When You Just Want to DO Something!

He's leaning over the table, mouth open in concentration. Two stacks of soft white socks brush his elbow as he reaches over them.

"Look!" he exclaims, proudly wriggling the toilet paper roll down into the gallon ziplock bag. Two water bottles stand erect beside it.

He pauses and I slide two folded pieces of paper down inside the bags with our picture smiling out through the plastic.

"Did you get the oatmeal?" I ask.

"OH!" and there is a rustle of cardboard and brown paper.

"Strawberry-flavored," I read aloud. "Nice."

He rolls two white socks up in eight year old concentration and places them inside the bag. I press out the air and seal it shut, before grabbing another.

In a month of riots and unrest, police officers and political conventions, there are summer storms that are brewing. Newscasters predict record high temperatures for much of the United States this week, and humanitarian organizations send out emails about severe dehydration concerns for the elderly and the homeless.

And we just wanted to do something tangible, something constructive, to help people around us.

In fumbling words, I wrote:

Hi, I realize that this bag is simple. 

We don't have a ton either right now, but we wanted to share some of what we have to help, even if it's just a little. 

So, on these hot summer days, we wanted you to have clean water to drink. We wanted you to have a pair of new warm socks. We included a packet of instant oatmeal for rainy days, hoping that you could grab some free hot water and a spoon and cup from any fast food place, and we are praying that it is a hearty snack some day right when you need it. The toilet paper is because I know what it's like to appreciate bath tissue from my days living overseas. 

We know that homelessness is complicated and wide-spread, and that this small bag isn't much, but we wanted you to know that we are thinking about you, that you are not forgotten, and that we have prayed over this bag and for you. 

We wanted you to know that God sees you, he loves you, and he is near to the broken-hearted. In the attached paper here are some sentences from the Bible that have been vital to me. I pray they are helpful for you as well.

Warmly and respectfully, 

Jennifer and Mark

Daniel and I rolled socks, slid in oatmeal packets, stood up water bottles, squished in a roll of toilet paper, and slipped notes into twelve bags. Twelve bags seemed so small and yet so exciting as they sat on our cherrywood dining table.

"Mark, want to come pray with us for the people who will get these bags?" I asked him, as Daniel hopped on one leg beside me and jumped onto the chair.

Softly, warmly, we talked to God about the strangers whose names he already knew and we thanked him for the chance to help.

If you, or your friends or family, want to assemble similar bags, please feel free to use our ideas too. We were inspired by our church's Vacation Bible school project, although we chose our own items to include. Or share with us other fun ways you've enjoyed reaching out in love and kindness. Those in email can click here to join the conversation.

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Wanting to Live Wide-hearted in a World of Headlines

Under the shade of a rippling tarp, Dominican Republic partners and Office of Environment officials talked about mangrove reforestation, explaining the work we would do. I wiped sweat off my cheeks and glanced over at Mary.

Photo Courtesy Anh Brown

Twelve days earlier she had called me, conspiratorial laughter in her voice. "How would you like to fly with me to the Dominican Republic for a few days?" she asked. "And is your passport current?"

As a travel agent, Mary had been invited to see and give feedback on the land portion of a brand new kind of travel by Fathom Impact Travel, a subsidiary of Carnival Cruise lines. Paying for her (and a qualifying friend) to fly to the DR, Fathom wanted her to experience four impact projects: reforestation, water purification, conversational English, and cement-floor-laying, all working alongside Dominican partner organizations. Because I lead frequent humanitarian/missions trips, Mary knew I would qualify for the experience too.

Asking a few questions, I heard my excitement bubbling and spilling over. "Yes! When?"

Photo Courtesy of Fathom Travel and Mary Krueger

Photo Courtesy of Anh Brown

Twelve days later, we were standing in muddy sneakers in a mangrove national forest, learning how deep to plant new mangrove trees and guzzling water under a gorgeous blue sky. After reforestation, we met friends in conversational English. The next day we worked hard making ceramic and liquid silver clay water filters, and by Friday, we were here, walking alongside Laoris as a slight breeze blew.

Photo Courtesy of Lorena Vargas-Bella

"I'm proud to show you my community," she said. Laoris smiled at us and guided us down winding dirt roads beside vivid green, pink, and blue painted homes. Crimson flowers blazed from behind metal gates and along narrow landscaped borders.

I stumbled on a stone in the path and on her name, somehow adding a "t." Laoris was gracious, patient, correcting my Spanish with a trilling rolled "r."

Arriving at a green cement block home with corrogated metal zinc roofs, we were introduced to Francesca, a petite great-grandmother and her daughter Marianne. Partnering with Dominican NGO Entraina, our team of Americans, Brits, Peruvians, Canadians, and Dominicans worked alongside local cement layers to pour out Francesca's first-ever cement floor.

"When it rains, the dirt floors flood and become soggy, creating health hazards," Entraina and Fathom staff explained. "We work with community partners to see who can most benefit from these floors," adding that they hire local masons and professionals who supervise and guide the Impact volunteers' efforts as cement mixers, bucket-carriers, etc. Dominican experts leveled cement, taught us the recipe proportions for mixing sand, cement powder, and water, and troweled what we brought them.

Lining up assembly-style, I took my place with my teammates. Straddling an inner doorway and wiggling my sneakers into the grey gravel, busted concrete, and sand for stability, I reached out for a slippery bucket of wet cement. We crouched with straight backs and bent knees to safely transport the heavy buckets and our talk swirled in Spanish and English as we passed pails, turned faces to the new friends on both sides, and sailed across cultural divides. 

"This is from my great-granddaughter," Francesca said, pointing to a paper drawing of a poem nailed to the wall behind us. Words about a mama's love and her full-hearted acts of family service curled up a page and shimmied around a red-marker heart. I paused to read the words, understanding some, and getting soft-spoken interpretations from Laoris at times beside me.

Francesca grinned widely, a toothy grin dimpling up both sides of her face, silver hair pulled back into a ponytail. "This is my son, Jose," she said, pointing to a man who had just walked in. He reached out for a bucket of cement, heaving it up and over to the room's floor behind him. "It's his daughter," Francesca explained, and Jose pulled out his phone, scrolling to a photograph of his daughter.

Over and over on this four day trip, this is where we found ourselves... pulling open our hearts, sharing about loved ones, and diving into deep conversations about life, family, communities, and intentional impact-full living. Over rice and beans seasoned Creole-style, or on jostling buses through coffee plantations, across language books in laps inside neatly-swept dirt yards overlooking mountain sea-scapes, and on wifi hotel lobby steps, we leaned over and opened wide our lives. 

Dominicans', Canadians', Brits', Peruvians', and Americans' faces swim in my mind now, their names and stories apart of me. I smile in thinking of them, and have left parts of me as well through the time and conversations we had. 


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The Tattoo Every Parent Needs

Photo: Meena Kadri, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo: Yulya Balaeva, Creative Commons, cc license

She's got it tattooed right up her arm, this mom friend I know. You can see it curving up through rust-colored vines.

And I think of it this morning as I plunge hands into scalding hot dish water, and slide in the yolk-encrusted plates and swirled red and yellow congealed ketchup and mustard. Smells emanate from a mysterious bowl until a molding tomato slips into the dishwater.

I know. One busy weekend away and the dishes mount to high heaven.

The Mother's Day herbs and flowers sit jaunty on the table still, as I deliberate which pot to plant them in, and soap bubbles rise up to cover this batch of dishes.

Because after the accolades or not, the happy Mother's Day or not, the next day still has dirty dishes and garbage to take out. And I always have a choice. Am I doing this for them, for their thanks? If that's the case, then any accidental non-recognition has the power to sap me of joy, or only-temporarily infuse me with it.

I think of her tattoo this morning, after a weekend where I was gone all day Saturday for work, my husband was gone all day Saturday, and my teen babysat her little brother for hours, while college-boy crammed for exams. If my audience is them, then I am controlled by oscillating emotions.

My scruffy green dishrag swipes softened egg yolk from a plate and it slides off with ease now, after time in the water. Setting it on the rinse side of my sink, I stare out the window, think of the Chicago airport, and feel around in the sink for another dirty plate.

"Where are you from?" the ball-capped guy asked me, after I shrugged my shoulders at the TSA security delay causing us all to merge lanes. We stood there, barefoot at security, our belongings in plastic bins, attempting to merge two lines of people down to one.

"Minnesota," I smiled.

"I knew you weren't from here," he quipped. I had run into nothing but pleasant people in my short day in Chicago, but his inference was interesting.

Lifting my water faucet at home this morning, I trail hot water over shining dishes and set them aside to dry. I picture my friend's tattoo, and smile.

Her tattoo? The Greek word doulos trails wispy around her delicate freckled wrist.

"I wanted a reminder of who I'm doing all this for each day," she explained quietly, shyly. "The diapering, the dishes, cleaning, you know? It means bondservant to Jesus."

Bondservant is the Greek word for a servant who has chosen to stay on with the family even though they could be released. Their freedom has been secured yet, out of love, they choose to stay on with their master permanently. It implies respect, loyalty, deep feeling. Standing next to a wooden door post, a special earring would be driven through the servant's ear, publicly marking the difference.

"I wanted a daily reminder of who I am really serving each day," she tells me, softly tracing the tattoo with her fingers.

The dishes are done, and I step over to crush some rosemary leaves between my fingers, releasing the tantalizing aroma into my kitchen. My family's gifts are beautiful and thoughtful to me, and I love serving them. I know how prone I am to grumble on some days, though. Remind me then, will you, who I'm really serving? My desire is for that joy and kindness to mark me fragrantly.


(Linking too with Ann.)

The Love that Leaves Us Breathless

Photo: Flickr User: Daniela Silicz, Creative Commons, cc

There is a woman I know. Blonde hair hangs short on her neck as she races up and down stairs a million times a day, laughing breathlessly at the pedometer she wore for a week to count the steps. Steps that swept in love through peanut butter and jelly toast to a daughter with special needs, steps that answered worried calls from a child who wants to know she's near. My blonde haired friend kneads bread, measures gluten-free alternatives, and makes suppers from scratch, because that speaks love to her family's health. She hikes steps countless times a day, and her love for family tumbles over.

There is a woman I know. Brown curls tease the sides of her face whether she is cracking jokes or sharing about hard days. Wrapping arms round her kids, they pray "in Jesus' big and strong name," bringing all things to him. And on those hard days, when child mental health anxieties flail tiny limbs against a mother's safe body, this woman cushions in silent weeping love. In between occasional childhood angst, laughter rolls across a kitchen that smells deliciously of egg rolls and home made plum sauce, and her entryway screams welcome. I see love spilling across burnished hardwood floors and scattered shoes.

There is a woman I know.

She looks like you.

I see you. I know the way you care for your family on the days that you are tired. I see it in your kids' faces and their zipped up jackets when we pass in the hall or meet in a store. Scrounging creatively for meals after a tiring day, you still have homework to inquire about, spelling words to glance at, and the mystery of three mismatched socks on the floor.

I see you. The way you work to care for your man, striving to see him --really see him!--to love him, to learn his needs, to want the best marriage, even on the hard days. I see you.

Our God sees you too. You are loved, delighted in, prized. His very name means breath, pneuma, and his love for you tumbles over, spilling out, filling us with life.

There is a woman I know. She looks like you, and her love leaves others breathless.

(and counting with Ann at A Holy Experience...)

A Midsummer's Conversation

The words came together in a way I had never seen before. In between the sentences and the miracles, a quiet storyline unfolded before me.

There had been a macabre seven-veils-style of dancing in a Roman court, culminating in erotic shimmies, and a request for a head on a platter. Grisly details finalized the deal.

Some miles away, followers of John the Baptist spilled the news to Jesus about his cousin's death. "When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place."

We expect a time of grieving, a chance to be still and mourn. Instead, "Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns."

Ever needed to be alone or desired downtime? Ever needed time to grieve?

"When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick. As evening approached..." 

I love this. A man in the throes of grief himself still senses others' pain. Then, instead of hurrying away, he stops, spends hours with them, listening, hearing the deeper issues, and healing their sicknesses and wounds.

"As evening approached...," we come face to face with one of his familiar miracles. And we encounter a logical polite retreat option for Jesus. "Well, it's late," his disciples subtly hint to him,suggesting he send the people home. This could have been his out, on a day of grief and weariness for him. No one would have faulted him. 

"They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat," Jesus replies instead, starting the miracle account. Bringing the small loaves and fish that had been recovered, Jesus looked up at heaven, smiled at his Father, thanking him for food and life, and broke the bread.

Bounty and nourishment flowed. 

Everyone ate and was satiated. Men, women, and children received what they needed from him. One of Jesus' largest miracles took place in a day of grief and weariness, when he was trying to get away to solitude. 

As the leftovers were being picked up and placed into baskets, Jesus "immediately made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to the other side, while he dismissed the crowd. After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray alone..."

I love that Jesus' miracles and compassion happened here on a day of weariness and grief, when Jesus was really just needing some time away. In his grief though, he saw their needs, was filled with compassion, and invested in them for several hours. Then, when everyone was healed and full, he said goodbye, walked up the mountainside, and continued his conversation with the Father.

As moms, dads, friends, grandparents, or people in ministry, this encourages and teaches me. Lord, make me like you, to see other people's needs, regardless of my own energy levels that day, and to have compassion, moved into action. And the truly exciting thing? We have that same Holy Spirit in us, moving and empowering us to love like Jesus did.

Then afterwards, slipping away, we can continue our conversations. "Where were we, God?" 

Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose. 

Photo credit

Need to See God? (He's at a band concert)

"Hey, can anyone be me tomorrow night?"

Her husband recovering from a kidney transplant and in the throes of frequent doctor visits, my friend flashed an email through space. She needed someone to attend a band concert with two of her children and to video-record the music.

"While I can't be you, I would be happy to drive ___ and ___ to the concert and to record their band pieces," replied another woman, warmly.

Suppers slip on to their kitchen table on busy nights. Children jump into approved cars for quick hospital visits, and an email army stands ready to help.

Need to see God? I see him in women whipping up extra suppers and in grandmas wrangling seat-belts.

Need to see God today? I see him through a brother-in-law's generous living-donor kidney and a stitched up side. I see God's work in early hospital releases, lowered chances of infection, and in mylar helium balloons from a women's Bible study with the note: "You cause us to be astounded in our God! Thank you." The balloons bob in a yellow stucco dining room, as kids study and a shaved dog wags tail.

Need to see God? He's in kitchens, and carpools, and trips to the store for groceries.

And the joy? It flows over and down.

Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience and Emily at Imperfect Prose.