A Christmas Carol

Last night we got a Christmas tree, so I decided it was time to read A Christmas Carol again. Probably because of this, I had a strange dream...

I ran my own pie diner (thanks to watching The Waitress), and just outside of town was a farm. I decided to go there to get fresh produce, and on my way I met an old man who warned me, "When you get there, you will see two unhappy people working, for they are only two there. When you ask them their names, one will say, 'Hunger', and the other, 'Want.' They will not be friendly, but they will give you what you pay for and nothing more."

All this was just as the old man had described. When the time came to get more produce, I went out to the same farm but was surprised to find two different people working. Still, when I asked their names the response was the same: "Hunger", said the wrinkly man in the straw hat and overalls; "Want", said the wrinkly lady in the sun dress and apron. Confused, I reported this to the old man when I got back to town. "True," he said, "you will see many different people there, but really there are only two; those who are hungry, and those who are in want. The further into the farm you go, you will meet people who like to call themselves by different names. For example, 'The one who pretends to be happy by spending all his money on flashy things', or 'The one who celebrates his unhappiness by flaunting academic cynicism." No matter, there are still only two people, for all the unhappiness in the world comes from either hunger or want. Those who are hungry may not be hungry for food, but they are hungry for love, for attention, for meaning. Those who are in want may have all the things they could ever need, but are still wanting for what others have, or wanting for what they cannot have. Those who are hungry for food may be driven to do things they would never otherwise dream of doing; those who are wanting for physical means and dignity may no longer act with means and dignity. Yet those who are hungry for only food and wanting for only material things you will not find there."

And so this Dickens-like imagery impressed itself very clearly upon my sleeping consciousness just in time for the Christmas season to begin. It is not revolutionary, I realize, but it is interesting, isn't it?

The Seat of Homelessness.

The way the bus schedule works out, by necessity I arrive at work 12 to 13 minutes early. There's a little seat carved out of a stump that I sit on to wait for someone else to arrive and unlock the door. As I sit there in my worn sneakers and over-sized grungy coat, with my backpack stocked for the day, hood up and hands huddled in my sleeves (trying to keep warm), I watch as a few other early-to-work people hurry past me now and then. Sometimes they steal a sidewise glance, but always they walk quickly on the far side of the sidewalk, more often staring straight ahead as if I'm not there. The first day or two I tried to meet their gaze and smile or say good morning, but the people avoided my eyes and quickened their step as they neared my stump. And I realized: they are acting like they're afraid of me, like they're avoiding me. Why would they do that? Why are they afraid? I looked down at myself, looked across the street where a homeless man, similarly attired, slept on the sidewalk with his backpack as a pillow.

Understanding dawned on me slowly (in accordance with the time of day). I bet they think I'm homeless. I bet they do! I bet they're avoiding me because they're afraid I'm crazy, afraid I'll want something from them, afraid that if they look at me they'll remember I'm a person and not just part of the tree stump. Afraid to confront the reality that their fellow human being could be living more like an animal than a human, and they are treating her as such. Afraid of suffering; afraid of compassion; afraid of guilt.

The other day I read an article about a man who, upon hearing he was to be named head pastor of his church, decided to live the life of a homeless man for 4 days. He then walked into church on his "inauguration day" looking and smelling as such, and addressed the congregation. A decently outside-the-box thing to do, I'd say.
Read the full story here:
http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2013/07/24/pastor-homeless-experience/2583241/

Now I no longer attempt to greet the people. I simply follow them with my eyes from under my hood; daring them to look at me, daring them to see me as a person. Daring myself to look at me through their eyes and wonder, what would I see?

Do you have the time?

Did I mention I got a part time job as a baker? A few mornings a week I get up at 4:00 and head off into the chilly morning, shake off the sleepys on the way, and bake pie for 8 hours.

I walk about 15 minutes to get to my bus stop, and I can't help but be hyper-aware of my surroundings. Not because I think it's really dangerous, but because it is dark and I am alone (Don't worry all you moms and dad out there - in my coat pockets I have my phone in one hand and mace in the other). I don't usually meet anyone on this walk, but the other day there was a man coming slowly towards me as I rounded a corner. I'm walking quickly and purposefully, head down, but he stops me (my radar goes up) and says, "Do you have --". At this moment I automatically jump to the assumption that he wants something from me, and will finish the sentence with: "Do you have a few dollars to spare? A cigarette? A light?" I prepare myself to say, "No, sorry" and hurry by, but he says: "Do you have the time?"

Taken aback, I glance at my phone, say, "quarter to 5:00" (what an ungodly hour!) and as I continue walking I replay these words over and over in my head. "Do you have the time?" Before knowing anything about this man I had prepared myself to have no time for him, and he confronted my selfishness in the simplest way possible. "Do you have the time?" Do I? It is so easy to be about my business, and legitimately there is a lot of business I am always taking care of. But maybe there is something to that question. Maybe I need to be more aware of how I use my time, of allowing myself to have the time more often. Maybe sometimes that is all someone needs of us - our time.

Do you have the time?

I've been thinking about this lately.

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
It is in dying to self that we are born to eternal life.

--St. Francis of Assisi

Snow

Today Minnesota had its first snowfall of the winter.

Perhaps one of the best feelings in the world is looking out the window to see an unexpected world of sparkling whiteness. The first blinding glimpse of it is awakening and exhilarating, and as you step out the door and breathe in that fresh snowy air with a smile, you know that all is well with the world. That is, until you realize you must scrape off your car... and by the time you get to work late after dealing with the population's incompetence in snow driving (come on, people, this happens every year!) you are cursing your car, the time, your soggy boots, and the god of weather. This is the way being an adult ruins the mystery and and enchantment of the world.

Maybe this is similar to the way an adventure ceases to feel like one after it's been parked in one spot a little too long. The enchantment and wonder that could be found in every new corner, every new face, has begun to wear off with the monotony of familiarity. It is at this point you can take off your rose-colored glasses and see that this place, like every other place in the world, is home to chaos, injustice, sorrow, bureaucracy, segregation. This place, being inhabited by humans, exhibits the paradox of the human existence: that in every joy there is the sorrow of incompleteness, in every healing a scar, in every success the reminder of failure. Because there is no answer; no one fix or solution to suffering and poverty, no one city that does it better than another.

Or perhaps it is because the answer to helping people can't be found in a place or a program, but in people themselves. People who choose to look at the world differently, look at their neighbors compassionately, look at their lives sacrificially. What if we all did this?