Toiling the soil

They're not uncommon outside of Target. Sometimes they stand, but often times they sit on the curb, just by the exit doors that swing out as you walk through with your plastic bags of new purchases. Maybe it's a less hostile posture to be sitting so low, maybe they're tired in the central valley heat. Regardless, it means you have to look down if you're talking to them. That, or ignore them.

They're usually polite. She wasn't any different, and when I offered to take her in to buy her food, she was immediately grateful. (Tangent: I remember offering to take someone in once, but he said Target didn't allow him to go in, whether because he made people uncomfortable or because he freeloaded I don't remember. But I remember I had to say it was okay that because he was with me.) Her name was Debbie, and in all stereotypes I guess she looked like what you'd expect. Stringy hair. A face that looked like it hadn't been washed (it still strikes me that the streets can age a person, and I wonder what I'd look like if I didn't/couldn't wash my face), an oversized t-shirt a bit too worn in and clearly unwashed for awhile.

As we walked to the food court she chatted endlessly.

I'm not from here, you see. I'm from the Bay.
Oh where from?
Fremont.
My family's from San Jose, it's not far from there.
Oh yes. I went to Miller Middle School, do you know Miller? It's a great school. So I came here to get a fresh start, you know? But it turns out I moved into a bad neighborhood. I found out my apartment had cockroaches and rats and mice and they gave me two days before eviction and well here I am. My neighbors, they do drugs and I'm not into that. I've been clean for ten years (Do I doubt her? I have no reason to. Why does it matter? Why are we so distrustful of people with unkempt appearances?), and that sobriety, that ain't something you want to lose. I used to do that lifestyle until I realized there's gotta be more, you know? And I have a daughter and I gotta take care of her.
Do you have a place to stay tonight?  (I think of my friends at the Rescue Mission. Is that un-dignifying to suggest? Then I think--how would they even get there? Systemic issues and circles that don't help each other...)
Oh yeah tonight we do. But it's hard you know...

She chatters on and somewhere in between we get a hot cinnamon pretzel, an Icee (That'd be really nice, I'm so thirsty. I'm so thirsty you know? It gets hot out there), and a hot dog for her friend outside (is he her husband? boyfriend? why does it matter to me?). A friend from school happens to be in the food court as well. In my head crosses the thought: I wonder what she thinks? And later when there's more space in my head and fewer words hitting my hears I think of the fact that she is a Christian too and I wonder what she thought about the whole thing.

And there are a lot worse people out there than me, I'm no way saying I'm the only one who's got it bad. There are a lot, a lot of people who have it hard too. But nice people like you who help out, I'm so thankful. I know there are people who ask for money and go spend it on drugs and I get that, I know people don't want to give to that (what's it like to know people are judging you?), but it's so nice when people help out. It really makes a difference you know.

Pray for us tonight, okay? It really makes a difference.

Yeah, yeah it does.
______________________________________

I walk to my car and, as usual, my head is spinning. I even know I'm going to blog about it, because I always blog about things like this because it makes me think. I think of how she told me she goes to church and asked me to pray for them, but I didn't say much about God or Jesus. Did I bring the kingdom near to them? Should I have stayed longer to talk, to pray, to be deeper?

I think of feeding people and quickly conclude: Buying someone a meal is not justice.Feeding their physical hunger in five minutes then driving away is not justice, no more than giving someone money is. Justice is something more holistic, something deeper, something so right and not just something nice to do. 

And I get into my car a little frustrated, because even though I let Debbie into my life it was but for a few minutes, almost just enough but stopped before I invested more deeply. But I am also confused because no one told me the next step after feeding someone and "getting to know" them and "treating them like human beings." No, in the interrupted moment that's all I seem to remember.

Next conclusion: It may not be full justice, but maybe that's it for this time in my life. Maybe, like the parable of the talents, I will be faithful to responding in this small way of bringing her into the food court. Maybe it's part of Shannon's commitment--Allowing my life to be interrupted by those in need (sub the poor, the oppressed, the hungry, the widowed, etc). If nothing, I pray that this keeps my heart soft, so whenever the next step (establishing friendship? serving as a voice?) comes, I will be listening. And these thoughts that flow through my head (why do I feel the need to judge them? why do I notice the people who notice me with her? what else does she need...I can't tell?) won't be new, but maybe there will be answers next time.

After all this is a journey, a long long journey. I remind myself that never on this earth will we reach complete justice, but that doesn't mean Jesus doesn't move us closer to his heart. And if taking someone into the food court is how he is asking me to be faithful for now, I will do it. If that is all I can comprehend about how to love a hungry stranger, then at least I will do that and not ignore that need with a, "but that doesn't solve the real issue" (funny, same reason people use for not giving them money). I only pray that this is just one more step in such a deep issue. And maybe some day I will know what else to do after the pretzel and the Icee.

With what shall I come before the LORD
   and bow down before the exalted God?
Shall I come before him with burnt offerings,
   with calves a year old?
Will the LORD be pleased with thousands of rams,
   with ten thousand rivers of olive oil?
Shall I offer my firstborn for my transgression,
   the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?
He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.
   And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
   and to walk humbly with your God.
-Micah 6:6-8

Small steps. Faithful steps. Humble steps.

It's not just about the American Dream

My heart is breaking.  It is turning over and twisting and infuriated with the ignorance, insensitivity, and patronizing attitude that exists. 

I read a paper that is written by a university staff worker. It talks about our university programs that reach out to the community, intentionally giving students an opportunity at higher education.  They are good programs.

But these papers...they are steeped in assumptions, prejudice, and the idea that if we can get everyone through our experience, we will make the world a better place. That's why we are doing our part.

You arrogant, blind man.  

I have lived in this city but five years, so I cannot speak as one who has loved this region for years. I recognize families who have seen better days, but I also see the gems they still treasure. I experience the familial feel in restaurants where I see so many greet each other and I assume they have known each other for years. I am slowly exploring the organizations who pour their energy into the rougher areas of Stockton, who aren't afraid to get to know them. They eat downtown to support that area so that the city doesn't keep trying to expand north to get away from the population that is at times messy.

But you, you paint a picture of such disparity. You write as if the area is inherently on a downward spiral and it always has been, were it not for the saving grace of Higher Education. You write of the crimes and academic gaps and economic dismay and ethnic minorities as if that is all this county is. In such generalities and in your offensive descriptions, you assume that those you are reaching must be immigrants and blue collar workers, uneducated and disadvantaged.  But surely if we put them through college and give them a stab at the American Dream, that will be enough.

No, we cannot neglect the reality of Stockton.  The statistics themselves are at times overwhelming, and driving by the run-down streets is far less than encouraging. But to write as you do is insensitive and offensive. 

This is but a fraction of my feelings as I read these papers this morning.  There is more to be furious about: higher education as a magical key to solve everything, the if you try hard enough you can mentality, and horrible ways to categorize people and to explain what we're doing to change the world.  

It is an interesting place to study biblical justice in one area of my life, turn around, and see a case example in another. I remind myself that I am not that much better, that I too have much to learn, that time and time again it is my turn to strip my eyes and attempt to adjust my lens away from my own viewpoint. Still, I lost an hour of productivity at work trying to grasp what sort of arrogant, ethnocentric, upper class employee could write something so ignorant. 

$2 joys

It is a small store.  I've driven by it many times on my way to somewhere else, but today is the first day I stop by a little used book store on Miracle Mile across the street from the Japanese restaurant the college kids go to their freshmen year before they know where the better restaurants are. 

Three aisles of books in an order I don't quite figure out in the ten minutes I am there.  Regardless, there is a happiness in being there.  In being with books read and loved.  There is a freedom you can't get in a Barnes & Noble (I would say Border's but we know where that's going)...maybe it's because when you have to pay $15 for a book, you should be sure you love it already and even then you can't decide if you want to break the book in and read comfortably or protect the book and it's clean corners.  But when you pick up a book for $2 and it's already loved, it's okay.  Someone has loved the book so if you don't, you can pass it back to someone who will.  But if you do love it, it's yours to keep, it's one more little classic in the beginnings of what you hope will be a good library some day. 

Books. Oh, the joy of a book.  Of being lost in the pages, living in a world where you don't exist but you are watching everything.  Not knowing what will happen or if anything big will happen, or perhaps this is really just the narrative of a very normal life.  A good, normal book, with joys and pains and love and strife.  Pages after pages...

And so I sit for the first time in a long time, spending hours in a day reading.  It has been too long.  It feels so good.

Just a quarter

He made eye contact and approached me Saturday morning at the farmer's market.  A stereotypical homeless man, he had long, scraggly, dry hair; an overgrown beard, a beanie, and a face wrinkled and aged with dirt and faded, baggy clothes.  A lone Caucasian man at a high Asian-population market bustling with small families, he sticks out.

As usual, my heart jumps a beat or two at the approach of unfamiliarity, but with the people around I quickly reason that nothing could happen.  He asks for a quarter or something.  I'm in a good mood, so in a chipper tone I offer him a peach that I had just bought.

"I can't eat that, miss."

I feel dumb immediately.  After all, just last week I read an article that mentioned many people on the streets have bad teeth and therefore cannot eat an apple. Duh, Audrey, duh. Way to be considerate. Still, I bounce back quickly, offering to buy him food (as any one who has listened to a "how to love the poor" conversation seems to believe is the best thing to do).  He says no, no, just a quarter.  Then says thank you.

As is typical with my bouts with the homeless, my mind is flooded as I walk away.  Why did I just give a quarter, why not more?  Is it de-humanizing and taking his dignity to offer more? What does he really want with the quarter? Why don't I befriend him, ask him name, and pull a Jesus card--using a simple request as a quarter to probe for something deeper? 

And try as I might, I still feel ill-equipped in these situations. My brain calculates of all my interactions and ideals, but the man in front of me is still hungry and cannot eat a peach. He has 25 more cents than before I met him, but there has got be more to loving the poor than that, right?

I wonder:  If I add enough creamer to a cup of coffee, will it taste like a latte?