Perfect

by: Liz Clasen-Kelly; Associate Executive Director of Urban Ministry Center

Today, I learned the name of a man who lives at a bus stop. I have passed him every day for months, while taking my son to day care. I have tried to talk to him several times before, to see if I could help him, but he did not care to share any words beyond, “hello.” But, today was a cold morning, and my colleague and I took him breakfast before the sun rose. We woke him up and asked if we could help with housing. Today, he had plenty of words to share, like “Yes, I want housing. Get me off of this bench!” And then he shared his name. His middle name is “Perfect.”

Learning this, I am transported immediately to the delivery room of my son. I remember seeing him for the first time and being overwhelmed by the perfection. Understanding that this little person was not someone my husband and I created, but rather a gift provided by the Creator, I have no shame in marveling at him each and every day. He is not perfectly behaved, mind you – he refuses to lay still for diaper changes and he is prone to kick and cry when he doesn’t get his way. But, I can see so clearly the goodness and beauty that is placed inside him, that I have no shame in telling you he is precious, perfect, really. It is my great fear, perhaps every parent’s great fear, that the world will not recognize this preciousness. That somewhere along the way, this light, now oohed and aahed over by others, will dim to the world.

So, my heart breaks in two when I learn the name of the man living at the bus stop, because I feel the grief of his mother. I feel all of her hope on that day in the delivery room, and I see before me the struggles with mental illness and reality of living in a bus stop for months on end. I cannot know all the details that transpired between that day of “perfect” to this moment, but, I know that we have all lost something in that space of time. I know that his mother, in giving him that name, was not only reminding him, but reminding us of what we proclaim to be true: We are each and every one created in the image of God. We are not perfectly behaved, mind you, not a single one of us. But don’t let that blind you. We do carry beauty and goodness inside of us. And, we fail when we do not recognize it in others or ourselves.

“Humanity I love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down”
-e.e. cummings

Knowing Who and Whose I Am

by: Irene Carroll

Thou hast searched me and known me, my God.
(Psalm 139)

Somewhere along the line, I lost track of God. We’d never really been close, unless I was in big trouble or needed something I thought was important. In the meantime, around age 23, after a heartbreak, I’d gotten bored with friends and family…And wasn’t I just plain more adventurous than all of them? I could go off and start a new life somewhere I had never been, where I knew no one. See what I was made of. Turns out, not much.

At first, the newness of way-finding was exciting, and of course the stories I had to tell the folks back home were genuine capital in my coolness bank. But what about that gnawing fear in my gut that began waking me each morning? The aimless wandering around the apartment on my off days? Or the indecisiveness that began creeping into the slightest of choices: sugar, cream, decaf??? All of these things were not part of the story I was willing to share. Coolness was descending into clueless. Where was I? Who did I belong to? Who were my people? How did you do this life thing? I was so scared. I quit. I flew home. I was humiliated and empty. Imploding, undone.

The next day, my brother called. He’d moved to Oregon. We talked about my time away and I told him what I could, that I didn’t really know what I was doing. That I was lost and had failed. I was stupid. I couldn’t figure out how people directed their lives by themselves. Yet it didn’t make sense to rely on someone else for my life. The world was a mess. People were a mess. It all seemed so hard. And why did we need to do this anyway? Where was the meaning? It used to be fun! WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?!?! He told me his story, about going off the mountainside with his friend, Doug riding shotgun. He lived and my brother cared for him as he healed from a broken back. Doug was a “believer”. His faith healed my brother. He asked me if I had thought about Jesus and His love for me. No, I hadn’t. Truth was, I had totally forgotten about God.

A few days later, a friend from my old office called. He’d heard I was back. Nice guy, cute. He had told me once that my name meant Peace in Greek. He was a Bible enthusiast, and thought I might want to meet some of his other friends. Just some folks, some girls that were good, kind, easy to be around. Well, maybe. I didn’t know (still a favorite phrase). And…wait. He hadn’t told me their resumes or let me know what cool stuff they were into. And the Bible, seriously?

Then he and a girlfriend just showed up. They were going to the beach to hang out with friends there. I should come along. I could definitely do that. Warm sand, swimsuits and shorts, surfboards, Frisbees. At dusk some started heading back to the “Zoo,” a huge old house near the hospital where some of the guys lived. We made a meal together. There was joy. And music. Songs of God’s grace and love. They read from that Bible. They talked about it, found meaning in it, made use of it. Jesus was a real person. They said prayers of thanksgiving. The sun had gone down. My tiny inner sun had begun its ascent.

In the weeks and months that followed I learned all over again about salvation, grace and forgiveness. And that we are never alone. The first words in the Bible I ever read by myself came from Psalm 139. I am known. I cannot hide. God has been in every dark and hopeless moment. He wept with me. And hoped for me when I had stopped hoping.

I met my BFF during those early months of healing and rebirth. I got a new job. We rented a nice duplex together with a view of the bay. We hosted dinners, sang songs and prayed together. I met Jesus over and over.

Three years later, I moved away again. It would be different this time. I knew whose I was, and where to find home. And these days, my brother confides in me, sharing his trials with family and work and life. We remind each other of Jesus’ life and words and where our hope comes from.

Fried Chicken and Holy Moments

by: Petra Wahnefried

It was 5 minutes before I was supposed to be at the Men’s Shelter to head-up a Super Bowl Party and there I stood in Bojangles, tapping my foot and hoping they could fry chicken a little bit faster. Thoughts raced through my head – How fast would I have to speed to make the 10 minute trek in less than 5 minutes?...I was supposed to meet a new member outside the shelter so she would not have to walk in alone, and I wasn’t there – should I just abandoned the 100 pieces of half cooked chicken so that I could meet her? After all, she is new to the country; she must be petrified that I am not there….Gosh, I would rather spend the Super Bowl with my friends! Why do I keep taking jobs that require me to work at the exact times when others have off?...How long does it take to cook chicken?...I am too type A for this job!....

As the thoughts raced through my head, I got antsier and antsier, until I yelled over the counter, “Hey, I know this is the fourth time I’ve asked, but it’s not just a party I’m going to! I’m heading-up a project at the Men’s Shelter and I was supposed to be there 2 minutes ago; this has taken 40 minutes longer than you said it would!” I would like to say that I asked this in a calm, pastoral voice, but we will just say it was not my best moment.

Throwing the chicken in the car, I slammed on the gas and sped towards the shelter. Already 2 minutes late, I swerved between traffic to try to make up for lost time. I veered into the handicap parking spot for quick access to the shelter, jumped out of the car, and apologized to the Covenant volunteers who had already arrived. Though several volunteers were already waiting outside, they were not upset at all - but that did not matter to me; I was disappointed that I had not done my best job. Harried and frustrated in my planning, I entered the Men’s Shelter with a high blood pressure, wondering why I had not been smart enough to ask somebody else to pick-up the chicken. I didn’t greet the men at the shelter immediately, but set about the task of organizing volunteers to set-up the buffet line and chairs. It was 15 minutes before I even took time to really lift my head and notice the scene that was unfolding before my eyes. When I did finally pay attention to what I saw going on around me, you will not believe what I saw…

It was the kingdom of God, right there in the Men’s Shelter. Plates were piled high with hot chicken, handfuls of chips, and homemade dips. Volunteers were taking drink orders, and serving men who had likely not had the privilege of actually ordering their food and having it served to them for a long time. The wealthy and poor sat together, sharing stories and enjoying time spent together. Laughter and spirited shouts rang through the room, as people cheered on their own team. People I knew from Covenant and the streets of Charlotte mixed together in this beautiful array of humanity. It was a sodium-packed communion meal in which all people were welcome to the table, and what a beautiful table it was. We did not need the word proclaimed, because the God’s Word was embodied all around us, and yet, one of the men that I had come to know through my work at Urban Ministry came up to me to give the benediction. “You know what,” he said to me, “God isn’t always present at the shelter, but Jesus is here tonight.”

May we also find Jesus in the hustle and bustle of our lives, and see the kingdom of God in those unexpected holy moments.

When Words Fail and Compassion Endures

by: Lauren Sawyers

At my loneliest, I was surrounded by people. A whole beautiful country bustling with lovely people. But I was an ocean away from home. I didn't speak their language. I knew only one person there, and she was busy with studies. A junior in college, I was visiting Spain for a week before starting my study abroad program in England.

On September 11, 2001, I took a day trip to a Spanish beach. As morning yawned into the afternoon, I was eager for some sense of familiarity and sought an Internet cafe to check my email. My rowing coach had sent a note to the team saying that, despite the morning's events, they'd still have practice. That it was important to carry on and be together. What events? What had happened? I anxiously began to troll for information and learned of the terrorists attacks. I left the computer and wandered bewildered in the foreign land, hoping to come upon a pub broadcasting English-language TV. I called home using a pay phone and calling card. Talking to Mom and Dad was both comforting and terribly isolating. I hung up and cried. I'm guessing now that they did the same.

As I made my way back to the hostel, I remember feeling that, despite everything, there must be some levity, some laughter, some clinging to joy and hope going on around me. But because I didn't understand the language, couldn't decipher intonation or interpret the natives' body language, it was lost on me. When I got to the hostel as evening was closing in, there was an older lady, wrapped in a shawl sitting behind a single desk waiting to sign visitors in. I didn't know her language and she didn't know mine. But it must have been evident I was American. With sadness in her eyes, using a stapler as an airplane and a pen as a building, she did a brief reenactment of the morning's terrible events. She shook her head and put a grieving hand to her heart. And I did the same.

Running the Race

by: Kelly Zellars

Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a runner. I can walk fast, maybe not so gracefully, but I can move. And all my life I have kept moving. In a large family, I learned very early to move, to keep up and stake a claim at the dinner table, to stake my claim to get into college, to earn graduate degrees, to get a job at a university, to get promoted. You get the picture. I have had a wonderful busy life. Even during a year that a bone marrow transplant isolated me from the world, I was moving. I learned to quilt and I quilted as if tomorrow the stores might run out of thread. I enjoy moving. But last summer, I couldn’t muster my same zest for moving. In August, I found out I had breast cancer and though I didn’t panic, my purpose seemed hazy as I ran through each week of doctor’s appointments, waiting for results, more doctors’ appointments, more waiting, cancelling a long awaited vacation to an island in Wisconsin (let me tell you about this place someday), calling my mother to let her know, calling my 6 siblings, more doctors’ appointments, more waiting. Physically - I felt fine. Inside, I was blank. Not panicked, just blank. Waiting is not my preferred pastime.

But back to the race. Where was my race? As I sorted through the days, I prayed – more like an ongoing and sometimes rambling conversation with Jesus and His mother than a prayer. I have had these conversations all my life but now I wondered, was God listening? If He knew me as well as I hoped, He knows he created a mover, a person who lacks patience with dawdling, with waiting, but I was being asked to wait and wait. Couldn’t I just race to the end? Couldn’t I get the treatment now? Today! Get back to my race?

One day, I thought about churches and candles. When I was young, all Catholic churches had open doors with candles you could light – quiet places where you could kneel and pray or just sit and rest. At Notre Dame, I frequently found myself at The Grotto. It is an outdoor cave carved out of stone with hundreds of candles. Students, faculty, and staff drift by all hours of the day every day—snow or sunshine- to light a candle and sneak a moment of prayer or rest. During college, each visit restored me for the challenges of college life. So maybe I was longing for moments at The Grotto. In early September, returning home from errands and driving down Park Road, I braked suddenly and turned into the parking lot of St. Anne’s Catholic Church. Why did I make this turn? I don’t really know. I had been to St. Anne’s years ago, before they renovated. I remembered a small plain church, rather basement like, but one that had candles. I parked. Hesitantly, I got out of my car. I remember thinking about how I am not a member. Will someone stop me? But no one stopped me. Instead strangers said ‘hello.’ I opened the doors and walked into the narthex. It was dimly lit and cool inside, a welcome comfort to a hot day. Determined to find candles, I opened the doors to the sanctuary and my race changed. I found myself in an extraordinary space. The candles were there. But that was not the extraordinary part. As I looked up, past the candles and stained glass windows, I saw twelve life-size wooden carvings of church witnesses and these words painted in large gold letters at the very top of the walls, encircling me and all who enter:

Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us rid ourselves of every burden and sin that clings to us* and persevere in running the race that lies before us … while keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus, the leader and perfecter of faith. Hebrews 12:1-2a.

At that moment, I remembered that I, too, am surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, witnesses of faith coming before me and running with me now, and if I persevere in running this race, keeping my eyes on Jesus, all will be fine. After lighting my candle, and kneeling to pray, I left the church, walking slower, and, I hope, more gracefully. I have gone back many times to gaze upward and cherish the words.

A Quote by Henri J.M.Nouwen

from Out of Solitude: Three Meditations on the Christian Life

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.”

Something to Ponder: When has somebody meant the most to you? What does this story tell you about God and the community that God creates?

Brokenness and Hope

by: Julia Watkins; Stapleton Davidson Intern

During last year’s Lenten season, an occasion that was as naturally commonplace as it was exceptionally awe-inspiring took place. In a small, sterile hospital room, a new life arrived as baby Chandler Leigh Groves said hello to this world. Her birth was preceded by over a day of labor. Painful, ongoing, tiresome, and then—peace and an overwhelming sense of joy as her grateful parents finally held her in their arms. This scene of mixed chaos and serenity transpires every hour as new lives arrive on this earth, and those who have witnessed such occasions know of the tension between terror and hope.

For me, Chandler’s birth held a special significance, as her mother is my cousin, Bethany, and the first in our family to bear a member of the next generation. For months, I anticipated the arrival of her baby girl, and I celebrated this new life with her, even as I recognize that it arrived at a period in our family that had seemed difficult, dry, and even dead. While many dear family and friends surrounded Bethany and Chandler at the birth, Bethany’s father only heard the baby’s cries hours later from a recording they played for him through the phone stationed publicly down the hall from the prison cell where he had spent the last 10 months. In that moment, I imagine he felt a bittersweet blend of emotion as he rejoiced in the life whose arrival he could not witness.

Fast forward nearly a year, and Chandler is growing into a beautiful, lively toddler. She babbles happily to anyone who will listen, and she took her first steps several weeks ago. As the only baby in the family, she receives limitless affection and, of course, all the hand-me-down clothing. While most of the family dotes on her whenever they wish, her grandfather only sees her on select Saturdays, after Bethany has spent the night in a rural hotel in order to arrive at the prison when visiting hours begin. Spending time with Chandler has been among the highlights of his 22-month sentence, which will fortunately end soon, but it is also a reminder of how much he has missed and of what transition awaits upon his return home. In such moments of mixed blessing and despair, one has to wonder—How is God at work?

While I recognize that my family’s pain is real and has stemmed from a genuinely challenging situation, I also believe it to be rooted in a more universal state of pain. Indeed, this pain belongs to the entire human race—to my cousin Bethany and to her father, to the sick and the dying, to the world’s slaves and refugees, to all who mourn and weep. It is the pain that propels people to live in solidarity with one another through their brokenness.

Just as this deepest level of human pain is not confined to a single time or place, neither is the God who responds to it with gracious healing. God is transcendent and powerful, yet God still entered into the reality of human suffering in vulnerable form as a witness to our pain. Far from disaffected, Jesus stood alongside Mary and Martha at their brother’s tomb, and in a moment both woeful and tender, he too wept (John 11:35). With this expression of grief, Jesus reminds us that God is at work, even in the areas of our lives that feel most broken—in hospital rooms and prison cells, in the heartache of a spoiled relationship, in the passage of a loved one, in the fear and uncertainty of what’s to come.

As humans, we continuously face this pull between the brokenness of the world around us and the hope that God is at work within it. Death and life give way to one another as spring blooms prepare to push dry leaves from the branches and a baby’s birth follows the end of an elder’s life. In a single moment, our deepest fears may exist alongside our expectant trust in God’s universal presence. The challenge is in reconciling these emotions, in learning to surrender to the discomfort of our brokenness, and in being gentle with ourselves as we remember that healing and hope are rarely simple.