Just two dollars

At first I thought she was asking to borrow my phone, but when I asked her again, she said, "Do you have two dollars?" She spoke in a low voice, almost a mumble. Her hair was dyed red and she was wearing a gray t-shirt and basketball shorts. She looked like someone I might run into at Target or Wal-Mart, just any other person picking up a few necessities in life.

I quickly, maybe too cheerfully, asked if she needed "some groceries or something", but she said No, just two dollars so she could get something at Carl's Junior as she glanced across the parking lot. My instinct was to offer to go with her so I could buy her something (how many people tell us this is the right thing to do?), but something felt off about walking with her all the way across the parking lot. And my gut was telling me something else. Even flipping through my wallet, I knew I had a good amount of cash with me, even the exact two dollars she asked for. My instinct handed her a five instead. She said thank you.

So I walk into Raley's to deposit my checks from the past couple weeks, mulling thoughts of generosity and giving and trusting God with your money and the thought that, sometimes, you do give without knowing where it goes. And I remember that I haven't been as generous lately.

But seeing her when I walked out of the store a few short minutes later replaced those thoughts of generosity with ones of suspicion. Why was she still there? Was $2 not enough for a meal? What if she didn't really want food? Why would she be collecting money? Drugs? Trafficking? Just need money for rent? The thought crosses my mind that we so often assume the worst of strangers, homeless, anyone who asks for money. And that maybe I am thinking the worst of her when she may just be a little short of income this month. I don't know. My gut five minutes ago thought giving her a five was a good idea.

On cultural appropriation and voice

Another party of cultural stereotypes, except this time the subject is me. Or rather, us.
This time around I know it's wrong, and this time the is 'theme' on Asians (we're a theme?).
I could be angry. I do think it's offensive.  But if I were called to defend why, I don't know if I'm quite ready. So instead I read again on cultural appropriation, even distantly-related articles about its use of Native American culture in fashion.

Then I think back on how the Spanish Club in high school was dominated by Asians, and how eight of us girls did a dance for Spanish Club for International Day. Our Korean friend choreographed it with simple jazz dance moves to a Spanish-speaking song. I remember thinking as a junior that something was wrong with a Spanish Club being surrounded by all Asians trying to talk about and embrace Spanish culture. It was great sophomore and junior year, when Senora Diaz took us to see the murals in the Mission district, explaining the stories behind the colors and painted faces. Or when we went to her house to make tamales, with the corn meal oozing through our fingers as we tried figuring out the magical amount to put in each corn husk. And when she gave the exec team blankets at the end of the year, she made us promise to use them well and not just for any college party on the beach.

But senior year as we students ran the club--Who among us were Latino? Who even had real friendships with Latinos? If our club existed to experience and explore the culture, how could we call the shots when we didn't know it ourselves? Privileged majority, we Asian students were. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the dance that we all knew was in no way representative of Latin Dancing (I wondered if they were laughing in the audience). I'm sorry it wasn't a welcoming place for actual Spanish speakers. I'm sorry we hung out as a club, did a few things with a Spanish-like-twist, and put a label on it without thinking twice. I'm sorry we didn't search out your voices so we could hear from one who knew.



The sad thing is, I would have scoffed then if the situation were reversed: if anyone but Asians decide to cook Chinese food, throw a Chinese New Year celebration, or wear a qípáo (旗袍), I would probably laugh. I might shake my head that they're even trying on their own. I would (and still have) a distrust of anyone trying to represent or experience my culture without someone Chinese actually there, because there's a lot that they just wouldn't understand. Yet I was in a whole club trying to do just that.

These days I know a little better. These days, depending on the situation, it's not enough to laugh at their pitiful attempt (that's what I am thinking sometimes). There is a category for "people pretending to be Asian", for drawing on stereotypes, for disrespecting culture...Asians or otherwise: Wrong. Racist. Insensitive.  

But though I scramble through mixed feelings, look at pictures and posts that mock languages and dress of people I know (heck, my family even), I can't find words for it. I uselessly and pathetically scroll through user comments that go nowhere, that repeat the same arguments that just aren't helpful. When I find an eloquent, informed rebuttal, my brain wants to cling to it like gold. If only I could remember that that's why this matters, this is different, this is why it's wrong. If only I too could stand and say, "No. This is not okay."

But I'm not ready. I don't quite know how to put words together, so instead, my brain scrambles to put together thoughts, lessons, snippets:
Intent is irrelevant. 
Privileged majority, and how speaking from that place means being blind to minority voices. 
"It's not a big deal."
"Are you saying everyone who ____ is racist?"
It is not okay for the majority to tell the minority what they should or should not be offended at. 
Listening humbly. 
White privilege, and the difference between, "What if people dressed up Italian/French/English?" in comparison to a person of color. Such a painful, complicated discussion. It's not the same. 
An attitude of individualism in defenses: "Well I don't think it's offensive."
Thoughts on cultural intelligence.  
The difference between a person representing his or her own culture, and someone else imitating it.

One day soon, maybe I will be ready to speak. I will be ready to say, "No. This is not okay", and defend why. My feelings and gut reactions will be tied to reason, thoughts, experiences. I will add my voice to the conversation: not for the sake of a social media blowup, an situation gone viral, or a forced conclusion. I will add my voice because the voices need to rise, to speak. Because there are even people in my own life who need to know.

And more importantly, as we sit in the brokenness of this world, the reality of racism, and the forever-long road of reconciliation, understanding, and multi-ethnicity...as we say we need a solution to all this, this stuff that keeps happening over and over again...my voice will whisper the only answer: Jesus. Christ, the anointed, the savior of the world, who redeems our failures and gives grace for our ignorance. I love because he first loved, I can forgive because he forgave. And I can listen for the voices that aren't quite heard yet, just as he sought out the ones who weren't at the table and gave them a place. And I can cry at the misunderstanding, stereotypes, and racism that are associated with me, because he knows. He created this and this Asian-American culture was chosen. This Chinese-Malaysian-American blend is beautiful. Oh Creator.

I put fire on your tongue for your first language still remaining.

I gave you a voice so use it, because your people need you now. 

_________
I realize how this post comes two days after returning from a Latino/Chicano conference. Interesting how that works, huh?

Word of God, speak

I'm reviewing the talk on Biblical justice I wrote last year because I'm giving it again next week. But as I'm reading it, I'm wondering how on earth we thought this was possible. Summarize a huge topic woven throughout all of scripture, fundamental to all of life...into twenty minutes.

I wish I had my brainstorm poster up again, I wish I had all the documents I read and researched up to get my brain on the topic. I know some of the thoughts I've inserted into my talk are not my own, but I can't exactly remember where I read or heard them either. I feel like I'm not giving it my all because I'm not steeped in thinking about this talk like I was last year.

At the same time, it's a lie to say the topic has not been present and affecting my choices, explicitly or not. And I can see even clearer now gaps that these twenty minutes can't hit. Our responsibility in personal lifestyle, the tug I am feeling to eventually buy only fair trade (or thrift?) clothing. The way justice is woven with a lifestyle of simplicity, because if we are to seek shalom in all areas of our lives, then they come together. How shalom encompasses our human relationships and speaking up for the marginalized...or even simpler, the people on campus who are not present (correlation to not feeling welcome and belonging?) in this group. Or systemic issues, like the environment, legal issues, or oppression. All these pieces. All these pieces, and I can't fit them all in.

My heart weighs heavy with my own lack of knowledge and application, and a hint of guilt from knowing my life is far from righteous. But I remind myself of God's grace and the power of his spirit: first, that He only is just and righteous and we will always, always fall short. Thus we are forever in need of his grace to cover us. Second, He moves and speaks and stirs to his timing. May these words spoken convict where needed. It is not my responsibility to lay out the upcoming twenty steps for a student to take...the Lord will lead them to the next one.

A Feel-Good Vacation

I am shocked right now. Groupon is selling a volunteering vacation! I think part of me wishes that voluntourism just really didn't exist, that we would all see our selfish motives for flying overseas. But this brings it to a whole new level. A volunteering vacation--life changing, rewarding, exotic...

After taking a behind-the-scenes tour of the facilities and having conversations with development workers, you'll help serve a meal to hundreds of malnourished kids.

Finally, you’ll take a day trip to Hope Ministries' poultry farm, where you’ll witness the program's work to achieve financial independence with the help of thousands of cheeping chicks. In between excursions, there will be plenty of time to fly kites or swap stories with the program's kids.

Oh yes. Fly all the way to Zambia to serve food, look at chickens, fly kites, and talk with kids.

This deserves a longer post, and there are fifty other questions and topics it brings up. I am not the expert to write it. I consider my conversation on this topic relatively amateur, but there other great pieces out their on the cautions to take on short-term volunteer/mission trips, and if you're ready for it, the dangerous and negative impacts as well. But for now this Groupon Getaway deal will have to sti in my brain under the file of, "Horribly Wrong."

Today I read remarks written by a dear friend I respect. She's finishing law school this year, and she reminds me: Human rights means nothing if not that every single life is worth fighting for. Every single life – all 7 billion of us, from the world’s wealthiest man to my newborn nephew, we are all worth fighting for. Justice, mercy, truth – these are not empty ideas or futile dreams. No, as evidenced by the work and life of people like today’s honoree, these ideas are reality – and that reality is a choice. That reality is our choice. That reality is my choice.

Today I cleaned my room and consolidated some of my stuff into boxes. I'm going to leave this home of mine in several months, and it's hard to get off my mind. Boxes are collecting in the corner, and I'm starting to get rid of a few small things now because I'll have to do it eventually.

I found 8x10's I printed that fall after Kolkata 2010. 2010. Nearly two years ago. I fear that summer will fade into my memory, till all I remember is the serene lake and the beautiful sunsets. Yet there is the sardine-packed trains and the ignorance and the fact that our friend Sandip ended his life last summer, unable to withstand the loss of his girlfriend who thought death was better than the arranged marriage she was about to be forced into.



Today I hand-wrote letters to Stockton's 8th graders, telling them they can finish high school and college. I don't tell them the odds are against them and that other districts have more resources than they do.

Subway

I am sitting in the parking lot of Toys R Us, stuffing a baby shower gift and gift tissue into a bright yellow bag. She makes eye contact through the windshield and I see her mouth move.

Before I realize it, my door is open and I am stepping out to ask her what she wants. I think at some point I made an internal calculation to treat her like "any other person". And by "any other" I mean a human who's hair is more kept, clothes are clean, and doesn't smell of a faint odor. I decide these things don't matter.

I'm just trying to get a little something to eat.

There's a Subway across the lot and we walk over there. Her name is Barbara, and a few short questions prompt open sharing: getting hit by a truck and breaking all the toes in her left foot, getting denied housing offered by a combination of letters and numbers (I realize how ignorant I am about what's even available), a job lost and no more to be found, seven children scattered around, living under a bridge.

I want to ask her if she wants me to take her somewhere, but I don't even know how. After all my connections with the Mission I don't even know what to say. Thinking back now I should have offered because there's at least free food downtown, and shelter. She could get a bed for a night, though after talking with the homeless shelter even enough beds for everyone is hard to get by. But there are other question floating in my mind: do I smell alcohol? Because that would disqualify her. Or is it offensive to offer such a thing?

When we're in Subway I feel eyes on us, though I may be imagining it. We order a sweet onion teriyaki foot-long, and when I ask her when was the last time she had a good sandwich, she can't even remember. Grateful, so grateful, she thanks me when we're walking across the lot, when I offer her a drink, when I buy her chips, when I give her the $2 change (is she on drugs? will she waste it? who am I do judge?). They cut the sandwich in half so she will eat half now and save the other for later.

I pray for her and give her a hug and she is grateful. I think of other things: would she like to make a call on my phone? should I take her to a shelter? is it a bad idea to leave her my number? In the end I just give her another hug and she leaves to find a place to eat her sandwich.

Maybe she doesn't know there are places that will help her, and maybe next time I meet someone like her I will have the guts to tell them what's available.

It seems like the more I let people like Barbara cross my path, the more my soul stirs in unrest. Gone are the feel-good feelings of helping someone in need and doing your part. Instead is the sinking sadness that this is the reality of people in our world. And a hint of shame that you somehow manage to escape life without knowing of their existence.

Franciscan Blessing

May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships, so that you may live deep within your heart. Amen. May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that you may work for justice, freedom and peace. Amen. May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war, so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and to turn their pain into joy. Amen. May God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a difference in this world, so that you can do what others claim cannot be done. Amen.

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. 

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?

Green Beanie

It's the intersection I'm so familiar with, one I've driven by since my childhood.  Right at the corner of the center of Target, with gas stations on three corners and a church building on the fourth, the intersection where you turn to get to the freeway.  It's not uncommon to have panhandlers there, usually a scraggly, tired man with a cardboard sign.  When I was young, I remember my dad making some comment that they were there by choice, could get themselves out of their situation, were lazy, etc. You know.

When I drove up this time, there was a scraggly, tired man with a green beanie.  His cardboard sign said, "Disabled - Unable to work."  I don't think it asked directly for money.  But hey, I'm learning to give and to love, I'm sure Jesus would want me to give to this man who probably didn't do anything wrong.  I pull out my wallet and feel a little generous, so I call him over with a "Sir".  He leans a little out of his wheelchair to reach for the five in my hand.  

"Thank you,"  he says.

Then I realize how ill-timed this was.  I had just missed the green left turn light, which is why I had time to pull out my wallet.  But that meant the cycle of lights and turns had just begun...Awkward.  I didn't want to close my window at him just because I already gave him money.  Attempting to strike conversation, I mention something about how I'm glad the wind has died down (No! Why say that? Perhaps he was out in this wind?), I sit there with my radio turned off and twiddling my thumbs in the front seat...he throws out another, "Thank you, again."  And finally the light turns green, I say good bye and pull away in relief.

The thoughts hit me as I pull on to the freeway.  This isn't effective, is it.  What if I offered him a ride in my car to a restaurant, got to know him, listened to his needs, and connected him to a solution?  But I'm not even aware of unemployment services in my hometown. But I'm going to be late.  How do I recognize that giving money to people is not a solution, yet not use that as an excuse?  Even the oft-paraded, "Take them for a meal" now bothers me:  one meal doesn't solve the solution either (the justification is often that hey! they might use the money for drugs! alcohol! breaking the law!).  And where is the line between precaution (don't help them feed their addiction) and judgement (every person on the street is an alcoholic or a druggie)?  And how many of us have actually fed someone from the streets or taken her in to buy food and groceries?  You know, let them interrupt your life and all.

Somewhere somehow I've discovered that just money cannot solve anything.  The part of me that is startled by the questions raised by this one interaction is frustrated to realize that I wish it did, wish I could throw money at people and that would solve their problems.  Wishes I could just give $5 to the man in the green beanie in the wheelchair and feel good about myself and the world. 

StockDip 2011

Dear Jesus,

Thank you for walking with me today.

But I feel guilty.  Jesus, I am not competitive.  I didn't want to win, didn't ask to be on top.  But once you're there, what can you do?

I feel frustrated by those who think they would have done otherwise.  Redistributed wealth, set the lower class free.  But it was so hard.  You would have done the same.  Trust me, you would have.  Because I did.

 I feel dirty.  I feel like I betrayed them, hurt Natalie.  I know I said things to put them down, know I was relieved to have Steve move down.  I didn't want to be that far ahead, but we made it happen.  To secure my safety.

Maybe I feel guilty because I know I am.  All my excuses these years:  I have come to be a student, after all.  That comes first: securing my future.

I am angry because I feel like I am the only one feeling.  Why does no one echo my outburst?  Aren't we all so equally corrupt, so disgustingly selfish?

More excuses:  I didn't ask to be smart.  I'm not that rich.  My jealousy at everyone who does not understand what it is like to find your own money for college.  The shadow of loan repayment looming.  Sure, I make a thousand a month.  But that's only enough to live on.

Jesus, peel away these excuses.  Deal with this guilt, but I know I need this tension.  It is like Peter all over again--I am just like him.

But I talk four years after this journey has begun and where am I?  I've created a budget only to count down to the next month so I can spend again.  I will talk to the needy who cross my path, but I do not search for them.  And I still walk Stockton nearly paralyzed with fear.  Afraid to be approached, called at, attacked.  Wary of any dark figures, always remembering that anything can happen.

And perhaps that is my real guilt, my real shame.  That after 4.5 years, I say I have come to love the place, call it home.  Yet I fear, Jesus.  I remember the terrifying moments of darkness, I cannot trust the strangers on the street.

But Jesus you are doing something.  Your people, talking and serving in real life, fear nothing.  Bob (Peniel) says with confidence that you are changing the footprint of the city.  There are people seeking shalom.  There are churches working together.

Do you call me faithful?  Are you still pleased?  Is my heart actually soft?  For surely it is not guilt you want me to dwell in.  Conviction, perhaps.  Because, well, I have grown.  And this is a journey, after all.

SIGH, Jesus.  Sometimes I feel like I'm not going anywhere.
But thank you for being with me.  Like you always are, right Jesus?
I love you.

Audrey
_________________________________

Sixteen staff and students from Pacific Christian Fellowship participated in StockDip this past weekend.  With the intent of getting a small "dip" into the reality of urban poverty as well as a glimpse of God's heart for the oppressed, we studied scripture, participated in simulations, went on a city walk, and heard testimonies as well as lived and ate with the residents of the Gospel Center Rescue Mission.