Monday, June 24, 2013

Activate 2013, Final Days: The Downshift

I've been home for about 36 hours now. While part of me is so tempted to just post "And then I came home, the end", I know I need to write it out just for the sake of closure. If not for your sake, definitely for mine.

We stopped for the night in Little Rock, to give us a break before driving to Memphis the next day. Memphis is a beautiful city, although a little gritty a la New Orleans. Live music was blaring from every bar and every corner street musician, trolleys and horse and carriages made their way up and down the streets. We saw surprisingly few Elvises (is that the correct plural usage?), but surprisingly frequent panhandlers.

Memphis didn't leave that much of an impression on me, even though when I first got there I declared I might love it more than New Orleans. That was mostly based on the Orpheum Theater's sign advertising its playing of Breakfast At Tiffany's and The Parent Trap. Two favorite movies of mine. But the more we walked around, the less I loved Memphis. There's a scummy feel to it, of dark things crawling beneath the surface, grubs under a log. Carol pointed out that, although New Orleans was just as dark and dirty, they at least wore it on the surface. You knew what you were facing. A charging rhino rather than a slithering snake. Some of this may be because we had a man try to scam us into giving money to his questionable shelter for men, all while we were in the middle of talking to and praying with a man who was actually homeless. We met Tarvis outside of the Starbucks, a man with no legs... And less than that. He was just leaning in his wheel chair, his body gone from his waist down. But he had kind eyes. We talked with him for a few minutes, and a more helpless feeling than I'd had yet on this trip came over me. Even more helpless than I felt in the wreckage of Little Axe. Because, really. What could we do for Tarvis? We could give him money. We could offer to buy him food. But we couldn't give him new legs, short of a miracle of epic proportions. At this point the other man came up, trying to get us to give to his homeless ministry that was up the road, claiming he was a member of the Memphis welcome committee, all the while reeking of alcohol and cheap cologne (not that cheap cologne makes you a con. But it sure does give me a headache). He called Tarvis "Buck", and said over and over what a good guy Buck was. But Tarvis appeared to watch him warily and we mistrusted a man who said he helped keep alcoholics off the street while he himself smelled like a still. Here's where grace comes in. It's not our place to judge. But it is our place to be discerning and wise, especially with our money. We looked for Tarvis again a little later, because we were a little afraid that other man would take away the money we had given him, but we didn't see him again that day. I've thought of him a lot since then, sweating on the sultry streets of Memphis, smiling at passerby. I pray protection over him. Grace. Favor. And yes, a miracle of epic proportions.

We also met Miss Ann, a server at our restaurant that night- not our server.  But when she sidled up to us and sang Walking in Memphis with us as it played over the speakers, we fell a little in love with her, and ended up talking to her for awhile after our meal, and giving her a tip just for taking time to brighten our day.

Nashville was our next stop, to meet up with some of Missy's family, and a part of the trip I'd been looking forward to as a boon whenever I would get so weary I didn't think I could make it another day. I met her family three years ago when I went with her to her cousin's wedding, and I fell in love with them hard. And haven't stopped loving them since.

We had dinner Friday night with her uncle and aunt and cousins, laughing and eating and soaking up the warm family rays. Nothing profound. Just home. Missy's cousin has two small children and I just loved and loved on them, especially their little daughter, who sat with me for hours that night. Although I suspect it was due largely in part to my letting her play my iPhone at dinner, I loved every minute of it, sitting in the recliner with her, shaking maracas and sharing bracelets. We left dinner and went to Missy's other uncle and aunt's house to stay the night, hung out with more cousins. We stayed up late into the night with them, sitting on the bed, talking books and TV and life. Sisterhood. Deep, calming breaths of it, reaching to my fingertips, my toes, my lungs and heart expanding with it. Awed at the way hearts can knit together even over so many miles, and stay knitted.
Saturday morning we had breakfast with the family, and then headed to downtown Nashville to get the last of our souvenir shopping out of the way. We stayed down there for almost four hours, trying to find gifts for everyone left on our lists. When I finally bought that last gift, I felt like Moses parting the Red Sea. I did it. I did it!!!

We left Nashville and turned our car toward Virginia and home. As we checked into the hotel that night, Lesa came out with a strange look on her face while we were unloading the trunk. "I just realized this is it," she said wonderingly. "This is the last night we'll do this. We're done."

Tennessee started the downshift for us, where our focus turned again from outward to more inward. Time to start shifting our thoughts to real life. To the people and jobs waiting for us back home. It was a natural progression, not sudden or forced in any way, and in that shifting, I believe it was God's way of easing us back. We ended with family and fun and love. Dinner and breakfast and lying on the floor, swinging our feet back and forth, talking and laughing about life. We ended exactly the way we were meant to end. Not with a huge, blustery bang. But with a sweet, calming murmur of, "Well done. Welcome home. Rest."

I don't want to forget all the things I've seen, all the people I've encountered the past two weeks. Wanda. Bo. Emilie in downtown Mobile. Irene and Terry; Big Tiny, Donna, Hezekiah; all of our family in Texas; Greg, Lisa, Margaret and the people of Little Axe; the amazing cloud of witnesses we met with in Missouri and Arkansas, Tarvis, Ms. Ann, and even the possible con man. Missy's family in Tennessee, and the people in between who I loved and Christ loved through me. Our list is long and full of grace. Grace for us, grace for them. Not all of them will remember us, I'm sure. But I'll remember all of them. I'll thank God for the role they played in changing my life, my opinions of others and of myself.

As I've been writing this, my kids have come out of their bedroom no less than 4 times each, to plop next to me on the couch and stroke my hair, wrap their clammy bedtime arms around my neck, kiss me on the cheek. They missed me. They are what caused the downshift in me, the "Ok, this has been good. But I'm ready to go home". Today was hot and sweltering at The Box House. There were arguments to interrupt, lunches to make, medicine to dole out, laundry to put away. But through it all the downshift stayed with me, and I never once wished to be gone again. Already parts of my trip have seemed like a dream, just like my real life seemed like a dream while I was gone. Now I understand how the Pevensies felt when they left Narnia. During my trip, I was a person who created and caused change, activated myself and others, spurring them on toward, I hope, something bigger. Here, on the other side of the wardrobe, I'm just me. Myself. Mom and wife and epic failure when it comes to keeping up with the laundry. But I'm reminded of a line from The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe: "Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia." I haven't left that part of myself somewhere on the highway between Tennessee and Virginia. I've brought it with me, carrying this whole new facet of Mary,  that was birthed on this journey. I may have downshifted, but it's just to get me up the next hill, to the next horizon, the next facet waiting to be birthed.

I'm ready. I'm ready to be more of myself. To my husband, to my kids, to my community. I'll encourage you to be do the same: be more of yourself. You don't need to leave home to change the small worlds you come in contact with. You can do it at home, at work. You can change someone's life, and more importantly, change yours, by simply loving.

Thank you to all of you who have kept up with me on this journey. Although a part of me is sad to close this final entry, another part of me is excited to see what else is in front of me. I hope you'll keep pace with me as I run this race set before me.

-M 


{{Final Days Photo Dump}}








Tarvis
Ms. Ann

Late night trolley ride








My new friend
My old friends

Just about the only picture I took in Nashville
Waiting to be home
Drive by sunset somewhere between Tennessee and Virginia 

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Activate 2013, Days 12 & 13: Run the Race

We're getting close to the end and I am getting tired. Well, I've been tired. When we hit the halfway point this past Saturday, I began to melt down; I could feel it. As our route has gradually turned closer to home, so have my thoughts. I know that, from the outside, what we've been doing probably hasn't seemed that difficult or draining. Who takes a missions trip within the United States? But I can tell you, it's taken just about every ounce of energy and strength I possess, and some I didn't even know I had. The constant pouring out into others, strangers or otherwise, new cities every day, different beds every night, has taken a toll on me. I'm not saying any of this to complain. I'm more than grateful to be here. But I don't think even I realized how hard it would be. 

On Tuesday we made it to Missouri, in a little town just a few miles outside of Joplin, to meet up with one of Carol's longtime friends and a group of women she had gathered. Alita is an amazing woman. She welcomed us into her home, buying new towels, new sheets, new shower curtain liners, going out of her way to make sure everything was just right. And had been prepping for us for two months. When the location she had wanted us to meet at fell through, she went and rented a retail space in a shopping center. She made us feel more spoiled than any hotel we'd stayed at, because for her, it was a sacrifice and a gift. An offering of love. 

Granted, it wasn't all perfection. Alita had called Carol the day before to tell her that she'd been stung by a scorpion. A scorpion. By the time we got there the next day, she and her husband had spotted two more. I won't lie. I was terrified to leave the car when we pulled up into her driveway, especially when as soon as we set foot on the ground, Alita's husband, Dick, took one look at our sandals and said, "You don't want to come out here after dark in those things. We've been a-killin scorpions out here." Needless to say, I kept my feet as well off the ground as I possibly could during my stay in Cartersville, Missouri. {Rabbit Trail: when we got back from our meeting later, in the dark of night, I literally broke out in a sweat thinking of those scorpions. Are they nocturnal? I don't know. What are they, anyway? Insects? Spiders? Lobsters that escaped the sea? Carol had ridden back with Alita and hence got to park in the garage. There were Lesa, Missy, and I, sitting in the car, trying to gather everything before we exited the car, backpacks, pillows, pizzas- see next paragraph- formulating a plan to best the scorpions. We hopped out of the car as fast as we could and began hiking up our feet in place, stamping and squealing, keeping an eye out for poisonous spider/insect/out of sea lobster creatures. I felt like Vicki in The Parent Trap, clacking her sticks to keep the vicious night creatures away. And we stamped/marched/skipped all the way up the driveway, turning in half circles, keeping our eyes on the ground, climbing the steps, still stamping, and found the front door locked. So we had to knock and wait, hiking and hopping in place, for Dick to open the door, and stare at us like the crazies that I'm sure we are. But I'm pretty sure it worked. Because no scorpions got us.}

Tuesday night we met with Alita's women in an emptied out retail space next to a Papa John's pizza. Alita ordered 8 pizzas. For 9 women. 

When we set out on this trip, we thought we would be ministering to people. But it really has turned out the opposite in so many cases. Tuesday night was one of them. We met five incredible women, each with a different story, each with different facets of women I would like to be. 

A nearly 70 year old night security guard, who has spent her life living all over the Midwest, an adventuresome soul who used to drive a truck full of explosives across the mountains. Whose next goal is to get her motorcycle license and drive up to Wisconsin to see her kids just to show them she can. Who also makes candy, and knits, and sews, and crochets... When she has time. 

A woman who told us over and over that God has always led her. Through 47 years of marriage. Through fostering more than a dozen children. Through a heart attack, through her husband's recent illness. 

A teacher who so yearned for the real truth of God's word that she hunted up a church that would teach it to her, outside of her comfort zone. Whose sons are the light of her eyes, and never gave her a moment's trouble. 

A walking miracle, who has survived cancer once, is currently fighting it right now, and should have died in a car accident over 30 years ago. Who hears the voice of God deep in her soul, and dances with Him, toting an oxygen tank with her. 

And Alita, whose hospitality is a gift straight from God, and most assuredly a gift straight to us. Also a cancer survivor and fighter. 

I listened to all of their stories, my smallness growing on me with each one. Who am I? I'm just a baby. I've barely lived. 

When it came my turn to speak to them, a wave of gratitude welled up in me. For these women who are paving the way for women like me to come behind them. 
"There are days when I think I won't make it. But then I see women like you... Your adventures, your faith, your survival, your hospitality, your tender care of your husbands, the way you've raised your children in Christ, your hunger and determination to seek out the word of God, your miracles.... You've made it. You've made it. You're making it. You're running your race, and you're winning. You're winning it. And for women like me, who are miles behind you in the race, you're an inspiration. If you're winning, I can win. I can do it. So thank you. Thank you." I looked at each woman, thanking her in turn, my throat swelling tight with awe and love. This, then, is the great cloud of witnesses referred to in Hebrews. How can I not run the race set before me? How can I grow weary in doing good? With these mighty women of faith cheering me on, women who have wrestled against the odds and won, women who have blazed new trails and didn't burn in the blazing of them. 

Wednesday afternoon we met with Jennifer, a contact of Lesa's, in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Another woman defying stereotypes and the world set against her. A woman dreaming big dreams and bigger dreams. We got to encourage her on her race, just as we have been encouraged on ours: Don't grow weary doing good. Don't grow faint. Run the race. Fight the good fight. You can do it, you can. We all can. 

And so here I am, tired. Yes, I am. Even this morning, I thought to myself, "I'm weary of doing good." But I'll keep running, running like those Missouri scorpions are chasing me. I'll run ahead for the joy set before me. The joy set before all of us. I'll run for the women who have run the path in front of me, clearing the thorns away and smoothing the ruts. I'll run for the women and girls behind me, whose cloud of witnesses I'll be a part of. Oh, I'll cheer them on, I'll cup my hands and scream their names, "You can do it! You're making it, darling! You can win, you can win, you can win!" 

Oh, we can win. Don't give up. Don't stop running. We can win. 

-M 

{{Days 12 & 13 Photo Dump}} 


Look what we stumbled upon! Yes, we freaked out. And on top of that, the diner we stopped at was featured on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives! My brothers were green with envy. 



Our lovely race runners 

Praying for Dick and Alita before we left them 


Sunset in the Ozark Mountains 

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Activate 2013, Day 11: Who Is Stronger?

Oklahoma. Now this is a stop I've been nervous about. Wondering how little me could possibly help in a place so ravaged by tornadoes. 
When we mapped out our path a few months ago, we had already included Oklahoma on our itinerary. When just a few weeks after, tornadoes ripped through cities and counties and towns, all within weeks of each other, we knew why we were going. We had people donating to us specifically for Oklahoma and its devastated families. 
On Sunday night, we met up with an old friend of Carol's who told us that while Moore, OK, was in need, there was a tiny town about an hour outside of Moore which had been hit a few weeks prior to the tornado that has garnered media attention and public heartbreak. A mere speck on the map, a backwoods, tight knit community, called Little Axe. 
Little Axe is dirt roads. Old tar shanties, trailers and goats and horses. A poverty stricken group of families, decimated just five short weeks ago by a tornado that ripped through their town, leaving rubble and wrecked homes, wrecked people in its wake. "Go to Little Axe", Carol's friend urged.  "They're hurting bad." 
And so to Little Axe we went. And in Little Axe we were changed. 

We started out at First Baptist Church of Little Axe, a small church that has been converted into a warehouse of supplies for the victims. Piles and piles of diapers, and food, and blankets. Manned by a small, hardworking group of volunteers.  We met Joy, and Chris, and Laura, and Mary (side note: I've never met a Mary my age. They're all 60 and over. What does that say to you?). And Greg. Greg stands out to me more than anyone we met in Oklahoma. 
The first thing I thought when I saw Greg was, "I've found where David Crowder's been hiding! And he's disguised as an old man in Little Axe, Oklahoma!" 
Greg really does look eerily similar to David. A transplant from California, he volunteered to take over the phones for his pastor after the tornado came through. In the past five weeks he's become an organizer and administrator of sorts, the hub of a wheel that spokes outward into the community. We were told he would know which families we could help, and he did. As he was standing there, surrounded by piles of canned goods and boxes, telling us about this family or that family who had been hit, this pillar of the community, that volunteer who has been such a big help, another volunteer, Chris, spoke up and said, "You wouldn't know from the way Greg's talking, but his house got hit pretty hard too." 
Greg waved his words away like he would a bothersome fly. "I'm nobody", he insisted. To which Missy immediately replied, "You're not nobody. You're somebody." How many people are out there, giving everything they've got, consistently and effectively changing lives, not drawing so much as an ounce of the limelight to themselves? I'll be the first to say I'm not one of them. If I lay my life down, you better be sure I want someone to thank me for it. 
But not Greg. Not only did he not want thanks, he barely seemed to want acknowledgment. 

Greg guided us through the town, which hardly seemed a town to us, suburban girls that we are. A bunch of homes and properties scrambled together haphazardly, no rhyme or reason. Add to that the destruction caused by the tornado, and it resembled a war zone. I stared open mouthed out the window, taking in the churned up red clay of Oklahoma, the piles of debris that towered over my head. Trees, toys, clothes, shoes. Ceiling fans. Pots and pans. Sinks. Baking and rotting in the hot sun. We stopped at a high point on a deserted road, where Greg got out of his beat up truck and we followed, so we could have a clearer view of the tornado's path. And there it was. Stretched out in front of us, as far as our eyes could see, a trail of destruction that my brain couldn't even register. I'm standing there staring at it. But I don't understand it. What's happened here? How is this possible? Miles of it.

The pictures don't capture it. They are tame, flat, lifeless, unable to show the contrast of the big blue sky, the singing birds and warm breezes, clashing against the red clay, the sea of debris, the mangled and twisted trees, the paleness of their insides showing sharp and stark against the bark that remains, spiky,splintered fingers pointing at the sky in accusation. Life and death presenting against each other, who is stronger? Although it seems like death, don't forget. It's life. Life is always stronger. 

As we stood there, Greg told us a little more of his story, stories of his past, as well as his own tornado experience. How he and his wife Regina thought they had gotten locked out of their storm shelter. So they hollered to their neighbor girl, standing helplessly on her porch, to come with them to find a place to hunker down. "I have my cat!" she yelled. "Bring the cat then!" Greg shouted back. She came, bringing her "big, fat, orange Garfield type cat", as Greg described it, and they all four crawled under a truck in a carport and hid under it with a quilt or a tarp pulled over them, Greg, his wife, their girl neighbor and her fat cat. A tree got ripped apart and landed mere feet above their heads. 

He told us this story casually, like he was telling us what he had for dinner last night. Hamburgers with a side of life altering tornado. 
But that's the way Greg is. He makes himself small. We knew there was more than what he was telling us, but when we asked if we could help him with anything, he put us off, saying there were others worse off than he was. 
We know that, we said. We want to help YOU, we said. 
Greg did allow us to pray for him, right there in that deserted road, surrounded by destruction every way we turned. And again I had one of those experiences. An is-this-really-happening experience. Am I really standing here in the middle of Oklahoma, the sun burning my skin, surrounded by miles of tornado damage, praying for a man who looks like an old David Crowder? 
We thanked God for Greg, for him guiding us through his town, for the help he is to his community, and for giving us the opportunity to meet him. We asked God to lay on his heart something, anything, we could do to help his family, and to give him the courage to tell us. He still said he couldn't think of anything, so we devised a plan to help him on the sly. 

We left Greg for the time being to meet Lisa, a woman he put us in contact with, who is a single mom with three teenage sons, running a salon and being forced out of her home, and who has spent everyday for the past five weeks in the parking lot of the Shell station manning a tent with items for tornado victims. She cried in our arms, weary and hurting, and told us over and over, "Little Axe is home. I'm not leaving here, ever. This is it." She showed us her sons and her salon with obvious pride. She told us she kept her prices low because everyone should be able to afford to feel beautiful. She has a sign on her wall, "Do the kindest things in the kindest way." Our mission exactly. We were able to help Lisa out with a bill, and prayed with her, while she in turn prayed for us. 

Lisa put us in contact with Bobbie, who put us in contact with Margaret, a mother and grandmother whose house had been leveled. We drove over rutted muddy roads, passing more and more damage and destruction, until we got to Margaret's place. She and her family
are living in popup trailers on their property, in a type of compound. Margaret and her husband, her sons and their wives, six grandkids, a couple dogs.
Some of her sons live within sight of her, and were severely hit as well. One son's house was completely gone. All that was left was the back deck. We looked across the road and saw it, standing alone, ending in midair. There was no indication that a house had ever even been there. Margaret's three year old granddaughter had a pet horse that they thought had been lost in the storm- the barn had been crushed under the house. They found him a town over, lying on the ground. Thinking the worst, they called to him and he hopped up, with only a scratch on his leg. The little girl told her daddy and grandma, "I ain't got no clothes. I ain't got no house. But I got my horsy." Go ahead. Cry. I am. 

We told Margaret we would be back in a few hours, and headed into town to buy groceries for them. They were one of the few families we encountered with a way to store and keep groceries. 
On our way back out to Margaret's, we stopped at the church again to say goodbye to Greg, and give him a card with our "thank you" tucked inside. And told him strictly that whatever was in that envelope was for him and his family. He told us over and over how blessed he was to meet us, but the blessing was ours. 

We got back to Margaret's, trunk loaded with bags, groceries on our laps, and began unloading them onto their picnic table. Kids came swarming from all over, helping to carry bags, peeking in them and calling out to one another, "Look! Marshmallows! Popsicles! Look! Look!" One of our donors asked that we use their donation to buy ice cream and all the fixings for a family with children. They jumped with excitement over the rainbow cones, the chocolate sprinkles and syrup. 
We had also made a point to get coloring books, crayons, and bubbles for the kids. I wanted that more than anything for them. A little piece of normalcy. A little bit of possession. It wasn't much. But you would have thought we handed them the moon. The boys dug through them and found the Strawberry Shortcake one, calling their sister over and presenting it to her like a prize, "You can have this!" She asked over and over, "I can have this? I can have this?" If my heart hadn't broken already, it did then. 
Just babies. Little kids, the same age as mine, younger, who lost everything. Everything. My God. I can't even wrap my head around it. I can't fathom it. 
We left Margaret's "compound", the last sounds reaching my ears the voices of those kids rejoicing in their riches. And my heart rejoicing in mine. 

The people we met are so strong. Strong, good people, putting others needs before their own, no matter how dire. People like Greg, Lisa, Margaret and their neighbors, who are working together one house at a time to get their town back up on its feet. Am I strong? Little Axe made me question that. Could I do it, if I had to? I don't know. 

But I do know that, as I talked to my kids from my hotel room that night, knowing they were safe at home with their daddy, bathed, clothed, fed, not a worry in their minds about where they would sleep, what they would eat, would they be okay, that I wasn't going to be the same. Ever. I'm sure there are piles of laundry awaiting me back home. Dishes and squabbling and refereeing. But it's there. Waiting. Little Axe, Moore, West, they can't all say that. 
And my memories of these places are stronger than my selfishness. Selfishness doesn't stand a chance against gratitude.

-M  

{{Day 11 Photo Dump}}



Supplies at FBC Little Axe









Greg 
Telling us about his tornado experience 


Lisa, of Tangled Up Salon 



Margaret and some of her family 


Missy and I made friends wherever we went