I have a new article up on Burnside Writers Collective, a forward-thinking zine on the net that was born right here in my very own Portland. Burnside is a major thoroughfare in our city and the street address for Powell's, the most amazing bookstore in America. For real.
Here's an appetizer of what I wrote in that article:
Claiborne, who grew up a middle-class suburban kid and earned a college degree, seemed determine in his book to challenge his readers to live as he does. The problem we had with that is that he does not live as most Americans or world citizens have to live, and that is, to devote many waking hours to work so as to provide for one’s family. It seemed ludicrous for a white educated guy to write a book about how to live among the poor and advocate for justice when his lifestyle and advantaged upbringing alienates him from the ordinary person’s reality.
Anyway, here's the LINK if you want to read about my resistance to the irresistible Shane Claiborne!
Last month when Jerry and I drove up to Canada (ugh....) we made a stop on the south end of Seattle to a little village known as Nickelsville. A small community, Nickelsville became the home of my brother-in-law just about six weeks ago. Without Nickelsville, he would have had no where to go.
Nicklesville is a community of people who do not have homes, who do not live indoors for all kinds of reasons. They are men and women, young and old, white and non-white, gay and straight, a cross-section of that great melting pot known as America.
My brother-in-law, Allen, has suffered from severe alcoholism for a number of years. It's been a roller coaster ride, as anyone who has loved an addict can tell you. But along the way God has kindly sent good hearted Samaritans who have loved and cared for Allan in ways that we his family could not. Sometimes the kindness of strangers becomes the saving grace that flesh and blood cannot provide.
Nickelsville became such a place for Allen. It has been a community of kindness among strangers that saved him for a bit longer from the demons that would have him. N-ville has a zero tolerance for alcohol, drugs and fighting. Allan towed the line, and in the context of community, he was able to do so. He has been sober these last six weeks.
The folks who make up Nickelsville govern and police themselves. There are tentmasters who help newcomers get shelter with donated tent gear. There is a security schedule, round-the-clock security watch to make sure those who would mean harm do not prey upon the vulnerable Nickelsville residents. Allan has pulled many late night shifts and heard the roar of a rich man's engine race by while drunken boys shout, "Get a job you bums!"
Nicklesville is located in a little-used park in an industrial area. It is not convenient for most people since it is far removed from urban life. The nearest bus stop is more than a mile away as well as the nearest store, which is a mini-mart. We saw this ourselves when we visited Allan.
The tents were set up orderly, like a village, a campground among a small grove of trees near by a Washington river. A shelter serves as the Nickelsville's kitchen; and there are areas designated for storage and donations. It was orderly and clean. We met a few of the residents, polite people who are just as polite as the neighbors who live on my street in Portland. People are people, wherever you go and whoever they are. People are people.
So it is with great sadness and sense of immense powerlessness that Allen has told us that tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. the hardworking police of Seattle will come to make sure Nickelsville is dismantled and that all residents vacate the park. Or else get arrested for trespassing.
I try to imagine a posse of American cowboys time-traveling to that park tomorrow, galloping in on their steeds, recognizing a camp when they see one. I imagine them asking the police, "What's going on here, Sheriff? What did these people do to get a hoard of you out here to their camp?"
And then I can hear an officer robotically replying, "These people are camped here illegally and are therefore breaking the law."
The old cowboys with their weathered faces and leathered hands would grimace. "What? Well, whose land is it?"
The city's.
And who are these people then?
They are city dwellers.
But they can't stay here, in their own city?
No, they cannot.
Well that just don't make any sense.
But tomorrow it is unlikely any heroes on horses will be able to turn back the show of force that will yet again intimidate a town's poorest and weakest members into nonsensical submission. There may be a few of Seattle's who will show up to do their best to defend the brothers and sisters of Nicklesville. Yet the sense of hopelessness is there, lying under rocks like hidden rattlesnakes in a dried up creek bed.
Power. Land. Oppression. It is an old story. A story that baffles me when those without boots are expected to pull themselves up by their boot straps or die in the rain trying.
If you think of Nickelsville, breathe them up a prayer. And if you see a homeless guy on a corner holding a sign, don't just ignore him. Think about giving him a buck. Look him in the eye. Ask his name. REach out your hand and tell him yours. And if it's my brother-in-law Allen, give him more than a buck or a name. Give him some respect.
for more about this story click HERE for a West Seattle blogger's report. The comment section is a great cross-section of those who support or oppose the rights of homeless citizens to create safe shelter for themselves on public land.
In an effort to bulk up my writing credits and grind my rep in the virtual world of cyberspace, I have applied and been accepted as a writer for The Examiner, a national online publication that specializes in utilizing citizen journalists to tell the stories and get the scoop on their specialized niche of expertise. Mine is progressive Christian spirituality, specifically as it pertains to Portland, Oregon where I live. Today my first article went up! Click HERE to check it out!!!!
Everyone needs to save money nowadays, and with the evolution of the internet saving some bucks has never been easier. Whether you live in a rural community or a metropolis, online shopping can save the American consumer a whole lot of cash. Here are some of my fave sites, some new and some tried and true. If you have any great sites that save you money, let us know!
Eye glasses - Zenni Optical if you have a prescription, that's all you need. I ordered a pair for my daughter (single vision) for $15 and got a pair for me (progressive lenses) for just under $50. I was a little nervous about ordering online, not being able to try them on, but I am so happy with my order. And so is my daughter! Zenni is a well-established online eyewear company with many satisfied customers. I recommend them.
Books - Ok, Amazon is king in my book (pun totally intended). Their books are usually priced just ok...but it's their partner booksellers, that's where the deals are. Even after shipping. Amazon kindly offers listings of their bookseller partners for any title you search for giving you the choice for a brand new full priced book, or a gently used significantly reduced price. I have often save 50 percent or more, even after shipping, through Amazon's bookseller partners. Totally worth a look when you are browsing for books online.
Search Engine Savings - If you haven't heard of Bing, it is time to check them out. Bing is a search engine who collaborates with many online vendors to bring the surfing shopper great deals. When you use Bing to search for an item, like last month I Binged for a pair of Blowfish boots my daughter Rose had her eye set on, Bing gave me some links, including Planet Shoes, which if I bought the boots from Planet Shoes, a partner with Bing, there would be an automatic savings of 15%. But here's the catch - it has to be a Paypal transaction. The savings are realized in your Paypal account. We were charged the full amount, but then 15% of the sale will be credited to our Paypal account, resulting in savings on other purchases we make through Paypal. If you shop online very much using a PP account, Bing is a no-brainer to saving a few dollars with every PP transaction.
Great Deals, especially Electronics - My husband introduced me to Slick Deals. He has been a fan of their's for a while and has saved our family money on all kinds of transactions including cell phone plans. Slick Deals updates their site everyday with dozens of deals and coupon codes. It is a way station in the wild of cyberspace for finding great leads on deals from everything to laptops to name brand clothes to all kinds of electronics, including mp3 players, and even dvd's. Jerry has scored quite a few $5 blue-ray dvd's because of the slick deal forums. And that's how you get the info. Other bargain shoppers are just passing on the love. Slick Deals can be overwhelming. Be sure to use their onsite search engine to find what you're looking for. Then pay attention to the posting date. Many deals are time sensitive. Great site to bookmark.
Handcrafted Items and Gifts: I first heard about ETSY from my craft loving friend, Crystal. Etsy is an online crafters mall, one great big sprawling market of handcrafted art and such from around the country. I love handcrafted pretties, but they usually come with a pretty hefty price. At least here in Portland. But ETSY provides a broad range of prices as well as inventory. Their categories are easy to navigate, too. I'm eying a pair of fimo-crafted avocado earrings for Rose. Sh...don't tell her! Etsy is for sure going to be my major Christmas shopping depot this year. One of a kind bargains galore! Plus, you're helping an individual artist with each purchase. That is something to feel extra good about in this day of corporate greed.
Craigs List - Ok, Craigs List has had some bad press with a few evil sickos using CL to commit violent crimes. Caution and common sense go a long way on the net, and especially when meeting up with someone for a Craigs List transaction. But the bargains are endless, a buyer's paradise, and often someone can be found posting on the Freebie List that thing that you need. Jerry and I have been involved in many CL deals, both selling and buying. Rose just sold her PsP system, with our guidance of course. I sold an oversized armchair during the summer, and we found a new home for Rose's guinea pigs when it was time for them to move on. I found inexpensive plants for my newly installed rock garden last week from just a few minutes of searching CL in Portland. And Jerry just bought a new gadget for more than 50% less than any store (or online site!) could have save for him.
CL is not for everything or everyone. If you live alone, I would not advise having total strangers come to your house to look at the coffee table you want to get rid of. If you're selling a small item, meet the potential person in public. I did this when I sold a cell phone through CL. But when I sold my chair, of course they had to come to my house. I talked to them on the phone first getting a feel for the person. She was a young woman, lived in my neighborhood...so that seemed fine. And it was. CL has cities listed from all over America and the world. Sometimes I surf around CL in Hong Kong just to see what they've got going on over there. Kind of fun to visit a yard sale from across the ocean!
Ok, if you read this far I hope you found some of the info here useful. Tell me about any money-saving sites you like to use. Have a great weekend!
She remembered being twelve. Living with her drunk mama on the edge of a small town in a small house. Peeling white paint, broken rain gutters bent out from the mossy roof, a missing floorboard from the wooden steps leading up to the screened front porch, screens that were torn in a couple of corners. Yes, it was home, and it was the biggest eye sore in the county. Maddy remembered that, too, remembered the nickname kids at school had given her house: hick house.
Her whole childhood had been one great big waiting game to get out of that house and away from that town. Away from her mama. The day finally came, too, and Maddy left. Here mama was sprawled out on the living room sofa with the television blaring an annoying afternoon game show. Maddy remembered having to stand in front of the tv just to get her mama's attention that she was leaving. For good. I'm not coming back, mama, do you understand?
Oh, baby, you'll be back. You wouldn't leave me like your daddy did. Go on, get out of the way so I can see the prize they just won. Where you going, Maddy girl? Hey! Pick me up some cigarettes on your way home, will ya?
That was nearly twenty years ago. Maddy never did see her mama again.
Maddie turned her dark blue eyes towards her sleeping husband. She reached out, gently placing her hand upon his turned shoulder. Feeling him breath - life - this comforted her. One more day. One more night. Time is running out and this is the moment, right here and right now, that Maddie could not let evaporate into nothingness. If nothing else mattered, then this right here was what meant everything in the world to her.
Light filled the window where she and her husband lied. The whole of it lit up as if under a spotlight. Maddie squeezed her eyes tight. Her fingers squeezed her husband's arm, shaking him awake.
Maddie?
It's happening. It's happening now. Stay awake with me.
Maddie's husband sat up. A loud boom shook the house, the windows rattling like windchimes on a breezy summer afternoon. He got up and moved towards the window.
Don't, she said. Stay with me.
He ignored her. Looking out the window he peered up, scanning to the east and to the west. The sky had an eerie orange glow, making the world seem like the glowy inside of a jack-o-lantern. He stood at the window for a long time. Listening. Watching. Maddie had finally joined him, leaning her trembling body into his strength. He stood rigid. Listening. Watching. That was all he could do, at least this night.
The smell of burnt wood and acrid smoke flushed them aware.
Let's get down to the basement, said the man.
Maddy held onto her husband's arm as they walked down the stairs. She could feel his old scar under the thin flannel he had been wearing for the last week. His brawny build and commanding presence had always made her feel safe. But not this time. Not this night. Not for a time like this.
She suddenly missed her mama and hick house and small town with it's grand magnolia trees and moss-laden groves. She would give anything to go back and be twelve again.
**this is the last segment of my Five Days, Five Memories series. If you have been following the series I want to thank you for being my reader! This blog is the place I take risks, try new kinds of writing and exercise my writing muscles. My readership have been the best source of encouragement for the past three years.
Now that summer is over I am resuming a blogging schedule. You'll see more posts each week that will include book reviews, essays and humor pieces. I am even kicking around an idea to blog a flash novel. Imagine a Five Day Novel. Five Posts. Novel is done. Ok. Now I have to do it. Doesn't that sound cool?
I'll also have some news about my writing path. Many of my readers know that I have been steadily building a writing career for the last five years. I've had some interesting breaks and set-backs this past year. I'll spare you the boring details, but will give you a digest version soon. Let me tease you by saying this was the big year that was and was not.
Ok. Enough of a blog-o-mercial. Here's the final installment for the Five Days, Five Memories writing series about church experiences. I've decided to close it out with memories of Food Church, a special community that was accidentally born at The Bridge.
***
"Hey guys," I said with my arms full of stuff as I walked up the sidewalk towards the small group of young people in front of my church. "How's it going?"
"Pam!" crooned Jessie, a lovable hippie of a twenty-something year old who grew up on Mount Hood. "How are you my friend?" he asked as he warmly embraced me. With my arms unavailable to hug back I improvised and bumped my shoulder up against his shoulder.
"Long time no see!" shouted the next person, Rachael. She and I both have had busy summers and yes, it's easily been a month or two since we last saw one another. "Rachael!" I shouted back, "so great to see you. It's been too long!"
This was the come-early crowd. The Sunday service for The Bridge starts late, 11:30. With a community full of young people (average age at The Bridge is 27) and many of them creative types, like artists and musicians, a late start is is the wisest way to go.
"Wow, look at all the produce," I said as I entered the basement of the church. Boxes of bananas, tomatoes, and watermelons were scattered around the room. Heaps of bread lied like rubble upon tables in the middle. Pastries and cookies were thoughtfully arranged on the table by the coffee near the door. All of this was donated food. We've had faithful volunteers who pick-up the food donations from a couple of grocery stores every Sunday.
Every week dozens of people come for free groceries, brown bags that are packed with whatever the stores have given. That day was a big meat day. The fridge in the kitchen was stuffed full of small steaks, hamburger patties, seasoned chicken packages and tons of all kinds of cheese. I only know this because I ended up helping load the bags up to be passed out. Rachael was meant to be point person, but she wasn't feeling well.
We kicked her out of the kitchen to go rest. Kevin, an impish sort of fellow with a colorful mohawk and a great sense of humor - as well as being walking juke box and often breaking out spontaneously into song, such as this day in the kitchen, he suddenly burst into a chorus of "Take Me Home, Country Roads" - he stepped up and made sure everything was ready for Food Church.
Food Church. I don't know who started calling it that. Maybe it was Angie, one of the co-pastors at The Bridge.
Through word of mouth news spread of us being a church that gave away food. No strings attached. No forms to fill out. No service to sit through. No expectations. Just a bag or two of groceries if you need them.
By 1pm every Sunday our little corner becomes crowded with an alternative looking crowd with a definite anarchistic vibe. Altered clothing, tribal tattoos, and tattered backpacks give these beautiful young men and women a post-apocalyptic aura of grit and rugged survivalist suave. If the end of civilization ever comes upon us, these are the people I know will make it.
I love seeing the line-up of these fiercely anti-establishment group. Many of them are regulars. Some of them let us know a few months ago that they would be at an anarchist zine fest not far from our church. Would we like to come? Could we help provide some refreshments for the fest? Some of us did show up, including me and my friend Vivian. We cruised around the room, crowded with tables piled with zines, pamphlets, brochures, booklets and books and stickers and patches...all about anarchy. I felt just a little bit old and middle-class. But I didn't let it bother me. I have been intent on learning that people are people are people are people, wherever you go, wherever you are. People are people.
And most people, I know, like to share their knowledge with others.
So I walked around that anarchist zine fest and asked people at some of the tables, "What should I read to learn about anarchy? I have no idea what that is?"
One guy I said this too became so animated. He immediately began to deluge me with all kinds of reading material. "Definitely read this first. If nothing else, read this," he insisted with all the fervor of an evangelist. He was pointing to the small newspaper he had thrust in my arms called, "Fighting for our Lives : An Anarchist Primer."
I did read some of it. I was surprised to find myself wondering if Jesus was an anarchist. From the literature I was reading, sounds like he could be!
Food Church is a perfect example of the ethos of The Bridge. We are sometimes criticized for not preaching the bible enough or talking about Jesus more. People come and leave our fellowship all the time, disenchanted with our lack of religious outpouring. What is lost on them is that the gospel was never meant to be preached only in words. It is actually a message that is preached with our lives. Food Church, I believe, is one great, big gospel fest of grocery bags each and every week.
"Hi there. I don't think I've met you before," I said to an older man I noticed hanging around the pastries and coffee. He had a bag with him and had selected several pastries and scooped them into his bag. He seemed thoughtful, not taking too many. An older man, I did not recognize him.
"No, I haven't been here before," drawled the man betraying some kind of southern heritage in his laid back tone. "But I heard about this and I think it's wonderful what you're doing here. Just wonderful. It's a blessing," he added.
"Well I'm glad you found us. You're welcome to have some coffee if you like. We have church upstairs. You're welcome to join us, but you don't have to," I said. "We have groceries every week, but you don't need to come to a service to get any."
"I appreciate that," he said and at once I wondered what his story was. Gratitude came off him like a designer fragrance.
Food Church was born accidentally. Someone knew someone or something like that who could get donated groceries from a Trader Joe's. That was more than two years ago. Every Sunday ever since. It slowly became structured to what it is today through good old-fashioned trial and error. (The food used to be piled up on tables before church and people would come and take what they wanted and leave. But then a few characters started showing up with wagons and they would wipe out the tables before others had a chance. We then heard rumors that some of them were trading or selling food for drugs. Ok. Had to change that up. And so, Food Church was slowly born out of that muddy mess. Like a lotus flower.)
The Bridge is controversial in some aspects. We are not a traditional church and do not look or sound like a traditional church. We're much louder, somewhat vulgar at times, and can be as irreverent as some two-bit comedian on late-night television.
But we are fiercely honest, true to who we are and recklessly committed to showing the loving side of God with as few words as necessary. To one another, and to those around us in the community we find ourselves in. Like these community of dumpster-diving anarchists. They may not realize it, but church life is happening as much in the basement as it is upstairs.
"While we look for a new space to meet in, it has to have a kitchen so we can keep up the groceries for Food Church," reminds Angie whenever she reviews the features a meeting space for our church is discussed or announced. "And we'd really like to keep it within a mile or two from here so our friends who walk and ride their bikes to Food Church can still get to us," she reminds us.
They say there are no accidents. At least when it comes to whimsical coincidences and the birth of children. Every child is born with purpose by the very intrinsic nature that they were born at all. I think the same can be said of Food Church. It was an accidental birth, yet not without purpose. That purpose, I imagine, is not simply to feed a few hungry anarchists, but to also feed the need to accept one another in the spirit of love and kindness. That, to me, is the fulfillment of the greatest commandment, which Jesus said was to Love One Another. That is the gospel. And it it does not need words. A bag of groceries will do just fine.
(if you live in or nearby northeast Portland and need groceries, be at The Bridge around 1pm each Sunday at the corner of NE 7th and NE Stanton. You'll see the line. Basement doors open up between 1:15-1:30. Bring an extra bag for the bread table. Be prompt. It goes kinda fast.)
"Don't just stand around," scolded the British woman, "spread yourselves out. Find someone to pray for!"
I could barely pray with another person in the safety zone of my church let alone out here in the open under a freeway flyover. What would I pray? How could I initiate prayer with someone I don't even know? And then there's the language problem.
I didn't speak Cantonese.
Our small missions team of young Americans, Europeans and a few Hong Kong youth, had joined up with the notorious Jackie Pullinger. Notorious for her book, Chasing the Dragon, which told the story of her boldness as an English woman who got on a boat to follow God and then landed in Hong Kong. She ended up in the infamous Walled City, a dank territory of lawlessness, rampant drug addiction and all kinds of other vices and gang strongholds where she, of all people, managed to actually connect to young male Triad members.
Now, two decades later, she had a community of people from around the world and Hong Kong itself who came along side her to help shower God's love on the broken, poor and addicted in some of the poorest neighborhoods of the then British colony.
"Find a street sleeper and pray for him," she coaxed as our team's collective insecurity kept us huddled together. We had joined Jackie and a small group from her ministry which was called St. Stephan's Society. They regularly came to different flyover squats to meet with those who slept outside, or street sleepers as Hong Kong's homeless were known.
Most of the street sleepers we saw were old, feeble men. Many of them sickly. They did not like to venture far from their flyovers where they had their cot set up and their belongings. So Jackie and others would come to them, bringing steaming rice boxes with freshly cooked Chinese vegetables and savory meats. Besides ministering to the body, Jackie and her crew would also minister to the spirit. It was church outside.
I finally willed courage to my feet and broke away from the hold herd. I saw a younger street sleeper eating alone from the group. I walked tentatively towards him, wondering how on earth I was going to communicate to him? I had been in Hong Kong less than three months. I barely knew how to say Good Morning let alone, "May I pray for you, brother?"
The man was sitting down on a curb next to a fence. Red taxis, double-decker buses and lorries roared by just inches from where he lunched. Hong Kong is a noisy crowded city.
"Hello," he said in between bites, holding his chopsticks over the Styrofoam container, his elbow crooked upon his knee. "Where do you come from?"
I literally felt the anxiety evaporate like the steam coming off the rice. He spoke English!
" Hello! I am fine. I am from America."
I knelt down on the asphalt next to him. I took my cue from Jackie who I had noticed would not talk to any of the street sleepers by standing over them. She would drop down to talk with them eye to eye.
Some of my team members begin dispersing about the flyover area. There were about a dozen street sleepers and many of them were sitting alone, eating or smoking a cigarette. One of the Dutch guys came over and joined me. I was grateful for this. I was very clumsy at this outreach business. I could usually manage to get into a conversation with a person, but to turn that conversation to their need for God was always a trick for me that I did not like to play. It felt disingenuinous. Probably because it was. At least for me. I preferred the slow, take it easy approach. Friendship evangelism was what it was called, and that suited me fine. Of course I could share the gospel in the context of an established friendship, but to blitz a city corner just because a crowd is there? Yek. Yes, I said it. Yek.
"America, huh," he garbled with a mouthful of rice. "Are you from California?"
"No, I'm not. I'm from Las Vegas."
"Whoa! Very lucky city! So much gambling!"
This was a very typical reaction when I told people where I was from. Chinese people love to gamble, and of course, Las Vegas is the most famous gambling city in the world. Eventually I would learn how to say it in Cantonese, which is the Chinese dialect of Hong Kong. (Lai-see-wah-gah-see = Las Vegas)
We learned his English name was John. My Dutch teammate quickly brought the conversation to spiritual matters and asked him what could we pray for him. This offer triggered an avalanche of angst as John began to tell us about his family situation. He was overcome with despair of how to help his deceased family members through the rituals of ancestor worship. It is believed that different rituals and offerings in the physical world made by relatives assist those family members who have passed on to the next world. For reasons he did not tell us, John was destitute. It weighed heavily on him to fulfill his family obligation to honor his deceased relatives through traditional gestures.
We offered to pray for him to have God's wisdom about these burden, but he refused. He felt he could not allow an appeal to a deity when he had unfinished family business. My Dutch friend explained to John about freedom from such bondage through faith in Jesus. "You cannot affect your family in the afterlife when they are gone. They are with God. Let it go and let Christ bring you the peace you need."
My Dutch teammate was very zealous and passionate for evangelism. He spoke firmly yet respectfully and kindly. John shook his head. "No, I cannot...I cannot," he emphasized.
The Dutchman finally gave up and wandered off to find, I presume, another soul to engage with. But I stayed with John. He spoke good English and seemed lonely for conversation. I let go of the pressure of trying to save his soul and settled instead to just enjoy the pleasure of his company.
The atmosphere around us relaxed immediately. Suddenly, without an agenda, we became two people whose lives had intersected in just this moment. It was for me a grand realization that sharing Christ's presence is sometimes accomplished through simple rice boxes and mere listening. I did not have to be an important missionary from Las Vegas who had come to fix a broken Chinese man living under a flyover and fretting over how to take care of ancestor worship problems. I was free to be with him in that place. To just be with him. No conversion pressure; no sales pitch; no gimmicks. Just the kind company of a lucky woman and a lucky man who were having church without all the usual fuss.
I noticed Jackie beside the cot of one of the oldest and most frail "brothers" (as she liked to call them). She was motherly in her presence, and though I could not hear her above the din of the traffic, I could make out the tenderness of her smile and compassion of her eyes. "I want to be like Jackie," I thought.
In Vegas, I had sometimes connected to the homeless. I always thought that Christians ought to get homeless people saved and off the streets. Saved Christians do not live outside. People who pray to receive Jesus into their hearts do not keep sleeping on cots under freeways. The Church is an indoor affair.
Being around Jackie that day, and in other days that would come, is where I first learned that the church is meant to be without walls. I discovered under that flyover and other street sleeper squats, that Jesus is without walls, too. The kingdom of God is a borderless nation.
I learned from Jackie that Love has no borders. Love lives outside.
This, to me, is the best kind of church. Wild. Untamed. Like the feral cats that hide in city parks.
***The Walled City was demolished in 1993. All those walls, tightly erected together, shoulder to shoulder in such density that one could not see the sky once inside the labyrinth of buildings. It was a dark, suffocating place.
In it's place now stands a picturesque park aptly named Kowloon Walled City Park. Hong Kong's biggest slum has been replaced, a garden of beauty and splendor erected upon the ashes and ruins of a place in bondage to it's past.
It was Easter Sunday. I sat in the movie theater alone. Crying.
I had miscarried my first baby just days before.
That morning I was unsure about going to church or not. I was in a grief-stricken place of wreckage and mourning. How could I celebrate the resurrection of Christ?
I read a selection from a daily devotional I kept near my bed. I cannot remember much of it, but what I do remember is that it used an allegory about a rose coming in the spring after the harsh winter death. In my broken heart a small comfort eased into the fractures and whispered, "You'll have your flower come spring."
I was meant to have my first child in October of 1993. Before their DNA could even weave into a him or a her, the little life inside of me dissolved into nothingness. Some of me, a tender piece of my new mother's soul, dissolved with them.
But the hope of the future and trying again for a baby helped me get dressed and get to church. Our community met in a theater on Lighthouse Avenue in Pacific Grove, California, a picturesque coastal village three hours south of San Francisco.
I cried my prayers that Easter morning. And then went home comforted.
Eventually I did get pregnant again. My baby girl was born in March, the early spring of 1994. We named her Rose.
One week later it was Easter. Our theater church, (called Calvary Chapel) had a tradition of blessing newborn babies before the congregation. I thought, "Maybe the pastor will do it for us on Easter. My mom and sister will be here. It would be perfect."
I prepared myself for him to say no. Easter is usually full of pageantry and special music, so many other extra things that I was doubtful a baby blessing would fit the schedule. But it did.
On Easter morning, a year after my miscarriage, our little Rose was dedicated to the Lord with the blessing of her family and faith community.
My husband's old music buddy, Dave Taylor, had been asked to sing that morning. Dave is a talented singer/songwriter and without knowing our newborn daughter's name, the pastor had already asked Dave to sing his song, "Like a Rose."
So I cried. Again. Another Easter, and more tears. But these tears fell upon her sweet white baby blanket as Dave sang about the beauty and resurrection of the rose.
Three years later, in the spring of March again, we anxiously waited for the arrival of Jeremy. His birth was uncertain. Diagnosed with a very serious birth defect, we could not know until he was born whether he would live or die. I prayed and cried for months, hoping against hope that my son would come home.
At one a.m. on Easter morning, Jeremy came kicking and screaming into the world.
All of my babies have been Easter babies.
The theater church in Pacific Grove is where the seeds of Easter resurrection hope for my children were born. I can never be an atheist nor an agnostic. The miracle of life, even life that is cut too short, is the most powerful evidence to me of the existence of a benevolent Higher Power.
I haven't cried for a few Easters now. This past spring my children sat with me and my husband in our rowdy little church, The Bridge, for what was the most fun Easter Sunday service I have ever been a part of. If you want a peek, here's the Youtube Link to check it out. It was a spontaneous dance-a-thon in celebration of Christ.
It was awesome to dance and shout rather then pray and cry on Easter. Just the way I hope my children can live out the remainder of their lives, dancing and shouting (and praying and crying!) as they live to see dozens of more Easters as my hair turns white.
"But it's my payphone dime to call my mom. I'll need a ride home."
Silence.
In my peripheral vision I could see the offering bag getting closer. The red velvet sack glided from hand to hand like a stone skipping down a river.
I had one hand in my jeans pocket, the dime pocket. I felt it's thin edge between my jammed fingers as I wrestled with my dilemma.
This was back in the day before cell phones. This was the early 80's when payphones were common. A local call cost ten cents.
My one dime could mean getting home without complications that night after the Sunday service.
I was 18 years old. I had found Jesus, or maybe he found me, not sure which way you could say it was, but we had found each other and I had become one of those annoying born-again, bible-thumping, demon-stomping, Jesus-hollering kind of Christians. I went from dating juvenile delinquents to hitting up every church service I could persuade my poor mother to drive me across town to.
I couldn't just go to any church. It had to be this one. Clear on the other side of the Vegas valley. Two freeways and a whole mess of boulevards in between this church hall and my front door. Without a car, or a licence, I was at my mom's mercy to ferry me every Sunday.
Sometimes after church a new friend would invite me out. Vegas nightlife teemed with great late night deals. If we hung out talking 'til the church doors closed some of us would then head to Glitter Gulch and enjoy the 99 cent steak dinner. For real. This was old Vegas, baby, way back before it got fancified by slick hoteliers and franchised entertainment conglomerates.
So my mom and I had it worked out. She would not come out and get me unless I called her. Sometimes I would be out late and one of my new Christian friends would drive me all the way home.
I did a quick scan of the church crowd. Still being a newbie to the Calvary Chapel scene, I knew only a handful of people. From my vantage point I did not see anyone of them. Tonight could very well be a night when I'd need to use the payphone outside for my mom to make the trek across the valley.
I never felt bad about disrupting her evening. I had the feeling that she was alright with being my church taxi. Maybe for her it meant she didn't have to worry about another phone call from the cops or another late night wondering if I was coming home at all. Since I got religion, my habits had dramatically changed. I went from party girl to Jesus Freak.
"Trust me. Put the dime in."
The red velvet offering bag had arrived to me. Moment of truth. I quickly pulled the dime out of my pocket with it curled tightly inside of my fist. Already I had learned some of the church code of tithing; don't flash how much (or how little) you were giving. And really, did I want anyone to see the pathetic single coin I was giving that night?
I let the dime drop into the cavernous sack. A kind of anxiety welled up and then evaporated into the church air. I just had to let it go.
God will get my home.
It will be ok.
This was a new way of life for me. Mysterious promptings to do things like give away money was a novelty for me. I felt like I was waking up to some kind of superhuman power only heroes possess. Mine was the power to hear the voice of God.
At home I had taken to reading my bible with all the voraciousness of a reader obsessed with a mystery novel. I could not read it enough. I read the entire New Testament a dozen times that first tender year of my faith. (except, in all honesty, I did skip over Hebrews. It was too hard to understand. Hey, it's still too hard!)
Soon I would find myself feeling an urge to read a specific verse or passage when I was praying. Or I'd ask God a question and the address of an unknown verse would pop into my mind. Once I was asking the Lord to help me with my angsty feelings of effed-upness. Straight away, Isaiah 61 blazed across my imagination like a Vegas Strip neon billboard. I had no idea what it said.
The words comforted me so deeply they made me cry:
The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, Because the LORD has anointed me To bring good news to the afflicted; He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, To proclaim liberty to captives And freedom to prisoners;
To proclaim the favorable year of the LORD And the day of vengeance of our God; To comfort all who mourn, To grant those who mourn in Zion,
Giving them a garland instead of ashes, The oil of gladness instead of mourning, The mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting So they will be called oaks of righteousness, The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified.
Feeling mystical prompts with Bible verses was kind of fun. Kind of like being on a spiritual scavenger hunt. I paid attention and clues would come that would lead me to the next thing.
But putting my dime, My Ride, in the offering? Argh. What did God Almighty need with my measly little dime anyway?
I tried to listen hard to the sermon. I liked the Sunday night service. The pastor, a 30'ish-year old man with shaggy brown hair and a mustache, told great jokes and made the bible come alive. He was the cool pastor, out of the three pastors of that church. The other two were much older and wore old man clothes. But this guy, Pastor John, he'd climb up to that pulpit wearing jeans and a pair of sneakers. He seemed more like the cool science teacher everybody liked than professional clergy.
My mind drifted. Not having any money of my own was due to a little thing called unemployment. Or rather, to be perfectly honest, teen-aged slackerhood. I was barely out of high school, living at home, and had not a clue in the world what to do with my self. That's when I got saved. For keeps. I had tried getting saved several times when I was younger, but it just never took. This time, I could tell, it took.
In all of the spooky new promptings I was feeling with God and prayer it is interesting to me that I did not feel prompted to go find a job. I was just enjoying being a total church nerd. I'd stay up late drinking Pepsi and smoking Marlboro's and read my bible. I'd sleep in 'til noon and after watching television for a few hours I'd figure out what bible study or church service I could hit that night. Several of my new Calvary Chapel friends noticed this and told me I was "on fire for the Lord." My passion for religion consumed my waking life. Experts would call this something else. Like addiction.
But back to my dime.
The service was over. As the church began to thin out I scanned and rescanned the room looking for any hope of someone I could either bum a dime from or get a ride home.
No one. Nope. Of all the Sunday night services and of all the hundreds of people in attendance, I could not find a single soul I knew by name. As a terribly self-conscious 18-year old girl, it mortified me to even consider asking a stranger for help.
I started thinking about the long walk home. Maybe this was God's intention the whole time. A flash fantasy began rolling inside my head. I pictured myself walking down Vegas Boulevard. Should I take Bonanza home or Cheyenne? Either one would take me straight through the heart of one of the roughest areas of the valley. That was the part I was most worried about. But then in my fantasy I pictured myself walking towards a girl like me who was crying. She was beaten and sobbing, and I was the only one there to help her. In my flash fiction heroism, I put my arms around her and walked her all the way to my house. Her name was Miranda. She had been assaulted by some street thugs and had all her money stolen.
Miranda had no mom to call. She was an orphan. We walked all the way up Bonanza and then north on Rancho Drive. By the time we reached Lake Mead boulevard she started warming up to me. The next scene of my insta-story was of Miranda and I running down my street from the thugs who had come back to finish her off.
I was deep into my head with this story, just about to hurl a perfectly aimed rock at the windshield of the zooming silver Camaro the bad guys were driving when I was woken from my daydream.
"Hey, Pam? How are you doing?"
"Oh...Robbie. Hi. I'm fine. Just praising the Lord."
(Don't hold this against me. It was the 80's after all. Big bands. Big hair. And big Christian-speak.)
Robbie was an ok guy. He looked like he had just come out of jail. Scraggly hair, scruffy stubble of days old growth on his squared off chin, Robbie was alright, but he was not as polished as some of the other "brothers" I was becoming acquainted with in my new circle of church friends. He reminded me too much of some of the losers I used to hang out with. There was definitely a thuggish quality around him.
But he was to be my salvation.
"Man, that sure was a good message tonight. The Lord sure did convict my heart," said Robbie as he chewed on a toothpick. I sized him up quick as I figured out whether or not I was going to ask him for a ride. Standing there in a cheap brown leather jacket with matching brown polyester pants and boring brown shoes, Robbie looked like a two-bit hoodlum who probably works for the mafia. Hey, it was Vegas, after all, and organized crime figures were all over the city. I once met a hitman when I was babysitting. But that's another story for another time.
Robbie had given me a ride home before, but that was when I had a friend with me. Tonight I was on my own.
"Hey you guys, you 'bout ready to go?" A group of teen-aged boys gathered round us. I recognized some of them, having seen them at the Sunday night service before. In contrast to Robbie, they seemed harmless, lacking that dangerous aura that clung to Robbie like the stale cigarette smoke that fragranced him.
It was do or die time.
"Um, Robbie, do you think you could give me a ride home tonight?"
I felt nervous and bad just asking the guy. He drove a junker car that probably got five miles to the gallon. Even at 80's gas prices, it was a long haul for him to take me home. He lived on this side of the valley. Taking me home would more than double his mileage. I gave him a dollar for gas last time he drove me home.
"Of course I can give you a ride home. Not a problem."
"Well, um, I don't have any money to help out with gas tonight. Is that ok? I can give you some money later, next week, if that's ok."
"Pam," he said, taking the toothpick out of his mouth and breaking into a big silly grin, "I can give you a ride home. Besides, it's only a dime's worth of gas to get you there."
Whoa.
Say that again.
"It's only a dime's worth of gas to get you there."
Crazy.
My guard completely relaxed after that. Robbie and the guys were fun. We laughed all the way down Las Vegas Boulevard. Robbie hopped onto I-15. We wouldn't have to navigate the rough part of town in his green wreck of an Oldsmobile.
When we pulled up to my house, (home at last!) the porch light shining brightly and our cats prowling the driveway for cockroaches to stalk, I gushed my gratitude all over Robbie.
"Anytime, Pam, anytime. I'm happy to help you get home. It's only a dime's worth of gas. Don't forget that."
I never did forget that, and I never did forget Robbie. That was the last time I ever saw him. I have no idea what happened to him. No one else at my church knew him well enough to know either. He just disappeared.
I got a job soon after that. I saved up my money and bought a car. A 1965 powder blue Volkswagon bug. The first time I drove to church, zooming up Bonanza Boulevard since the freeway freaked me out, I kept thinking about Robbie and his beat-up green heap of a vehicle. I thought about my mom and how many times she had driven me across town so I could celebrate Jesus with my new Calvary Chapel community. And I thought about dimes, lots and lots of dimes. My Vee-Dub bug for sure was only a dime's worth of gas away between home and faith.
***For the next five days I am going to record one memory from five different church experiences. Each writing will be a specific experience about a different church each of the five days. It's a great way to get some creative writing in for myself. I'm such an exhibitionist. Arent' all bloggers and writers? Otherwise I'd have a diary and God knows I haven't owned one of those since fifth grade.
So here goes. Not sure where it will take us. But I think it's gonna be interesting.
Getting Saved (the first time)
I couldn't help it. The giggles locked up in my belly under my blue-sashed Sunday dress erupted before I could stifle them. I threw a hand up over my mouth to stuff them back down, while my other hand clung tightly to my younger sister.
We were about to get saved.
My mama, which is what southern girls called their mothers where I grew up, had somehow decided that this was the day for her little daughters to ask Jesus into their precious little hearts. "Get on up there," she hissed as she pushed my sister and I across the slippery pew and dumped us out onto the aisle.
The Sunday crowd was singing Just As I Am just as they always did each and every Baptist Sunday in my Louisiana town. Whenever the chorus reached the line, "without one plea," I always, in my little girl mind, thought they were saying without one pea... to this day I cannot hear that song without picturing a pile of buttered green peas rolling around on a plate.
And that triggers me to remember the time my mama made me sit at the supper table for what seemed like hours because I would not eat my peas. No wonder I didn't turn out Baptist.
So there we were, my sister and I, all of four and five years old, me the older one, expected to make our sinful young lives right as a summer rain before our Maker. The problem though,was that we weren't able to take it seriously.
"You go!" my sister whispered as I tried to push her forward making her the point person on this mission of salvation. "No, you go!" I whispered right back, which led us into another fit of giggles.
"Both of ya'll, get on up there. Now!" said mama in her most urgent I-mean-it voice. This coaxed us to move forward a bit more, but as soon as we were safe beyond her reach we slowed back down to the pace of a slug in a mud field.
"C'mon girls," said the preacher smiling down upon us from behind the wooden pulpit.
Oh.
I had forgotten all about him.
With all the singing and the commotion of Mama trying to get us out of the pew and walking down that aisle, I had completely forgotten that not only did we have to contend with getting cleansed of our sins in front of the whole church, but we had to talk to the Reverend about it. This sobered me and my sister up straight away. We obediantly made our way down the aisle to the pulpit.
We didn't know it at the time but we were engaging in a rite of passage, a spiritual ritual that Baptist girls like us had done before us and would most certainly would continue to do after us.
In my five-year old mind, though, I just wanted to hurry up and get saved so I could get out of there and go to lunch. Weusually went out for Sunday dinner at the Piccadilly cafeteria. I always picked the exact same items from the food line every week: fried chicken drumstick, green beans, buttery bread roll and chocolate milk.
Let me pause here for a moment and say that it astounds my kids that I can remember such details but I can't find my car keys.
The preacher came down from behind his pulpit and stood behind us. He kindly spoke to us with a gentle, fatherly voice, tellling us to kneel down to pray. His big palms pressed down upon my tiny shoulders helping me to bend my knees.
Panic struck my kindergarten heart. I was wearing a dress. "What if my panties showed?" I fretted as I frantically tried to recall whether or not I had on clean undies.
Through every word of the sinner's prayer that holy man led us through, as Jesus the Son of God stepped through the door of my wicked heart and cleansed me and my sister from all kinds of filth, all I could think about, besides fried chicken and chocolate milk, was whether or not I was flashing my backside to the entire congregation. And Holy God if I am, please don't let there be a skid mark in sight.
When we finished praying and the organist brought the song to a close, the preacher stood us up and turned my sister and I towards the church. He presented us to the congregation as if we were a married couple. The white-haired women with their powdered faces and red, smiling lips looked at us as if we were sweet as puppies for sale outside of the Piggly Wiggly. But I knew better. I knew they were probably thinking about the pecan pie at the Piccadilly.
We returned to the pew with our mother. Our father had missed out on all the fun. He was overseas doing something called a tour in a place called Viet Nam. I would finally see him again when I was in the second grade.
That day we were given small white-covered pocket New Testaments. I took it with me to dinner (which is Sunday lunch time in the South, only they call it dinner, and dinner is called supper. I know. It took me years to sort out the confusion when I moved west.)
I don't know if my sister and I got saved that day or not. I didn't really care. I just wanted to get out of there and head to the Piccadilly before the Presbyterians beat us to the front of the line.
It would be nine more years before I decided that the saving didn't take so I did it again. Then a third and even a fourth time. They say the average person has to try on twenty pairs of jeans to find the perfect fit. I guess the same could be said about getting saved. The average Christian tries to get saved at least a dozen times before it finally takes. Since that's the case, I'm due for an altar call anyday now. I just hope there's a Piccadilly nearby when the Lord comes knockin'.
If you have read The Shack and loved it, watch this video. If you have read The Shack and didn't care for it, watch this video anyway. If you have never heard of The Shack nor Paul Young or Jim Henderson, go ahead and watch this video interview. It is a remarkable story of one man's life and how love and relationship become heroes in his world gone wrong.
Jim Henderson, by the way, notorious founder and executive director of Off the Map, is an interviewer extraordinaire. Check it out.
This is a first for me. A video blog post, also known as a vlog. It's about a recent dilemma my husband and I experienced when we were on our way to Canada.
Instead of writing the story out I'm providing a short video shot by my husband of me explaining why we could not cross into Canada for a highly anticipated vacation to the Canadian Rockies. Just the two of us. No kids. We'd been planning and looking forward to it for months.
Here's the story of why it didn't happen and where we ended up after the border drama. It's my public service announcement.
I have a new article up on Burnside Writers Collective, a forward-thinking zine on the net that was born right here in my very own Portland. Burnside is a major thoroughfare in our city and the street address for Powell's, the most amazing bookstore in America. For real.
