Dwarfed

My life is a crazy work of art by God.

Why do you take that time with me?

Why do you care?

Why can't I lose my care for my life in Yours?

Three fingers pointing back at me

We look with disdain on the Iraqis for sqandering their hard-bought freedom, and yet doesn't Jesus' church do the same? He came to set us free from the ruthless dictator of sin and death, although we didn't ask for it, but how often do we live under a dead dictator's thumb? Do we express daily gratitude for precious blood spilt? Do we receive what we've been given and use it responsibly? Do we grow to maturity and imitate our Savior, for our own best interest if nothing else? Do we blame Him for our sufferings, and make Him sorry for saving us, sorry that He ever got involved?

Allowing the helpless to help me

I love living in the city for many reasons, and one of them is that you never know what you're going to see or whom you're going to run into on a given day. Which leads into my mini-adventure of the day, and how I met my angel in disguise.

I'm still very much learning to be more dependent on God and other people. I don't want to impose on others and think I should do everything myself, secretly believing I can. Perhaps that is the reason I lug a heavy box of paper seven blogs uphill once a week to Kinkos (our dear bulletins, Grace peeps), all by myself. Other reasons may include my desire to break the churchlady stereotype with my bulging biceps, my lack of planning, and the fact that Bed Bath & Beyond did not have the correct cart size for my needs (I'm not bitter).

So tonight at 5:00 I set out from the office with a heavier-than-usual box of bulletins and other printed items. I hadn't gone two blocks before even my "one step at a time" mantra failed me. I passed a homeless man who stuck his cup in my face, and I thought, "How insensitive. Doesn't he see the contrast here? I'm sacrificing my body for a nonprofit wage, and he's lying around asking for handouts." And then an idea was born: I should snag some dear homeless person (there are plenty around the office 'hood) to carry my box each week and pay them for it.

Just then, another homeless person, a woman this time, noticed me and was about to ask for spare change when she saw my pained expression and The Heavy Box. She wisked it out of my arms and offered to carry it for me...for a small fee of course was the unspoken understanding between us. I gladly relinquished it, praising God for His help and mind-reading skills.

I'm not sure which abused substance enabled her to carry that box like it was nothing and plow through the crowd so I could barely keep up, but I was not complaining, or preaching for that matter. "I'm gonna work for my money!" she gladly chortled. And I gladly agreed. "I don't do drugs, they kill ya. I just drink beer....I'm gonna carry this mother ___ up the street for you. I'm gonna work for my money." "Yes you are," I laughed. "You are my angel from God today." We made quite a scene in crowded pre-game Chinatown, her loudmouthing obseneties, me praising her strength and laughing at the whole situation.

She found out I worked for a church, and I tried to invite her since we practically passed right by the building we meet in. She can join Gloria, one of our few needy regulars, and maybe bring some friends. Pray for Vanessa...she'd make a fun Christian.

Interesting how when I acknowledge my helplessness and don't struggle against it but look to God to provide, He does, in surprising ways. When my all-sufficiency steps aside, His rushes in to fill the void. I think that's a good trade, don't you?

Where am I?

Sometimes I think I was kidnapped at birth from another universe. Why else would I regularly ask myself questions like who am I? Where am I? How old am I again? What time of year is it? Why do people get so excited about things like football?

That or I've lived alone for too long.