Community: An Intricate Texture of Belonging

Today, I was part of a community.

Seventy-five people from my church convened at an old public school building in the Brookside neighborhood on the near-East side of Indianapolis to wash walls, serve hotdogs, and play basketball with local kids. The building is being repurposed as a classical, Christian school, which hopefully will stimulate community revitalization. We went to clean and feed and redeem, to accomplish something bigger than ourselves.

But something even bigger than that was going on. More than 600 other people from our church were scattered throughout other Indianapolis neighborhoods and non-profit centers, working for God's glory and the good of our city. United in purpose, we divided to cover more ground, to extend the influence.

We were in community, coming from community, going into community. An intricate texture of belonging.

And also excluding.

Ambitious Enough

At some point in the last year or so, I stopped writing at the desk in my studio.

The move to the couch or the kitchen table was certainly a matter of convenience in the beginning. My sisters have each stayed with me for a period of 12 weeks, and each of them occupied the spare bedroom that doubles as my creative space.

Having a curious puppy also became an excuse to vacate the studio. Tilly's curiosity often led her under beds and behind dressers and into all the places a puppy shouldn't be, like my studio. So even when there wasn't a sister in residence, I became accustomed to shutting the door and staying out of the room.

And then I reasoned, isn't that why I bought a laptop? So that I could write anywhere?

But if I traced it back, I have a suspicion that my habit of writing in the more central places of my home, the places where food was prepared and television watched and guests welcomed, became firmly entrenched about the time I gave up my ambition.

Only real writers need studios and desks. The rest of us can make do with a laptop on the coffee table.

Writing as an Act of Hope and Faith

Attending writing conferences brings out the best of me. 

The sessions inspire me in my craft; the other writers help me feel connected; the book tables tickle my imagination. I take pages of notes; I breathe the air of creativity; I function on less sleep than normal.

But writing conferences also bring out the worst of me.

Crimes of Opportunity

On Tuesday, I arrived home from work to find my garage door wide open. This has happened to me a few times in the past. My friend Verray would be passing my house on the way to work an hour or so after I left, only to see my garage door open and call me. Once, it happened when I was several states away on vacation. My friend Julie went to the house, prepared to call 911 at the first sign of foul play.

Usually when this happens, I look around, and everything's fine. The garage door had just momentarily become enslaved to stray electrical signals from a short in the wiring, a low-flying plane, or a neighbor with the same signal.

This time, however, when I arrived home from work to see the garage fully exposed, I immediately noticed that my bicycle was gone. My $400 bicycle that I loved dearly. It always sat next to the far wall of the garage. Once, when my sister pulled into the garage, she bumped the bike, pinning it to the wall and leaving a black smudge.

Now, the space was empty, the black smudge left behind as the only evidence that a bicycle was ever there.

Ten Things I've Learned From Food

Ten things I have learned from eating a sugar-free, soy-free, gluten-free, artificial-preservative-free vegan diet for three months:

1.) It's possible to eat this way and still enjoy eating.

2.) Lots of other people are doing this too. Just stop by Whole Foods and you'll meet most of them.

3.) I can eat as much food as I want when none of it has much caloric content.

4.) The health benefits of eating this way are undeniable.

5.) There are more fruits and vegetables than I ever imagined.

6.) Grains and nuts are extremely versatile.

7.) I am impervious to nearly all food advertising.

8.) I feel more proactive about my health than I ever have before.

9.) I can say "no" to food without saying "no" to people.

10.) Being a creative cook goes a long way.

And, in case you're interested, you might enjoy this piece from The New York Times: "Doctors Learn to Cook Healthy, 'Crave-able' Foods."

The Middle: A Place to Grow

I began this year's garden a couple of weeks ago.

To be technical, I began the garden about six weeks ago when I started the process of removing the sticks and leaves from the raised beds and cultivating the dirt with a hoe and the tired muscles in my back and shoulders. Or to be even more precise, I began the garden in the fall when I cut down the worn out plants from last year's garden, folding the rotten fruit and vegetables into the soil, covering the beds with leaves for mulch.

Though we try to mark beginnings and endings when it comes to growing food, planting and harvesting aren't really the work of gardening. They are just the ceremony. The rituals of tending and watering and loosening and binding, these are the work of the land that determine in the end whether we eat or not.

On Easter Sunday, when I arrived home in the evening I saw a resurrection miracle right in my garage. The seeds which I had buried in the dirt in tiny pots, that later will produce tomatoes and peppers and zucchini and eggplant, had risen to life, stretching toward the sun in a hopeful unfurling. I found myself smiling, anticipating. Every year I plant these seeds and every year I am a little surprised when they emerge from the soil. But this is not the end -- there's nothing to eat yet, and it's not the beginning -- though maybe a milestone.

This is just one of the many small steps of the middle, the place where most of gardening happens, the place where most of life happens.

The Last Hopeless Day

If Thursday was the last normal day, then Saturday is the last hopeless day.

The disciples watched their teacher executed at the hands of the Romans, the Jewish leaders nodding their approval a clean distance away. His followers had forsaken him in his last hour, and they surely feared for their own lives, as well. If they weren't executed by Rome as traitors, they would be outcasts in the synagogue, exiled by their allegiance to a failed Messiah.

The Hope of ages, the Desire of nations had hung bleeding on the cross and now lay dead in a borrowed grave. They had been so sure that He was the one. Now what?

The men and women who had spent the last few years together gathered, those first minutes awkward with fear, regret, blame. Was it coincidence that Sabbath followed the crucifixion, that the no burdens could be carried, no baggage put away, especially those heavy in the hearts of the dead man's friends?

The sun will soon set, life must go on, tomorrow will be a new day.

If they only knew . . .

Photo by jasondbay, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.

The Last Normal Day

Queen Elizabeth maintains a tradition for Maundy (Holy) Thursday, that stretches back to the 1200s. The Royal Maundy worship service provides an opportunity for the monarch or a royal official to distribute small silver coins to the elderly for their service to the church. It is the only time the Queen travels to confer an honor, and this year 87 elderly citizens will receive the Royal Maundy – one for each year of the Queen’s age.

The tradition symbolizes the ideas of servanthood and loving one another, a welcome normalcy in a world where everything seems to change in a blink of a tweet or the breath of a Facebook post. It is a kind of reversal of the story of the widow’s mite, and it is a picture of King Jesus laying down his life for his people during that final holy week leading to his death.

. . .  READ THE REST OF THE STORY . . . 

Today, I am co-writing with fellow editor Glynn Young for The High Calling. Follow the link above to join us there.

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And in case you missed them, here are two more posts from The High Calling for Holy Week:

Bradley J. Moore's When Jesus Was a Consultant

Billy Coffey's Love Upside Down

Photo by RacingKel, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.

An Untriumphal Entry

Like every year, we worshiped together yesterday surrounded by lilies and children waving palm fronds. We sang songs about preparing the way and celebrating the king; we remembered for a moment that though this day is awkward for us (we know what's coming), the crowds lining that dirt road to welcome Jesus were all in for the moment. Some of them actually saw something in Jesus that day that they hadn't seen before: glory.

Messiah was coming!

I wonder what Jesus thought, riding on the colt to the shouts and praises of an entire city. He knew what was coming, and already he was looking with compassion on these who would so easily turn from the truth in just a few days.

"When the city came into view, he wept over it. "If you had only recognized this day, and everything that was good for you! But now it's too late. In the days ahead your enemies are going to bring up their heavy artillery and surround you, pressing in from every side. They'll smash you and your babies on the pavement. Not one stone will be left intact. All this because you didn't recognize and welcome God's personal visit." - Luke 19:41-44 (the Message)

But for a moment, could it have crossed our Savior's mind that this mission of his might end without the cross? When he prays just a few days later, "My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will," was he remembering these crowds and imagining what would happen if things were different?

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Join us at The High Calling each day during Holy Week to reflect on the road to the cross and our Lord's sacrifice there. Today, High Calling editor Laura Boggess introduces the series.

Photo by plastAnka, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.