no Portuguese, and I stuck out like a tall, rigid pine tree among a bunch of tan, tropical succulents. The flight to get there alone was a nightmare, my first ever, beginning with a delayed flight in St. Louis and ending some 36 hours later in the apartment of a single guy who’d volunteered to drive me to the bus station. I was deliriously tired and he let me sleep in his bed while he went to an all night party.

Obviously, it was kind of shady, not something to report back home unless you want your dad to make an end of your world traveling adventures. Luckily, Santiago (was that his name? To this day I’m afraid to crack open that diary entry) did not kidnap me. In the morning when he’d returned from his fun, he drove me to the bus station, bought me a plate of chivito and steak fries and sent me on my merry way.

I spent all of my days in Uruguay trying to not stick out. I focused on learning Spanish, keeping my head down, and staying away from boys and Mormons (“They’ll find you when you’re lonely,”–classic dad advice). I was indeed homesick, but my eyes kept peeking out at the view around me.

It was incredible to behold.

Everything was unlike anything I’d ever experienced, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

My host family had two maids, one for cleaning, one for cooking. They were constantly bustling around, Gilda frying chicken milanesa and assembling the ensalada russa, and Zulma collecting and washing piles of laundry.

My American mind was spinning. Is it okay for me to let someone else do all of the work?

My clothes would return to my room, steamed, ironed, and placed neatly on my pillow. Gilda and Zulma fussed if I even approached the kitchen.

In the morning, there was toast and cafe for breakfast. I worried. Was this a sufficient meal? Shouldn’t there be an egg somewhere?

My host parents were two busy professionals, one a dentist, the other a lawyer. They encouraged me to party all night long every Saturday night. Would I upset them if they realized what a true stick in the mud I am?

Should I really be walking out on the street after dark?

How will I pass these classes if I can’t speak Spanish? Will my grades transfer?

My darling, petite host mother immediately took me shopping for party clothes. She was ecstatic to dress me up like an exotic barbie doll, and she proudly marched me into an expensive clothing store. We were equally mortified to find there were no clothes that would fit me unless I wanted to look like a lady of the night. But it was apparent Martha had no plan to leave the store until her barbie had clothes. She finally settled on a pair of very ill-fitting lavender slacks–the largest in stock, a size four that translated to a size ten in my world (with a crease up the legs) and a sparkly, itchy blue top, cut at midriff.

I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or liberated, I was so stunned as she paid for the clothes. But I donned them for her, for the first party of many, because what else was I to do?

All the rules of modesty seemed so shallow in light of this culture where parties began at 10am and rocked until the wee hours of the morning. If I didn’t go to the parties and wear the clothes, I was basically an ungrateful snob, and that was even further from my M.O. to blend in, no matter what.

I decided, for lack of a better option, to wear the purple pants and sequined halter top. Off we went to the birthday bash, held in a fancy restaurant-theater. This was met with positive remarks and encouraging looks from the locals, even though I felt remarkably insecure. We entered the venue, dark except for a flashing disco ball, and friendly strangers (all significantly shorter and tanner than me) kissed me on the cheek with chatty welcoming words I couldn’t yet understand. I was enamored yet uncomfortable. It was thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

I stood around, awkwardly swaying to the cumbia music, perplexed at life on every level.

Repeat the scenario every weekend for the next six months. I’d come a long way from the days back in America when I was too prudent and prim to even consider going to the prom.

I’m not saying this is something the Apostle Paul would have done, but I think he might have approved, sort of. The best way to understand a culture is unabated immersion. Diving in, accepting all the oddities in their queer form. Not trying to sort it out as good or bad, right or wrong, but saving the moments of intense retrospection for after the experience.

I didn’t drink, and I remained chaste–and this was no easy feat at the age of seventeen when I was on my own in a foreign country (kudos to my parents again for raising me to follow rules or suffer temporary and eternal consequences). When I initially tried to make a study of Uruguay based on first impressions, my conservative upbringing raised a hundred red flags. I was hopelessly out of place and couldn’t fake my way around. I couldn’t even understand the language for the first month.

But after a few weeks of waking up, drinking instant coffee with boxed milk and settling into the routine of the house, it became clear. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do but dig in my heels. Try to enjoy yourself; have fun–the final words of advice offered by my dad before I boarded the plane.

The Holy Spirit–I cannot name what else it could have been–began to train my eyes and heart to open up to the differences around me. I did have fun. I got lost too many times to count.

It was sinking in, this idea that culture itself isn’t wrong. It’s one of God’s creative flairs. When He was designing this world and placing people in their places, handing out languages and mannerisms, he was thinking this is going to blow their minds.

To God, cultural differences simply point to his glory, that it cannot be contained or whittled. We can’t understand or pick apart the fabric because it is beyond the scope of our imagination. He is limitless and beautiful, and creation sings a million versions of the same song.

Of course, we humans know how to screw up a good thing, and no culture is without the stain of sin. We have to be alert–perhaps especially the naive highschool exchange student. But from one stranger to another, isn’t a kindness to approach people with an open mind? That we lean in first, rather than just waiting and hoping they catch our drift? We have to make the first step, we have to step out of our comfort zone to enter theirs. How will we ever know them if we don’t learn their language, their coffee, their love of accordian-filled cumbia?

The Lord can work out the details, down to the party clothes.