growing up in wisdom

"...the foolishness of God is wiser

than man's wisdom, and the weakness of God

is stronger than man's strength.

Not many of you were wise by human standards;

not many were influential;

not many were of noble birth.

But God chose the foolish things of the world

to shame the wise.

He chose the weak things of the world

to shame the strong."

{1 Corinthians 1: 25, 26b-27}

When do people start naming someone as "wise"? And how do you get wisdom? Do you pray harder and longer? Just ask for it once? Does it happen overnight?

As I've read through Paul's first letter to the Corinthians many times this year, I can't get away from wisdom. It is clear that we need to be seeking that which is wholly other than man's wisdom, so much so that this human wisdom isn't even comparable to the foolishness of God! How much more, then, shall the wisdom of God outweigh human wisdom?

God is giving me wisdom - day by day, trial by trial, question by question. In reading this morning, I believed it, felt it, understood it a bit more. Where did it come from? When did this wisdom start growing in me?

Our friends, our Family, are surrounded by difficult circumstances, people touched by real life, who often lack the insulation of privacy and great wealth and power (the kind of power that gets you out of tough spot for the right payment in return). And in these circumstances, helplessness is easy to feel - all too easy. In fact, helplessness is what I always begin with.

And in this helplessness, only the Giver of Life, the One who has food and drink that will forever satisfy, can speak into our brokenness, our helplessness. We collapse on the floor to cry out to God. We lie awake in the middle of night, interceding. We sit in dimly lit living rooms, helping our sister hold on.

And it is in those circumstances, God's wisdom is growing in us. We can't help but become wiser when we enter into the Real World of walking with God's children - both those who know his Name and those who have yet to follow the Way of Jesus.

May you also be given the grace to enter into the the lives of those around you, carried only by the Love and Wisdom of God.

stories at bottoms of stairs

Every day bears new stories, new faces, and difficult decisions. There are children whose school uniforms are two sizes too small; grandmothers raising grandbabies; cabinets stripped of food; and houses smothering their occupants after a cut-off notice went… unnoticed.

Though every day bears new stories, somehow they start sounding the same. Our hands get weary, our ears turn deaf, and our hearts turn to something like stone. Which stories are true? How do we help without hurting? What is the right response – and when is ‘no response’ the right response?

I have lived, alongside many others, with these tensions for many years now. I’ve dropped my head to my desk, cried as I write down phone messages, and stormed down those stairs to a persistent visitor who rarely tells me the truth.

And I cannot say I’ve got good answers. Oh, I’ve got some answers… to a very few number of questions. And most of those answers came after the telling of the story, after the writing of the check, after the wiping of the tears. Some would even say those answers came too late.

___________________________

She’s around my age – mid-20s – with three children. She’s relentless, chases after things, tries until she can say she’s tried with everything she’s got. And this time, all she needed was $50 to keep her air conditioner running in the 110 heat index of Memphis. I like this girl; she’s kind and seems honest. She might even remind of myself – bright eyes, high hopes, more optimistic than is sometimes good for us.

Maybe that’s why, with one hour to go until cut-off time, we hugged, made small talk, and I handed her a check, for a measly $50.

I wanted to sit down and talk; I needed to know more about her story. There are other things we need to address. What about next month? What about school? Is your brother ever going to contribute to the household income? But those questions have to wait. Transportation and children and “temp” agencies hold a firm grip on her schedule. And so I will wait, too.

____________________________

Life can start feeling a little worthless, a little like all these things don’t matter - $50 and hugs and prayers and follow-up phone calls ending in, “I still don’t have a job.” The dead ends and disconnected phone numbers can wrench the compassion right from your stone heart.

But I cannot quit; I cannot forget my own dead ends, my own fruitless pursuits, dark decisions, and faith-killing sin. I cannot forget, and so I’ll keep walking down those stairs.

a thought on family

In the middle of Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird", sharing her two cents about writing groups and how good they can be, she told of a group of 4 writers who got together.

They've gone from being four tense, slightly conceited,

lonely people who wanted to write

to one of those weird little families we fashion

out of whoever's around us.

They're very tender with one another.

They all look a lot less slick and cool than they did

when they were in my class,

because helping each other has made their hearts bigger.

(p. 159, emphasis mine)

poem: contemplative girl seeks autumn

cinnamon sprinkle, anticipation of the autumn

blueberries baked, almost feel the cool breezes

feeding a stereotype, contemplative coffee-sipper

stare out the window

to round up my thoughts

it must mean more to feel the fingers on the page

to keep the printing press oiled

some resemblance of human

this you say as you rush, blenders and mixers

is this your art or your work?

watch their exchange, the naming of names

more than a game - this is home, this is space

soy and agave and dark and light roasts

swishing and washing and pouring

"extra-special order", we call it with grace

though extra, we need you to pay

these sounds and routines and rushing around

give rhythm to a mind that's been scattered 'round

your chaos is my put-togetherness

your ignoring, my attention paid

a day to gather, and dream of the months

when scarves will wrap 'round

eyes will shut tight

against winds and cold; I anticipate.

your banters and love and schedules

will continue on, uninterrupted

and I will come seeking and finding

familiarity in your names and home;

maybe, to me, you'll say, "welcome home".

Andrew Peterson: why we listen

And I love to watch you listen to the music

because you sing to me a music of your own

as I cast out all these lines

so afraid that I will find I am alone, all alone

(Andrew Peterson, 'Many Roads')

Some listen for good guitar riffs, others pick out great lines, lyrics that are poetry. Some need perfect vocals, while others feel at home when he forgets the lines to his own songs.

Even from the back of the room - a room without much character, color, warmth - we were there, we were on our way to Alaska, just weeks away from cancer's sweep of death, fishing poles tied up in the back with our beloved in the front seat, by our side until the end of the road. We knew the beauty and sometimes-perceived-defeat of marriage, dancing in fields of land mines; we imagined the despair of Hosea's calling after his unfaithful wife.

Was it just the good storytelling? Could anyone have told the same stories, taken us on the same journey? Or was it the humanness of our Brother who did, indeed, forget the lines to his own song, only to catch the lyrics in his inner ear monitor (thanks to his road manager) just in time to keep us on our toes, but still please our ears.

Did we come for perfection? Or did we come to be included in the story, to be given glimpses of life lived, put to a melody?

Before we ended this sweet night, we filled up the room:

After the last tear falls...

there is love; love, love, love...

We'll see how the tears that have fallen

were caught in the palms

of the Giver of love and the Lover of all

and we'll look back on these tears as old tales.

(AP, "After the last tear falls")

housemates: attempts at the ordered life

Dinner ready at 6:30? Eh, let's shoot for 8 instead. Meeting at 8:30? We'll get around to it by 9 or so. Let's talk about order: chore lists minus the legalism; a hospitable dinner table; lessons in composting and recycling {creation care, we do seek}; Bonhoeffer's words on "life together".

We've arrived at a place with 5 people, spread between 3 bedrooms, with all shades of personality, organization (or lack thereof - I speak of myself here), and preferred flavor of juice. The house isn't settled, but our souls are on our way. Our patterns and rhythms aren't completely learned, but we already know who likes to shower in mornings, middays, or evenings. Our moods will shift, but so will our ability to extend grace - hopefully, for the better.

This is our attempt at the ordered life.

juice only, please! // Day 1

Celery, cucumber, spinach, green apple, lemon... or, you can just call it today's lunch. In juice form. I'm serious.

Apparently, this fad is going around right now, this juice-fasting business. Well, we signed right on up, and here we are, drinking our dinner.

How am I feeling? Slightly depressed, mad, hungry, blah, blah, blah. So, why am I doing this? That's a good question, one I couldn't answer to a friend at the coffee pot today (coffee which I had to smell and not partake in). But I do know the reason: to get rid of some crap in my body. To be disciplined for once. To quit the out-of-control love I have for stuffing my face (I said it out loud!)

And this is Day 1.