hunger

Fullerton, California is teeming with survivors. Driving through, someone might mistake the quaintly lit downtown, packed with bars, fancy restaurants, and hair salons as somewhere free from poverty.

But survival isn’t a banner that many people are willing to raise high. As if to advertise, “Yeah, this damn economy has taken me down, too.” In fact, these very words wakened me from some kind of sleep today. As I stood near the intersection of Pomona and Wilshire Ave, a line of people snaked for almost 100 yards in front of a small building in a parking lot. All survivors, and all reminding me of the luxurious characteristics of my own life.

As I looked into the sea of almost 100 faces, I saw many things. I saw eyes longing for conversation, perhaps the only they’d get until next Sunday when more food is handed out by the local church. I saw other eyes invariably fixed on the ground, as if reluctant to connect with anyone around. I sensed guilt in the hearts of men who couldn’t afford groceries for their families. I saw mothers with children clinging affectionately to their thighs, and the silent, thankful expressions they displayed when a church volunteer offered them some extra morsel. After all, growing kids have to eat.

The heaviness of this group of people temporarily lifted as I heard people laughing and talking in line. I smiled. A man ahead of me made a raunchy comment about the woman in front of him. The heaviness returned. A guy my age stood nearby. His face was plastered with metal piercings, and his girlfriend, hair dyed bright green, stood by his side. His barely audible, mumbled responses let me know he wasn’t interested in a charity conversation. And I had to ask myself, was there some truth in his reaction to me?

The hard part is, how do I explain myself to someone who’s been dealt such an impossible deck of cards? How do I convince someone that serving them, talking with them, isn’t some moral fix I use to make myself feel good? That I actually care. That I'm able to love them, because although undeserving I've also been loved beyond anything I can imagine.

Sometimes it bothers me that I’m so far removed from their world. I’ve never been startled from my sleep by the rumbling of train wheels over the tracks, because it’s the only place where cops won’t heckle me. I’ve never spent a night shivering on cold pavement, with no promise of warmth or the next night being any different. I’ve never walked past a restaurant or store, lacking the means to buy something. I’m not naïve to the fact that life isn’t fair. And I’m not smiling at the fact that I’ve been given more than most.

Today a man lacked the strength to stand in line for his food. With a mangy dog tucked under one arm, his only earthly companion, and a bag in another, the old man started teetering, sweating, and complaining about stomach pain. You could see it in his eyes…he needed food so bad. But his body wouldn’t allow him to stand there, and with tears in his eyes he slowly hobbled out of line. I could tell this man had tasted life’s unfair nature. But the moment his eyes filled with tears, something stronger welled up in his demeanor, some determination that life on the streets had fiercly engrained into his being. He wasn’t going to let it defeat him. I offered to grab him some food. As he waited on a nearby bench I threw some things in a plastic bag and ran it back to him…oatmeal, soup, some bread.

As I handed him the bag and turned to leave he asked me, “Will you pray for me?” Of course I would. The man said he was HIV positive. At 73 years old, the symptoms were taking over.

So, what can someone like me do to make a difference? Someone who's never tasted life on the streets or counted down the days till the next welfare check arrives. I’ll tell you one thing, I can pray for this man. Not because I can help him, but because there’s a God who sees injustice and hates it. It’s a perfect, loving, just hatred. May days like today be a sober reminder of how much I’ve been given, and in turn how much I’m called to give.

looking back

There is something beautiful and painful about memories. They seem to find us in the quiet moments, as if they've been waiting to peek through the busyness and cluttered nature of our lives. For me, when I catch a glimpse of the past, sticking it's nose cautiously into my world, I get stopped dead in my tracks. For a while I'm in a trance.

Humanity becomes numb to change. We can't feel it happening most of the time. Sure, we're aware of the big things, like moving across the country or painting our bedroom or getting a new car. But we miss the everyday changes, the subtleties. We can't feel ourselves getting older, we ignore the fingers of Father Time as he gently sculpts wrinkles and blemishes into our skin.

Perhaps our lack of awareness is a blessing. There probably aren't many people who want a countdown to the end of their days. But at the same time, I enjoy seeing the changes life brings, over a year, a week, a day, even an hour. To think about how far I've come. To smile at innocent mistakes. To regret intentional ones. To see the hand of God through it all, the one thing that hasn't altered one bit.

He is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Thank God for that.

tell me again...this time I might believe it

Redundancy is a hero for the human heart. We are constantly in need of reminders. Regardless of how many times something is proven to us, our nature ultimately convinces us that our fears and selfish desires should be satisfied.

Growing up I remember hearing about the fate of Old Testament Israel. They were a nation swayed by idolatry, lust, and a desire for independence from God. I remember being amazed and slightly offended at their disobedience. It just didn't seem to matter how God proved himself to these people; entire seas parted, plagues tormented an Egyptian Empire, water sprang miraculously from a dusty boulder in the scorching desert. And for what? So that Israel could eventually lose sight of God's provision and forgiveness to pursue its own sinful desires. They were given constant reminders.

I've been naive to feel so far removed from the God who performed these miraculous signs and wonders. And I've been arrogant to remove the condition of my own heart from that of Israel. The truth is, I'm equally reluctant to latch onto God's promises and hope. I am distracted and enticed by sinful things beckoning me.

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge. It's about more than what I want. It's about the fact that what I want is tainted and will leave me desperate and hopeless. God, remind me of who you are. You are a pillar of fire in the night. You are a blind man squinting through tears enjoying new found vision. You are a friend who takes the time to listen.

You are good.

springtime

Today spring finally arrived. This morning as I sleepily peeked out my bedroom window to gauge the weather, my eyes were bombarded with sunlight. I left my sweatshirts on the floor with a smile and headed out for the day.

It seems like yesterday that spring was just here. Maybe I over analyze metaphors, but it seems that this time of year always marks change and growth. As the sun starts to warm the frozen earth, the world springs to life.

Recently I've felt myself thawing out. In many ways I've been unaware of the frozen nature of my own existence. But the sudden burst of warmth has revived me, bringing a new vibrancy and vitality to everything I do.

Despite the changes, as I look around I still feel sometimes that I'm living in an ice age. Many people around me don't understand the changes within me, and certainly don't desire to join me. But I suppose that's alright, and I wouldn't change anything about what's been happening.

sly father time

Daylight savings time.

Wikipedia describes it as this:
"Daylight saving time (DST)is the convention of advancing clocks so that afternoons have more daylight and mornings have less. Typically clocks are adjusted forward one hour near the start of spring and are adjusted backward in autumn."

It just so happens that this Saturday my alarm clock will go off an hour earlier. Every year DST, is it's apparently called, never fails to complicate my life. Don't get me wrong,I'm thankful for another hour of daylight.

But most years my phone (which also serves as my alarm clock) fails to adjust to the new time, making me an hour late for things. Which, for someone who's already late for things, isn't exactly good news. So, I propose that every person on earth re-schedules every event precisely one hour later.

That's not too much to ask, right?