2 Hours of My Day

“Hey, do you have a minute? I’m stuck on a phone call, and there’s this homeless guy downstairs that needs help.”

I wanted to say that no, I was too busy. But this being the ministry, and the ministry being my life (to a certain extent), I sighed and said yes. Without realizing it, I had just committed the next two hours of my day, a day which needed to be filled by other activities, such as important paperwork and phone calls.

But I went downstairs. Frank was sitting there next to the phone, waiting for someone to help him. He had a handful of note cards on which he’d written phone numbers. Since he is going blind, he needs someone to dial the numbers for him, and to look up new numbers. First order was to try to find a criminal lawyer who could help him with his overdue tickets, both for parking and panhandling. He’d missed one of his court dates already, and was wondering if a lawyer could help him. The second thing he was looking for was a lawsuit lawyer. He had tripped on some steps in front of McDonald’s, and was wondering if he had a case. Then we tried finding a shelter/food pantry where he could go to get some new clothes, since he needed to replace the ones on his back.

“I used to joke about what I’d give up just to get my eyesight back, but now I really mean it; I would give up both my arms, just to be able to see again.”

I sat close by, dialing the phone as he needed it, hearing each secretary refer him to someone else. His body odor overwhelmed me, and although it was not extremely unpleasant, it was definitely hard to ignore. At each rejection or recorded message, the receiver would come down as he rubbed his fully bearded face. “Relief is coming soon. I just need to get some nicotine in me.”

I have no idea what it’s like to not have a home. Oh, sure, I’ve been displaced plenty of times as a missionary kid; it comes with the territory. But to not have a place to go take a nap? Or to keep my belongings? Or to find refuge from inclement weather?

As Frank left, muttering something about nicotine and a nap in the park, I was glad to see him go, so that I could return to my “normal” life and schedule. But I’m also thankful for that brief interruption to my day. I’m never meant to live in my circle of comfort, cut off from the rest of the world. Glimpses like this make me realize that my life is not my own, and my plans for each day should be more conformed to God’s agenda.

Thank you, Frank.

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Saturday

Oh, torturous Friday, whose blood flowed from my own heart
Whose angry mob kills the only hope I dared have
Whose pain and guilt became my own

Oh, impatient Saturday, whose end seems to never come
Whose claws close in on my struggling faith
Whose dark nightfall will one day be broken by the most magnificent awakening

Oh, glorious Sunday, whose future brilliance shines hope into the night of my life
Whose anticipation gives me purpose and reason
Whose long awaited trumpet blast wakes my slumbering soul

And then I shall finally be free of myself

*inspired by the last page in Yancey's The Jesus I Never Knew

Questions from a cynical heart

Why is it that I become so cynical when people share about God's calling in their life?

How can we truly, really know when God has called us to something, especially something so specific? Why do youth ministers, who have clearly heard "God's call" to go into ministry, only last 18 months, on average? Do we really hear God? or do we mis-hear him? Could it be that he desires all his children go into ministry, and so we feel him move in us, but then our preconceived ideas of ministry make us try to squeeze that desire into our boxes of fulltime ministry--missionary, pastor, children's minister, youth pastor? What if God desires that we minister where we are, whether a fulltime pastor, teacher, doctor, lawyer, engineer, business man? Could it be that our definition of ministry is too small, too confined and too stagnant for the creative, resourceful and strength-giving God that we serve?

Why is it that so often we go back on our promises to God? Do we think he'll just understand? We feel him in us, and we respond by promising our life away, but is that what he really wanted from us? Maybe, could it be, that God wants our availability more than our promises? After all, when Jephthah made a rash promise to God in a moment of spiritual fervor (Judges 11:29-40), God held him to it, and he ended up having to sacrifice his very own daughter; would he not have wished to take that promise back? Why do we think our promises to God can be taken so lightly that within a year we will have denied them with the very direction our life has taken? Why do we think that by simply wanting and deeply desiring it we will fulfill our promises when we consistently make decisions that take us further and further away from our commitment?

Is this cynicism, then, reasonable and expected, after having seen so many misdirected promises? Or is there hope for my cynical heart?