The Rhino Chronicles

Almost Heaven

2011-12-02T19:05:00.000-08:00

Friday night worship sessions have become a crucial part of what Manna Cafe is and does. Without "refueling" our spirits and building a foundation of prayer and the presence of God, we can't keep doing what we do. So here I sit, in the loft of the Manna House, i.e. warehouse in which we keep thousands of pounds of food to distribute during the week, and I'm wishing that those who have never experienced this could take a peek at what I'm seeing and hearing. What a beautiful, crazy mix of people and sounds and stories and sights.

Smack in the middle of the warehouse are the musicians. There is no stage, no platform, just an array of amps, monitors, speakers, singers, and instrumentalists gathered in a circle--some sitting, some standing. There are five guitars of various kinds, a jimbe, a drum set, and a mother-daughter pair at the mics. Others sing as well, and often it's impossible to tell the voices apart, especially when the song takes off "on its own," so to speak--on some musical bunny trail that last fifteen minutes or so before wandering back to its original form. The lighting consists of only a collection of white Christmas bulbs and string lighting like you buy at the hardware store.

Around the center hub are chairs, and blankets on the floor. Some people sit, some stand, some wander out to the coffee pots in the foyer. Nearly everyone wears a jacket--it's a concrete-floored warehouse, after all. We are in our twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, and sixties. We are black, white, asian, and hispanic. We are strong, and we're broken. We're in love with God, and we're asking questions about His existence. At least two of us are alcoholics; a couple of us are struggling with cancer. A few of us have had multiple marriages. Several of us are homeless. Some of us wrestle with emotional problems. We belongs to lots of different churches/denominations. The common thread is only that we're furiously loved by Jesus and that we're looking for Him tonight.

There is virtually no distinction between singers and participants, between young and old, between those who sit with their backs against boxes of canned goods and those who stand with arms lifted, or between one song and the next. I can't imagine anyone, from the king to the addict to Jesus Himself (Lord, that's our prayer!) who wouldn't fit in right here, right now; and therefore we're surely experiencing a slice of heaven, right here, right now.

A Good Night's Sleep

2011-09-15T20:02:00.000-07:00

At Thursday Cafe tonight, as I was passing out goodie bags, I noticed a man--probably in his early forties--whom I haven't seen for awhile. All our homeless folks get a goodie bag, but I couldn't remember what his living situation was, so I asked him, "Have you got a roof over your head?"

"No ma'am," he answered as he tilted his head toward the back of a particular building, "I'm actually staying behind there." Then he added, "But guess what? I've got an interview tomorrow!" He was practically giddy with pride and relief. He'd been hunting relentlessly for work. "I've been going to Labor Ready to get whatever work I could," he said. "Yesterday, I worked my fingers to the bone!" He held up his hands, and I saw that he was only slightly exaggerating: the tips of all his fingers were raw, the top layer of skin completely gone, like when you work till you've got blisters, and then you work some more, and the blisters burst.

He explained that he'd be getting as much as thirteen dollars an hour at his new job. "Maybe I'll be off the street soon!" I told him how happy I was for him, and as I handed him a goodie bag, I noticed he was rubbing his bare arms.This last week or so, the air has had far too much bite it in for September in Tennessee. "Have you got anything like a jacket?" he asked. "It's supposed to get down in the forties tonight."

"In fact, I do," I said, "but I've gotta go back to the Manna House to get it, so hang tight."

I don't know what this man's story is--but I know what I saw: that he'd worked his hands raw in an attempt to do whatever he could to make it, to move forward. He needed a good night's sleep, and that meant he needed to be warm. And so I would have done just about anything at that point to make sure he didn't spend the night in misery, shivering against the cold, but all I had to do was run back to the Manna House, where we have some provisions left over from last winter. I was able to dig up a sleeping bag, a pair of combat boots, a hooded jacket, and a flashlight. A few minutes later I was back at the Cafe, and I gave him the loot. He thanked me profusely, and then he thanked me again. It was a joy and an honor to be able to bless him. This is just what we do at Manna Cafe, but there's nothing quite like it.

"The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sister of mine, you did for me.'"

How to Make a New Friend

2011-07-13T08:07:00.000-07:00

It’s amazing what happens sometimes when you call someone by name, especially when he/she is used to being overlooked or even avoided. Our name represents who we are and the fact that we’re separate from the next person. Remembering someone’s name lets him/her know that he/she is worth remembering.

A few years ago, when Kenny and I were making weekly trips into Nashville's Tent City (the sprawling homeless camp under a major interstate exchange), we met a man named Tucker. He lived right at the river’s edge. He wore a leather hat and was sporting a puffy, purple eye, the result of a fight with another man. He was middle-aged, and I could tell he’d been handsome at one time. We chatted with him for a few minutes, gave him some bagels, and moved on.

The next week, when we returned to Tent City, we saw him again as he was trekking down a path from one part of the camp to another. “Hi, Tucker,” I said.

Tucker stopped in his tracks and stared at me. For an instant, I wondered if I’d said something wrong, but how could that be? Finally, he responded, “That’s my name.” He wasn't being silly: none of this “that’s-my-name-don’t-wear-it-out” stuff. Rather, he was taken aback. He had a name, and someone had made note of it. From that day on, we had a good friend in Tucker.

One afternoon months later, I was in Tent City with my friend Debbie. (I wouldn’t recommend visiting homeless camps without a man in tow, but this was an exception due to the fact that Kenny was unavailable and Debbie is a veteran in this type of ministry.) As we made our way through camp, we met a man by the name of Donny. He was rough around the edges, to put it mildly. As we spoke to him and a handful of others, a young woman named Sarah sidled up to me and whispered in my ear, cautioning me to be very careful around Donny. Tucker, who was part of the crowd, overheard her warning. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt Miss Vicki,” he said.

Tent City was not the safest place to hang out, but Tucker’s meaning was clear: no one was going to hurt me if he had anything to say about it. I can’t prove it, but I suspect that his sense of responsibility was directly related to that first time I called him by name.

It can be intimidating to approach a homeless individual. Sometimes they’re tidy, friendly, and accessible, but let’s face it, we’ve all encountered the person on the park bench who a) has clearly gone a few weeks without a bath, b) reeks of alcohol, c) is talking to no one in particular, or d) all the above. Still, I'll bet you've felt that internal nudge: Don’t pass him/her by. Say something. Give him/her a moment of your time. So here’s my challenge to you: Don’t assume that you’ve got to rehabilitate, evangelize, or otherwise transform this person. Just say, “Hey, there. What’s your name?” In eleven years of meeting new homeless folks, I have yet to be reproached for asking a person’s name. It’s simple, but it works. (That’s why children use it as an opening question all the time.) It opens a door. The next time you see this person, you can say, “Hi, Joe. How are you doing?” See if he doesn’t tell you.

Giving Back

2011-07-11T12:20:00.000-07:00

Today I stumbled across something I jotted down back in November after a Community Breakfast. Here's the gist:

This morning, a couple named Sarah and Mike came through the line like everyone else, but I noticed right away that something was amiss. Something didn't quite "fit".... She, especially, was one contradiction after another: Her demeanour was tired and worn, and yet she was quick to smile; she was clearly hungry, and yet she had neatly clipped and styled hair, manicured nails, and perfect make-up, i.e. the overall look of someone who has money. For a moment, I mistook her for a new volunteer, but then she began thanking me for the free hot meal. We started talking, and she told me her story.

Sarah and her husband both lost their jobs at roughly the same time. Soon, their savings were gone; and then their car engine blew. They hit bottom about two months ago, and now they're living at the Salvation Army. She was a realtor for 13 years. Now she works at McDonald's.

The American dream blew up in Mike and Sarah's face. Just a short time ago, she was selling real estate. I can picture her leading potential buyers through spacious kitchens and plush bonus rooms, her heels clicking on the shiny wood floors. Now she's homeless. And yet she still has hope. "When we get back on our feet," she told me, "We're going to give back." She admitted that she's still in shock, but trying to have a good attitude. Somehow, she's aware that there may be more to the situation than her immediate crisis. "I've come to the conclusion that God wanted me to see and feel and experience how other people live."

Though it's been eight months, I never saw Sarah and Mike after that day. I'm amazed by her spirit, and I pray that she and Mike were able to get back on their feet and that she'll soon be giving back, just as she promised. I wish the best for this pretty, bone-weary woman who served to remind me that pain isn't wasted when we emerge from it ready and willing to give back.

Stop.

2011-04-04T17:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the greatest sacrifice we can make is to simply stop.

We wear busy-ness like a badge of honor. We’ve forgotten that being in a frenzy is not a virtue. We’re willing to do, do, do, to the point of exhaustion, but heaven forbid that anyone, including God, should ask us to be still.

He asks, and we don’t hear. Or we pretend not to hear because we know there’s simply not time to be still. He doesn’t understand that there are a limited number of hours in the day, ‘cause if He did understand, He surely wouldn’t be asking us to sit idly, for Pete’s sake. Let’s face it, the mere thought of quietness scares us to death.

I’ll tell you what works for me, but everyone’s got to find his or her own way. In our apartment, we’ve got two closets—one coat closet and one small walk-in. This past fall, during a spiritual dry spot that was bordering on a crisis, I resumed a practice I’d adopted years ago: closet time. I cleared out the floor of our little walk-in and put a small boom box, mp3 converter, reading lamp, bible, and journal in there. There’s no rhyme or reason to when I “go into hiding” or what I do while I’m in there; the only given is that I lie down on the carpeted floor, usually on my back, palms facing up because it’s in this position that I feel most vulnerable, receptive, and uncluttered. Sometimes I write, sometimes I read, sometimes I cry; but most of the time I do absolutely nothing. Those are the best times, I think: the nothing times. And often, those are the most sacrificial times--because afterwards, I can’t have the satisfaction of having accomplished anything; I can’t say that I studied Proverbs or wrote a blog—cause I did nothing.

The first few times I did nothing felt kind of weird. I wondered, “Okay, now what?” A few times, my mind got busy, and I had to gently steer it back—not necessarily to prayer, cause during my “nothing” sessions I don’t always pray, per se—but back to peace: to gently focusing on the music on my iPod or the almost pleasant ache of my spine stretching out, vertebrae by vertebrae. Sometimes I actively think about God, sometimes not. The key is that I just lie there and let Him think about me.

If stillness is a sacrifice for you, don’t fight it--just let it be a sacrifice. Crawl up on the altar and just lie there. If you feel it might kill you, let it. Don’t speak, don’t try, don’t do, just be. Don’t expect a great revelation; it may not come. Ultimately, you have nothing to offer God, so give Him your nothing. If you’re like a lot of believers, you’ve given Him your time, money, energy—and this is all honorable and necessary--but for right now, just give Him yourself, stripped bare, hands empty.

Goodie Bags

2011-04-01T12:41:00.000-07:00

A couple times a week--and always during Thursday Cafe--we give out "goodie bags"--i.e. sacks of stuff such as Beenee Weenees, sports drinks, Spam, crackers, etc.--stuff that a person can eat if he or she doesn't have electricity, water, or even a plate for that matter. Anyone who's homeless gets a goodie bag. The typical homeless person is a middle-aged man who lives in a vehicle, lean-to, or tent. Generally speaking, all across the U.S., this is the case.

We used to give a goodie bag to everyone who came to a meal, but the cost became prohibitive. The numbers proved that it was costing almost as much to do goodie bags as it was to pull off the whole meal, so we got back to our original intent: to make sure our homeless guys had something to eat when they couldn't get to us or some other resource, when they needed something in their belly and had nothing.

There's something about handing out goodie bags that I just love; i feel like Santa's elf, and the guys act like 10-year olds with a new toy. I have to be discreet about it, not only to protect their dignity but also so that we don't end up with a stampede of folks pretending to be homeless so they, too, can have a goodie bag--so I make the rounds quietly after the food line opens up, while everyone's busy with their chicken and dumplings or sloppy joes, talking among themselves and looking forward to cake. After all these years, Kenny and I have developed a sixth sense regarding the homeless, we can spot 'em six blocks away, and yet there's always room for error--so one of our regulars, C., helps me out each week. "Don't forget Mike," he'll say. "He's new around here, and he's living in his truck."

Stealthy as a cat burglar, I'll go from table to table, depositing a bag in each recipient's lap or next to his chair. Yesterday evening I distributed about a dozen while getting similar responses: "Oh, man, I love these things!" "You never know what's gonna be in your bag, it's so cool." "The Spam is my favorite."

"Does it feel like Christmas?" I asked one fellow as he grappled with his bag, trying to see what was in it. "Yeah, it does," he answered. "Every week."

Mistakes and All

2011-03-19T06:15:00.000-07:00

Last night we had an evening of worship at the Manna House, and as the musicians played and the singers sang, I looked around the warehouse and was completely overwhelmed--as in "I don't know whether to laugh or cry, so I'll do a bit of both" overwhelmed. We've been in Clarksville less than a year, but the changes and growth we've experienced as a ministry are just unbelievable. It's almost more than someone like me, someone with a great love for God but often very small faith, can digest. I've got to start writing it all down. I'm a writer at heart--it's not just what I do for a living, it's also what I do because I MUST, because it's who I am-- so you'd think that recording the details of this wild journey we're on would be a piece of cake, but I realized this morning that two things have been standing in my way: Number One, lack of time--and Number Two, an anal personality that compels me to get everything JUST RIGHT--down to the last comma and preposition, because after all, I'm an editor/writer/proofreader and if someone spots a mistake i'm going to hear about it big-time. Imagine the heat Miss Manners would take if she burped at the dinner table....

So I've made a decision: I'm going to start writing even if I have just a few minutes to spare, which means some of these blog entries might be just a few sentences long--and I'm going to stop fretting about perfection because frankly I don't have time for it. This is a story that must be told, not for me and Kenny but for all those incredible people who have come alongside us in order to make this dream come to pass and for the dreamers of the future who decide that they, too, would rather feed people and hang out w/ addicts than anything else in the world.

Gotta go. There's a Mobile Pantry and several food drives today, and I'm due at Food Lion in an hour.
I'm not even going to proofread this entry.... Gonna just hit "post"... here I go....

Unattached

2011-01-12T07:02:00.000-08:00

An old friend of mine once said, "Money is like dust; there's always more." This perspective prompted her to give everything in her purse, down to the last nickel, to whomever needed it at any given moment. She was wonderfully unattached to her "stuff," and thus she was quick to forfeit it for the sake of anyone who was lacking.

I love people like this. I love them so much I married one. I've watched Kenny literally give away the coat on his back on a wintry night. Before he and I said "I do," I told my mother that the only problem I could see us having in regard to money was that he would try to give it all away. I'm the frugal one, but he's taught me to loosen my grip on pretty much everything. A few weeks ago, I found a hundred-dollar bill in my car. "Let's send it to Raul in Mexico," I suggested. He didn't even look up from his iPhone. "OK." End of story.

One of the most rewarding things about being part of the Manna Cafe family is witnessing the generosity of others. Case in point: just this week we were told that one of our regulars, whom I'll call C, is down to one blanket because he's given everything else away. He lives outside. It's been 20 degrees at night. And yet he couldn't stand the thought of some other homeless man not having sufficient bedding.

One of our most faithful volunteers, Jennifer, is a young mother of six with few resources. One frigid night during Thursday Cafe, I noticed she had no gloves on, while I was wearing two pairs (I'm all about layers in the winter). So I gave her a pair. The next week, I overheard her talking to a woman. "Where are your gloves?" Jennifer asked. The woman had none. Jennifer immediately stripped those same gloves off her hands and handed them over. I was giddy with pride and affection. 'Atta girl.

Our homeless friend R started coming to Thursday Cafe months ago. Little by little, he went from "guest" to "volunteer," pitching in when we needed an extra hand. As he gained a sense of acceptance and family from Manna, he began to give back. After awhile, he knew how everything worked at a typical Cafe and could fill any spot. Now he's helping Kenny cook for Tuesday and Thursday Cafe. R lives in his vehicle, but he has made it his business to care for others. A few weeks ago, he made the comment to me that "we give coats away to all sorts of people, but one of our own has nothing but a T-shirt on." He was referring to Brody, a young man who has adopted Manna Cafe as the best place to hang out after school. For some reason, Brody refuses to wear a coat. But the fact that he might catch cold was unacceptable to R. I don't know where he got it, but by the next week he had a coat for Brody.

Then there's Jamee, another volunteer. She had just started plugging in to Manna this past fall when she came to help me out during a Saturday morning breakfast. As we were wrapping it up, breaking down the tent and tables, a man rode up on his bike. We'd distributed all the food; there was nothing left. Jamee jogged to her car, where she'd stashed a Subway sandwich and some extra goodies for later. "Here ya go," she said as she handed it to our latecomer.

I have a collection of stories like this--stories of people who will hand over whatever they have without hesitation. John the Baptist once suggested: "If you have two coats, give one away.... Do the same with your food" (Lk. 3:11, msg). The more you give away, the more God gives you to give away. I dare you to try Him on this.

Trash Can Easel

2010-12-12T17:22:00.000-08:00

This past September, Kenny and I spent a day in Savannah. We stopped for lunch at Tubby’s Tank House, one of many restaurants and shops that line one side of River Street. On the other side of the cobblestone road is red-bricked courtyard and an open market, and just beyond this is the Savannah River. It’s a charming area. Ships crawl past, occasionally blasting their horns, lush plants dangle from flowerboxes in shop windows, and fireworks after dark are a common occurrence.

The homeless have discovered that River Street is a great place to panhandle, as it’s frequented by tourists year-round. Many of them sell roses fashioned from palm leaves. (Last year during our jaunt to Savannah we befriended a lanky man named Eddie—a true romantic who crafted us a palm leaf flower but insisted that Kenny and I declare our undying love for one another before he handed it over.) Others sing or play instruments, hoping for spare change and a bit of conversation.

From the second-floor deck of Tubby’s, we ate fish tenders and watched one man in particular as he huddled over a green trash can—the kind with a wide lip around the top. At first, we thought he was searching for something to eat, but then we realized he was hard at work on a project. We also noticed about a dozen paintings lined up nearby. The man was wearing a button-down shirt, khaki shorts, and hiking boots. On his head was a straw hat. He had dreds, a salt-and-pepper beard, and an intense look on his face. As soon as we paid our bill, we crossed the street and asked him what he was working on. He responded eagerly, though I noticed he didn’t make eye contact. “I’m reproducing a picture from a book,” he answered. On the trash can was an open book and a piece of wood with a partially completed representation. “I use crayons, colored pencils—things that’ll melt and cure in the in the sun,” he explained.

For several more minutes he continued talking passionately about his art yet still refused to look us in the face, so I asked him his name. Bingo. He locked eyes. “Cabin,” he said. “You know, like log cabin. I create pictures with whatever I find…blocks of wood, pieces of paneling—look at this one!” He plucked from the line-up a wooden dish, about a foot across, with a vibrant black and orange scene. He had painted both sides of the dish, as he’d done with several other pieces. There were portraits, whimsical shapes, and backwoods scenes. I fell in love with a musical panorama that included a sax player, pianist, and curvaceous lounge singer with a feathery hairpiece, painted on a piece of old plywood plucked from a dumpster.

Cabin explained that his love for art had developed out of a love for writing. “I wrote for years—wrote on everything I could get my hands on. I couldn’t not write…but then I stopped writing and started to paint images. It’s all about images…. Art is writing too, you know, but you use images instead of words.” Then Cabin started to tell us about his travels to various parts of the world. He also mentioned that he was working on his PhD. His speech was manic and rather hard to follow, but not unpleasant to listen to. How had he ended up here? I wondered. Was he homeless or transient—or neither? Were his stories true or imagined?

After years of doing what we do, Kenny and can often spot a homeless individual from blocks away—even one who is neatly dressed—but for some reason Cabin was a mystery. There was no figuring out what his story really was. He simply served as a reminder of this unshakable truth: Every human being has an unquenchable need to create. This need doesn’t vanish when a man loses his home and his money, suffers from a mental illness, gives in to addiction, or lives on the fringes of society.

On the wall of the Manna House office is a stunning cross made of twisted driftwood that we bought from “Papa Smurf,” a former resident of Nashville’s Tent City. (Smurf gave Kenny a smaller version for his 47th birthday.) Two other residents, Howard and Ted, were prolific songwriters. Several were poets. One of my favorite pieces of jewelry is an ankle bracelet given to me by a homeless girl who likes to work with beads and leather. Through our experiences, we’ve learned that one of the best gifts we can give a person is to acknowledge and appreciate his or her capacity to make the world a lovelier place. To allow a person to share their gifts is to honor then. That day in Savannah, Cabin wanted to share his art and we wanted to take home something beautiful to remind us of one of our favorite cities. Wonder what God will have us bring home next.

Dignity, Part 1

2010-09-08T18:43:00.000-07:00

Not surprisingly, many people want to know why we call ourselves Manna Café when we’re clearly not the typical café—there’s no espresso machine and no cozy fireplace... So here’s the story behind the name:

Years ago, Kenny learned that restoring broken people to wholeness has a lot to do with dignity. The word means “self-regard; self-respect; the state of quality of being worthy of honor; relative importance.” One’s sense of dignity concerns issues such as “Am I worth anything? Do I matter? Am I important to anyone? Do I have value? Does my existence make a difference in the world?”

Many, if not most, homeless people have been stripped of (or have forfeited) their dignity. They’ve come to the conclusion that they have no value. It’s common knowledge that people get much of their sense of identity and worth through their work, but most street folks are jobless. Many have lost ties with those who once knew them best, i.e. their families. They’ve become outsiders. Many are imprisoned by addiction or mental illness. They’re the untouchables; “normal” folks are repulsed and/or afraid of them. And so they get used to being ignored, overlooked, and rejected. Dignity is no longer an option.

We are commanded to treat others—all others—with honor. It’s up to us to let them know that they matter—that they’re valuable and significant. We’ve got to rid ourselves of the mindset that we’re somehow superior to our homeless friends simply because we have shelter and/or employment. We must ask the Lord to give us His eyes and His heart until there is no difference whatsoever between the honor we bestow on the prominent businessman versus the wild-haired, grimy homeless man who sits outside the local McDonald’s.

Honoring others isn’t complicated. It requires seemingly inconsequential and insignificant gestures: Calling a man by name. Asking someone about his or her day. Remembering that a certain woman was having pain in her hip last week. Knowing what someone likes in his or her coffee. Giving a hug. Bantering with those who loved to be teased.

So what does this have to do with the word “café”? Back when Kenny first began dreaming about feeding the poor on a large scale, he realized that it’s one thing for a hungry man to go to the local soup kitchen or mission, but it’s another thing entirely to go to “the café.” Think about it: “Let’s go to the mission” versus “Let’s go to the café.” Too often, people who go to the mission are invisible. They’re nondescript faces in a crowd. But a man who frequents a particular café is singular and distinct. He matters. At the café, he is called by name. He has a favorite place to sit. When he fails to show up for awhile, he is missed.

The goal of Manna Café is to wipe out the “us” and “them” mentality that suggests that someone people merit dignity while others don’t. It’s our objective to honor the poor, hungry, and homeless no less than we would honor Jesus himself if he showed up at a Thursday Café with a craving for goulash.

Hitting a Wall

2010-09-01T16:32:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia
It's not easy being a rhino's wife.

What do rhinos do? They charge, feet thumping, shoulders shoving through the brush, making a path where none existed a moment ago. My rhino, my husband, is a dreamer. He sees things in 3D that most people would dare not see. He charges the moment God says "go," and he does so without question. To watch him charge leaves me speechless, and it makes for a life that's exciting and adventurous but also dangerous, exhausting, and risky beyond description.

This evening, we are enduring disappointment. We'd been hoping for a certain warehouse. So much food is coming in--literal truckloads of it--yet there is little space for it. In the meantime, our time at the Manna House (i.e., our two offices, the prep kitchen, and the place from which we distribute food boxes during the week) is nearly up. We're down to the wire when it comes to finding a new location. This particular warehouse seemed perfect. We thought for sure the deal with the landlord would go through, but in the end it came to nothing. Now we need a miracle.

Our budget is ridiculously limited. Most people would laugh if they knew how much money we bring in each month. It's astounding that we're in operation at all. In this economic crunch, people are happy and willing to help out via their time, labor, and prayers, but they're not opening their checkbooks. Thus we can't simply pack our stuff and move into any old warehouse. Like I said, we need a miracle.

And yet we've seen miracles. Again and again. Just two and a half years ago, Kenny and I were pushing a wagon full of muffins and bagels into Tent City and doing the occasional hot meal for the homeless, and that was the extent of Manna Cafe. Today, we're giving away thousands upon thousands of pounds of food on a regular basis. We're in awe of what God is doing on a daily basis. And yet we've hit this wall, and it's a formidable one, and I'm reeling.

Kenny told me the news just an hour ago. I was immediately sick with disappointment. Being the (recovering) codependent that I am, I quickly shifted my focus onto how to make it all better. Kenny's disillusionment was palpable. I wanted to fix things. NOW. My rhino has hit a wall at full speed, I thought. What the heck do I do to make it better?

But then he said something that put the breath back in my lungs, though until that point I didn't realize I had stopped breathing. "If I have to set up a hot dog stand," he said, "I can't stop feeding people."

Okay, then. We get up, shake the dust off, and wait for the next directive. I don't know how to do this thing--this "being a rhino's wife" thing. I can only take one moment at a time. And this difficult moment will pass, and we'll see the miraculous again--perhaps even tonight or tomorrow--because we must. Because this is an impossible task that we've been called to do. Because quitting is not an option.

A Rhino Tale

2010-06-19T08:34:00.001-07:00

Image via Wikipedia

A couple of months before Kenny and I were married, I noticed he always carried a book in his backpack called The Barbarian Way by Erwin Raphael McManus, so I decided to read it. In this wonderful book, Mr. McManus explains that the barbarian believer is the one who is radical and untamed in his faith. He will take chances, knowing he might fail—yet he is unable to quench the revolutionary, passionate disciple within. John the Baptist was a barbarian, and Jesus Christ was the Barbarian to beat all barbarians.

A few chapters into the book, Mr. McManus explains that, just as a group of lions is called a pride or a group of cows is a herd, a group of rhinos is called a crash. This is especially fitting, he continues, when you consider that a rhino can run thirty miles per hour—yet it can see just thirty feet in front of its face. (Think for a moment about the potential for crashing into immovable objects.) In other words, rhinos run blind even as they charge full speed ahead.

The barbarian—i.e., the rhino—will take risks that few others will take. He often appears foolish to “domesticated” believers. And, without a doubt, he will crash from time to time. But then it’s full speed ahead once again. Reckless? Probably. Crazy? Sometimes. But the rhino is dissatisfied with the ordinary. He is compelled to follow the example of Jesus the Revolutionary. He audaciously believes that if Jesus healed the sick on the Sabbath, fed the hungry, rocked religious boats, and charged into the fray with a take-no-prisoners mindset, then so should he.

So...at the time I began reading The Barbarian Way, I was convinced in my spirit that God was putting Kenny and me together. That is to say, my spirit was at peace about it—but, because of my past history and some very deep scars, the rest of me was terrified. My spirit and my mind were at war. I had made some very costly mistakes in the past and was not willing to do it again. I loved Kenny’s heart; I’d known him for four years. (He was a missionary at the inner-city ministry where I volunteered.) I was convinced that he was a man of integrity, vision, compassion, and strength—and yet I didn’t trust my own judgment. To top it off, I was aware that life with him would be neither easy nor comfortable. I’d always thought I wanted to live a sacrificial life—but did I really?

One day during my lunch hour, after I had been reading the book for a few days, I came upon the section about rhinos. Suddenly, I understood that Kenny was a rhino and that it was by God’s design that we were meant to run together, full speed ahead. Yet I was more anxious than ever. I needed a sign. “I want nothing more than to do Your will, Lord,” I prayed, “but You’ve got to make things very, very clear to me.”

That evening, Kenny and I were scheduled to help at an evening meal for the poor and homeless at a neighborhood church. I was to meet him there at 5:00, but I had a few minutes to spare, so I ran into a used book store on Charlotte. I don’t remember what I was hunting for that day, but I didn’t find it, so I headed back out the door—and there, in the sizeable bookstore window, I spotted a nearly life-sized, molded black rhino. I almost choked with astonishment. And as I walked out the door, I finally saw the name of the store: Rhino Books.

At that moment, I knew beyond all doubt that I was destined to be a rhino’s wife. I knew I was cut out for it and that I wouldn’t be truly fulfilled apart from an unconventional, untamed life. I knew that to marry Kenny, visionary that he is, would often mean running blind, following God into unknown, unfamiliar places… but I couldn’t walk away from all that my spirit longed for. A few months later, we were married. Aside from accepting Jesus as Savior at the age of fifteen, it’s the smartest thing I ever did.

Kenny and I are not alone. The Christian community is peppered with barbarians and rhinos. Some are running full speed ahead, and some are sitting awkwardly in the pews, wondering why they’re not content with typical, civilized Christianity. How about you? Are you satisfied with the ordinary, or do you long to charge into the unknown, dust flying, content with the fact that God and only God knows where you’re headed?

Kissing God

2010-05-16T19:07:00.000-07:00

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I cut my ministry teeth about ten years ago at Provision International, situated in what was, at the time, among the most violent and destitute areas in the city of Nashville. It was here that I learned the value and joy of loving and serving the homeless and poor. (And, for the record, it was here that I would one day befriend a bighearted, long-haired musician/missionary by the name of Kenny York.) Each Saturday for several years straight, I participated in an afternoon community meal dubbed Saturday Night Live—SNL for short. A couple hundred folks from the neighborhood attended, along with their children and a number of homeless individuals.

During one of my first SNLs, I helped out by scooping mashed potatoes onto our guests’ plates as they made their way through the food line. SNL took place both indoors and out, depending upon the weather. This time we were indoors though the temperature was climbing by the minute; I don’t remember why—maybe we had been forced inside because of a rainstorm.

I thoroughly enjoyed serving in the food line, greeting people by name, offering them abundant spoonfuls of hot, appetizing food, and bantering for a moment with many of them. At this point, I’d had little experience with the poor, not to mention the homeless, but I was a fast learner. I had discovered many things about these drifters and tent-dwellers, including that fact that some had been thrust into the streets because of mental illness. Still, I wasn’t quite prepared when I spotted one man in particular as he shuffled his way down the line. He was in his fifties or so, and though the air was hot and muggy, he was dressed in multiple layers. The homeless often carry a few extra clothes, but this man seemed to believe he had to wear them all lest he misplace them. I counted several layers consisting of various colors and textures; these were topped off by a tatty, ill-fitting suit. His shoes were dilapidated, his skin was grimy, and he made no eye contact. I could see that he was quietly and anxiously talking to himself as his eyes darted here and there.

Eventually, the man reached my station and held out his plate. I gave him a scoop of potatoes, looked into his eyes, smiled, and said, “Hi! How are you?” No dice. He seemed completely unaware of his surroundings as he nervously moved on down the line.

Immediately, I heard the Holy Spirit’s quiet voice: “You have just seen the face of God.”

Wow. I was instantly taken aback and had nothing to say beyond the unadorned “Wow.” Like most Christians, I knew the verse by heart: “I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me” (Matt. 25:40, NIV). Still, I was in awe. I remember nothing else about that evening, yet that brief moment is seared into my memory.

It was just a week or two later, and once again, SNL was in full swing. This time I had volunteered to help out with the Kid Zone—a sectioned-off area designed to keep the children occupied until mealtime. I had recently met a little girl from Sudan. Atil was about seven years old, and her parents, who were believers, had fled severe persecution. With few resources, they had landed in the hood—yet they were safer than they had been in their own country.

Atil was delicate and beautiful, with huge eyes and a petite frame. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate. That evening, she plopped herself onto the floor in front of me and colored contentedly as the worship band rehearsed onstage and the cooking crew readied the meal in the kitchen. I was taken with Atil’s fine features and sweet voice, and as we chatted about her siblings and classmates, I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“You have just kissed the face of God,” I heard.

For the second time in a couple of weeks, I was astounded by what the Lord had revealed to me. First I’d seen the face of God. Now I’d kissed it. He was suddenly making Himself known to me in a way I had never before experienced. As a child growing up in Chicago, I had seen Him in the stained glass windows of magnificent cathedrals. I had perceived his majesty and glory and grandeur. It was lesson enough that He had divulged Himself in the exquisite, innocent, delightful face of Atil. But now I had also seen Him in the derelict, offensive, and foul.

The Lord challenged me that day. He wanted to know if I would love and serve Him no matter what sort of package He came in. Would I welcome Him if He came to me in surprising ways? Would I discriminate against the crude in favor of the pure? Was I ready to encounter Him in the eyes of those who were difficult to look at?

Thankfully, the Lord not only challenged me but also ruined me that day. I realized that His presence was no more real and compelling in Atil’s sweet face than He was in the hollow eyes of the homeless man. Since then, I’ve hugged Him, fed Him, cried with Him, and fixed him thousands of to-go boxes. I’ve seen Him in the face of tweakers, alcoholics, and prostitutes as well as mentally and physically sick individuals. He has spoken to me through the mouths of those who have spent decades behind bars. Yet I wouldn’t trade places with anyone in the world. Jesus is beautiful, no matter how He chooses to divulge Himself.

Have you seen Jesus lately?

The Bungee Jump

2010-01-03T11:25:00.000-08:00

We refer to it as “the bungee jump”: that moment, just two weeks from now, when my husband clocks out from his day job for the last time and we begin living on half our usual income—all for the sake of ministering to the hungry. It’s a rare blessing in our present economy to have a job in which you feel secure, yet both of us enjoyed raises during the past twelve months, and both our employers are keeping their fiscal heads above water in spite of the crunch. But here we are, voluntarily slashing our income because it’s impossible to keep doing what we’ve been doing—hanging out with the homeless, the addicted, and the otherwise wounded—unless we create more hours in the day. Which means forfeiting Kenny’s paycheck.

Several people have taken us literally when hearing us mention the bungee jump, shrieking at the thought of one or both of us hurtling through the air with only a rubber cord tied to our ankles. And though I’ve never literally jumped, I’m convinced that it evokes the same feelings I’m having. Undoubtedly, as a jumper approaches the edge of the platform, he begins to feel the rush of wind, the adrenaline in the bloodstream, the panic of knowing it’s now or never, the surety that he might not live through the ordeal, and the sudden impulse to bolt while yelling at no one in particular, “Forget it—I don’t have to do this!” Yup, these feelings are all too familiar to me. And yet God’s thumbprint is all over our decision.

Case in point: One night a few weeks ago, as Kenny and I drove down the alley behind our house, we simultaneously spotted a small, battered kitchen table next to a trash barrel. We hopped out of the car to examine it and found that it was clearly a cast-off—so weather-beaten that the top was coarse and slightly uneven. The legs were a bit shaky, in need of a few fresh nuts and bolts, but still potentially strong. No doubt the table had been pronounced too hideous and unstable in someone else’s eyes, but we concluded that it was full of character, with its drop-down sides and butcher-block pattern. Next to the table was a fold-up chair missing a slat. Both pieces had obviously sat out in the weather for a long time, but were better for it. In fact, they were groovy. We had to have them.

“We need a decent desk for after the bungee jump,” said Kenny, who had little patience for the tiny Wal-Mart writing table in our home office. “This would work really well.”

“It would, wouldn't it?” I answered, caressing the tabletop while trying to avoid being lanced by a splinter. Without further ado, Kenny hoisted the thing against his shoulder with both hands and walked it home. Having parked the car a few minutes later, I unloaded groceries while Kenny jogged back up the alley and retrieved the chair. We had a new desk set, and it hadn’t cost us a dime.

And thus the Lord confirmed that He would provide for our needs no matter our income. He also reminded me that that there is great reward in loving society’s cast-offs—especially those of the human variety. Countless individuals are deemed worthless and contemptible though they are full of possibility and merit. God has, for some reason known only to Himself, enabled my husband and me to see the value and beauty in the “undesirables.” We meet a vagrant and I want to know his name and his story. Kenny wants to hoist him onto his shoulders like the discarded table, drag him home, and give him a plate of cheesy pasta and hot rolls.

I asked Kenny one evening last summer (after an exhausting day of feeding hungry folks), “Why do you do this?” I knew the answer in my heart, but I needed to hear it from him. “What keeps you going?”

He answered instantly. “Giving people hot food and the Gospel is like breathing to me. I can’t not do this. I can’t not keep walking it out to see where it leads.”

So, back to our jumper, who is gazing over the edge of a chasm, tempted to flee. What impels him to finally bolt not away from the cliff but toward it? I think I know now: Because underneath the terror lies an absolute certainty: Even if this bungee cord doesn’t hold, at least I will have jumped. Just like the bungee jumper puts his faith in the strength of the cord, we are about to invest all our faith in God, strap Him to our ankles, and jump. We can’t not do this. Even if we miss it and we must come limping back to normal society, at least will have tried and, in the process, experienced one of the most exhilarating adventures of our lives.

Geronimooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!