People Watching on a Saturday Afternoon

I love people watching... way too much.  In one of my entry-level communication classes in college, we were instructed to observe at least three people for an extended period of time in a public place and then actually walk up to them, introduce ourselves, and ask them to confirm or deny inferences made based upon our observations.  On one level, this was understandably uncomfortable and yet, on another level, thoroughly enjoyable.  It was as if my mere people watching tendencies had been validated and even mandated.

But really, who doesn't love people watching?  I have yet to meet someone who doesn't occasionally satisfy their curiosity with watching the affairs of others, whether it be via facebook, a mall food court, twitter, or a public park. 

That is just one of many reasons I love where I live.  Jeromy and I live on the second story of a house recently renovated into two apartments.  As you can imagine, opportunities for people watching grow exponentially when you have a ten foot advantage.  We also live at the corner of a three-street intersection.  Very confusing for visitors trying to find our house, but all six corners offer ample opportunity for folks stopping on the corner to chat.  Further, we live right across the street from a popular hole-in-the-wall barbecue place which offers its patrons outdoor seating and curbside pick-up only.  If cars aren't rolling by, you can even pick up words, phrases, even sentences from people's conversations.  You can see the heated tent set up for winter customers on the very left of the picture below.  Lastly, we're a stone's throw away from one of the city's "parks," or small grass plots, that invites residents to linger on beautiful and dreary days alike and enjoy a magnificent view of the city.

People watching heaven, some might call it. Others probably just call it creepy, but I know they too would secretly enjoy it if they were on the watching side. 

Multiple mornings when the weather was warmer, I watched my very disciplined neighbor lift weights in his backyard at 6:45 am, marveling at his commitment and good form.  Simultaneously I was wondering, will I ever care that much about working out to painstakingly do calf raises up 18 stairs at that dim hour?  Doubtful.  It may or not be morally ok that I just published a picture of my neighbors' backyards, but check out his weightbench in the closest backyard below.

Currently, my neighbor in the far brick house is perusing her fenced-in backyard accompanied by what looks to be a landscaper or designer of sorts.  Tape measurer and small notebook in hand, she paces with determined steps, and I can't wait to see the creative transformation of the hard dirt and clover-filled expanse.  There are tools and cameras being pulled out that give the impression something quite sectacular is in the works.

Across the street, what looks to be a large extended family is waiting for their beef brisket and pork barbecue sandwiches while laughing and playing with the two youngest kids.  The little boy, barely able to walk, has bit it on the concrete quite a few times, but won't give up.  I admire his perseverance.

Another man pulls up in a shiny, fast-looking black car and gets out wearing sportcoat and khakis.  His shiny watch catches the sun as he locks his car with the beeper thing a few times too many.  He glances back at it three or four times while sauntering with his lunch partner to the counter to order.  Looks like he's in unfamiliar territory, but I'm glad he is choosing to explore something new and a little different in this quaint little city block.

The barbecue place must be making a killing today.  A man and his six-year old son also just parked and ordered some lunch.  Walking hand in hand from the establishment towards the park, the little boy starts running down the sidewalk and after waiting a required few seconds, his dad sets off for the desired chase.  In a neighborhood where dads seem hard to come by, this exchange makes me smile goofily to myself.

Earlier this morning I sat on my porch reading while Jeromy hid in the kitchen, making faces at me through the screen door.  I couldn't help but laugh out loud, and then noticed an eight or nine year-old girl huddled in my neighbor's doorway, staring skeptically at me as I sat laughing loudly, apparently at myself. 

"What are you laughing at?" she yelled boldly. 

"My husband is inside being silly," I tried to explain, but quickly changed the subject to avoid further embarassment.  The little girl, named India, just laughed and continued chatting with me.  After a few minutes of introductions and conversation with India and her grandma, India began pleading with her grandma to come and play on my porch before going to her aunt's house for the day.  I advised her to continue with her day's plan, but to visit any other time she liked.  Such an effortless and enjoyable acquaintance made thanks to the complete lack of self-consciousness that is so often refreshingly encountered in kids.

There's been some not so sunshiney things too.  I've watched a man in his Jazzee electric wheelchair ride up and down the street, stopping to investigate anything appearing interesting or potentially lucrative off the ground.  There's another man that rolls a shopping cart down the alleys behind all of our houses and rummages through the top few trashbags in each trashcan after 10:00 pm or so, hoping to find something worth taking.  I've caught one neighbor stupidly taking a few sips from a liquor bottle before getting in his car to go out on a Saturday night.  I guess there was also the time a red Jeep veered out of control on an icy spot of the road and smashed into my neighbor's parked car before regaining control and quickly leaving the scene. 

I am simultaneously critical of my people watching and defensive of it.  I know it's a little creepy, but no matter what or who I am watching, I am visually reminded that the world is bigger than the things that I have allowed to construct my reality.  There are more people to engage and learn from than simply those in my social circle and my workplace.  I can't control or expect who I might see while sitting on my porch.  Indeed, unique spontaneity and opportunity exists in being a neighbor, which is probably why Jesus explicitly told us to love neighbors like ourselves.  We don't choose our neighbors, but we live and breathe mere feet from them day in and day out.  Why not get to know them as we live and breathe Spirit-filled lives alongside them? 

All of my observations have made me eager now for warmer weather and consequential opportunities to linger in happenstance run-ins and unexpected conversations with my neighbors.  Tim Keller noted that while humans draw pictures of scenic views and coastlines, God draws pictures of crammed and sweaty New York subway cars, full of people, His crown of creation and image bearers.  I bet there's quite a bit going on with the people just beyond your walls and mine, regardless of whether your observations of them inspire joy or make you sad.  Perhaps all of us should move from purely passive people watching tendencies to people engaging as God affords us opportunities.

A Real Life Example

Speaking of suffering hardship for the sake of the Gospel, you must read Libby Ryder's blog for a real life, beautiful example: http://www.libbyryder.blogspot.com/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Suffering

Sunday’s sermon at RH was TOUGH to listen to, so much so that it’s now Wednesday and still on my mind.

Topic?

Suffering.

It was tough to listen to because it is true that God has a hand in and rationale for our suffering. As Robert explicated from Philippians, the purpose of our suffering is the advancement of the Gospel in us and through us.

When I turn the reasonable, theological switch on in my mind, it makes complete sense. In my heart however, with my senses at full alert, it hurts to think about, so I usually just stop.  Paralyzed from running to the bathroom for fear people might see the tears streaming down my cheeks, resorting to “not thinking about it” was not a valid option Sunday morning.

So I thought about it and continue to think about it.  A lot.

If you somehow want to listen to the sermon after reading that, visit redemptionhill.com.

Listening turned me into a sobby mess awash with self pity and confusion.  Sitting between a friend and my husband, I was quietly wiping my eyes while vividly remembering my last experience with suffering.  The recollections ran in my mind like a movie.  It made for a weepy afternoon, to say the least.

I have thought of myself as very open to suffering, discomfort, and hardship for the sake of the Gospel. When I left for Brussels in 2009, nothing seemed more right and desirable. Bring it on.

But my experience and reactions were different from what I had pictured and what my supporters had pictured for me. Given the language barriers and difficulty establishing meaningful relationships with people, I could not see how the Gospel was advancing in anyone I knew there. Further, the small ways I could imagine it might be frankly didn’t seem worth the loneliness, confinement, and stagnancy I felt.

I spent some sweet alone time clinging to God, but when it came to the Gospel advancing in those around me, I turned it into a formula.  If the amount of suffering I experienced was not providing adequate results, something bitter and hard hearted rose up in me, taking the form of clenched fists and a large knot in my throat.

Robert’s sermon brought back these memories like a torrential downpour on Sunday. The formula still seemed so right and the remaining unanswered questions seemed so unjust.  Why did I experience so much suffering with such puny results?  Why did the circumstances seem so insurmountable?  Why couldn’t I have been privy to a glimpse of the Gospel advancing in someone else’s heart and mind?  Why?

Isn't this the question we all land on at some point or another?

We have been taught that suffering occurs so that God would be made much of and the Gospel advanced, but when we can’t see that happening through our blurry, tear-filled eyes, we are stuck with only one remaining option.

When we get to the end of the rope, we are left with faith: a choice to believe in what we cannot see.

We choose either to believe in a Sovereign God we cannot see or to negate His existence. It follows then, that we choose either to believe in the results of His work not always visible to human eye or to distrust His power to create, move, and change.
When we’re swimming in the dark waters of suffering, the buoy we can grab hold of is faith.

I, for one, am grabbing on tightly and believing that God produces fruit in the most barren of wastelands and boggiest of swamps.

Valentine’s Day: To what do we owe the pleasure?

If someone hasn’t told you yet today, Happy Valentine’s Day!

I am neither giddy about Valentine’s Day or perturbed by it. In my mind, it’s just another one of those funny traditions our culture embraces and assigns a dominant color scheme and marketing ploy to. With such ambiguous origins, I’m amazed that Valentine’s Day can produce emotional responses running the gamut between ecstatic joy and despairing tears.  If you are tempted by the latter emotion today or merely confused about the holiday itself, check out some of the history here.

Various reports attribute the origins of Valentine’s Day to St. Valentine’s daring advocacy for marriage, his personal story of love won and lost, and even a Roman fertility festival taken over by the church.  Since even the History Channel can't seem to nail down the exact catalyst for the holiday, I'll trust God's word on the subject:

We love because God first loved us. 1 John 4:19

We don't love because commercials remind us to or our emotions want to.  We don't love because we want something in exchange for it.

We love sacrificially with words and actions, compassion and grace, because we've been loved first by the King.  That's the way He does it.

The Grass is Always Greener

The routine was thrown off earlier this week when I made it home a little early and noticed the sun still brightly shining overhead.  I was giddy with excitement as I made the drive across town.  What a joy it was to see the city on either side of the road all lit up, not masked by darkness, but clear, crisp, and alive looking today instead. The possibilities of what could happen with a free hour full of sunshine seemed endless.  It felt like a small yet priceless gift that God had prepared specially for me.  I wasn't expecting that free time and didn't feel the need to milk it dry with productivity, but was simply free to enjoy an unplanned hour of daylight on a Tuesday afternoon.

As I heaved my bookbag and lunchbox onto the couch, the bright blue sky outside my window beckoned me for a brisk walk.  Perfect.  I'll bring my ipod, spend some time worshiping while I walked, exchange friendly waves and "hello's" with my Church Hill neighbors, and then be back in time to make a big, hot, savory pot of soup for dinner.  Sound idyllic?  I certainly thought so.

The plan was set and seemed all the more delightful because of a lingering sense of dissatisfaction with my rigid daily schedule that has swum up in me lately.  Recently, I've been weary of how much time I spend throughout the day inside and immobile at my desk.  I'm assuming I'm not alone in that sentiment.  Needless to say, I've been a bit restless, occasionally slowing down to stare wistfully out the windows of our office building, like somehow I am being jipped from some fundamental, simple pleasure that everyone else is experiencing.  I've even shaken my head at my self-employed or student friends who are free from this same travesty.  "They just don't know how lucky they are," I've caught myself grumbling.

That, indeed, was the paradigm that had slowly crept into my mind- that everyone else was enjoying something the small remainder of us 8:00-6:00 folks don't- daylight, sunshine, and the flexibility to enjoy both throughout the day.

Embarrassingly excited, I set out on my walk to worship, refresh, and explore, carrying this "woe is me" mentality along for the ride. It was 4:41 pm.

Immediately I am slammed with a strong, I mean strong, gust of wind that makes my bones cold. I am quickly reminded of the morning radio news predicting winds up to 40 mph in Richmond. Hmm, the crisp beautiful day definitely didn't depict such powerful winds from my view inside. Feigning resilience and indifference towards the harsh conditions, I continue moving away from my house, mindful of each step. The wind cuts easily through my thin cotton pants and I'm pretty sure my leg hairs are standing so much on end that they could prick your finger.  It is now 4:44.

I cross paths with the only person I’ve seen so far on my journey. A young mom donning a windbreaker is trying to walk both her German Shepherd and her small toddler in a stroller. She is not feigning resilience and indifference like I am. She just looks miserable.  Her windbreaker appears as though it's about to be pulled off her body by the wind andher dog is digging his heels in, refusing to move.  Even he wants the torture to stop. 

It's now 4:46 and I am a whopping four blocks from my house.  I have semi-listened to one song on my ipod.  I can't stop thinking about how it hurts to uncurl my clenched fists that are now turning red from the wind and how my front teeth are starting to get cold.  At this point, I don't even care that my journey is incredibly unsuccessful, I just want to see how quickly I can make it back to my little warm apartment.

As I powerwalk home, I am struck by the realization that perhaps I'm not missing out on that much after all.  If I had ample spare time during the day, would I even want to use it this way?  No.  It is now 4:50 pm and my nine-minute adventure has landed me right back where I started, and glad to be there.

At that moment, I was overwhelmingly content with my productive days spent inside the office and thankful for the very healthy balance of work and rest that God has ordained in this season of life.  As long as we're on this side of heaven, we will all be tempted to idealize the green grass that we can barely see on the other side.  I will be tempted to wrestle with God over the dissatisfaction that I permit to sneak in.  But, in the end, I am thankful for God's willingness to be our Help.  He helps us find contentment and rest in Him and the circumstances He has laid out for us, even if He uses 40 mph winds to do so.

Revolution in the Middle East

A few months ago, I picked up the New York Times bestseller Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi. The novel is so popular that it has spent over one hundred weeks on the bestseller list and has already been translated into 32 different languages since its publication in 2003. Indeed, it’s smartly written with a captivating storyline told through a unique point of view, but for some reason, my nose has been in it, but not necessarily stuck in this book. I can’t read more than a few chapters before I have to set it down.

Unlike anything I’ve read recently, I am not setting it down because I am tired or bored, but because of the eery, concerned feeling that creeps in when I read it. I know the ending of the story, but I wish I didn’t. I wish I didn’t see the Jenga blocks slowly being stacked for the inevitable fall. The Iranian Revolution of 1978-1981 ends up accomplishing its goals, and a free, proud and intelligent people is brought to its knees under the guise of religious revival.

I am gripped by Nafisi’s personal narration from the front lines opposing the revolution, but the more she recounts the revolution and its proponents, the more unsettled I become.  Nafisi's story depicts her very typical Persian life shredded in front of her as the revolution forced one change upon the next.  It was an uncomfortable adjustment to begin associating the term “revolution” with something oppressive in my reading thus far. The term has always suggested hope and improvement in my very American mind, but hearing the word revolution associated with the stripping away of human freedom refuses to settle well in me.

Nafisi’s story of teaching Western literature to a small group of dedicated female students conjures up images and memories of some of my young female Muslim students in Brussels.  I see their faces, framed indelibly by a black veil on all sides, with every strand of hair and both ears carefully hidden. Did they remember a time in which the veil was not? I always assumed they didn’t, that the veil was as lasting as clothing itself.  For some of my younger students, this was undoubtedly true. But for some of my older students, Nafisi’s account suggests that there was a life before the veil, and that life existed in the not-so-distant past.

In the United States, my parents graduated college during the Iranian Revolution.  I was not even a thought yet.  Having really only heard about the Middle East in the post 9/11 years, I know nothing of life in Iran or any Arab nation before Islamic rule.  Not until recently did I consider that the older generation in many Middle Eastern and North African nations might be living in a completely unrecognizable country compared to the one they knew as youth.  Not until this week did I correlate the veil's prevalence today as a product of revolution.  Never before have I understood revolution as a potentially negative concept, something that would restrict freedome.  How foreign it is to do so.

It is safe to say that Reading Lolita in Tehran and the recent uprising across the Middle East have redefined revolution for me.  I understand now that revolution is not always progressive and understandably can not be sorted into categories of good and evil.  It is better defined simply as change, and the opportunity to produce either beneficial and detrimental results exists for every people group that demands it.  This understanding is likely commonplace for most, but embarassingly radical for me.

So as I watch the news coverage of Egypt and hear the angry shouts for revolution, I feel the same eery concern as I do reading Nafisi's description of the revolution in Iran.  When I read warnings of a 'perfect storm of powerful trends' across the Middle East, I can't help but wonder what the results will be.  I'm tempted to liken it to what I've been reading about Iran, worried that rocky, haphazard revolution will permit the formation of an unstable and oppressive government, but others discourage doing so.  Will democratic freedom or religious rule replace the current iniquities of these governments? 

For those of us watching the dominoes stack from a safe distance, all I can think to do is pray.  I'm the first to say that I'm terrible at praying for issues and people that aren't right in front of my face, but as children given the privilege and responsibility to pray, we must.  Let's do something about the eery feeling you might also get from the news reports and pray that the opportunity for change in the revolts rocking the Middle East produce something beneficial and beautiful in its place.