The Margins

Sitting in the van today at the drive-through counter of our favorite local coffee shop here, Mercy called out from the back seat that the side of her nose hurt. I can’t remember now if she and Aaron collided or if the baby grabbed her or if she ran into something, but she was very clear that the left side of her nose was in pain. As she always does, she asked me to pray for her.

I prayed that God would heal the side of her nose and that the pain would go away quickly. As I was praying, Mercy interrupted me which is unusual:

“No, mommy, not the side of my nose! Pray for my left snozzle.”

Last night was the second time on this trip that a police officer approached us and called us over for the sake of giving the kids little “Junior Deputy” star stickers. The first was at our early morning Starbucks breakfast stop in Fresno, and the second was last night as I was herding the children to the van after a little community track meet. It is just funny how seeing a police car creates anxiety for me, and then to be called over honestly makes me sweat.

As we walked up to the officer’s open passenger window last night, he reached over and handed Mercy a big golden star sticker. Aaron, who had been clutching a very large pine cone he found on the way out of the stadium, reached up and dropped it onto the passenger seat of the police car. I think he thought he was giving the officer a gift.

“Is that your sister?’ the officer asked Mercy, and I confess that my first thought was that he was using that dumb line where you compliment an older woman by placing her in the younger generation, and I thought to myself, “I’m not old enough to need that kind of compliment!!!”

But then I realized that Aaron’s long hair made the officer think he was a girl. Aaron got his sticker and we left, all the while having the officer refer to my son using feminine pronouns. I think it might be time for that haircut.

My kids are bundled in fleece and I am in long pants and a sweatshirt. We left L.A. in time to miss the earthquake and are enjoying some restful and currently chilly days with our Seattle family. Doug left early this morning for Hawaii to host one of Fuller’s DMin courses there, and the kiddos and I are figuring out how our life works at Grammy and Pop Pop’s house. Elijah really wants to go head first down the stairs and eat Laylah’s dog food, Mercy is thrilled with Grammy’s play-house and the sand table outside, and Aaron has located every ball and vehicle in the house.

We did the drive in two days which is the quickest we have ever tried with the small ones, and it actually went quite smoothly. Our usual host families along the way were all out of town, so we stayed our night in Medford, Oregon in a very empty house. Our host usually brings out a box of toys for the kiddos, but because they were gone we did not have those things so the kids did their best to entertain themselves. One of the most coveted items was that Sharper Image toy with a million different nail-like pieces that forms the shape of whatever is pressed against it. Mercy’s Cinderella figurine spent a lot of time in it, as did various animals.

It was moments before we were ready to hop into the van to leave that next morning when there was an “uh-oh” heard over by the fireplace. I looked over and saw Aaron, on the floor, with hundreds of little nail pieces spilling out around him. He had found the screws that held the plates of this toy together and, being Aaron had quickly figured out how to unscrew them.

We had timed our departure perfectly for when the baby’s nap should happen, but now we faced a fairly substantial delay while first Doug and then I sat crouching by the fireplace, inserting what seemed like thousands of little nails one by one into a black plastic plate. We ended up strapping the kiddos all into the van and Doug went to get gas while I finished threading nails in peace and quiet. An hour later, the toy was re-assembled and we were on our way to Starbucks to fill up the thermos for the day’s drive.
Ah, road trips with children.

Addressing Lauren in our dining room last week: “You are like a ripe plum that is ready to eat.”

Apparently Aaron is showing an early aptitude for the fine art of pick-up lines.

Aaron loves playing basketball. Lauren has a little hoop attached to an overhang in her apartment, and it is probably daily that I hear the request from my son to “go to Lauren’s house!” So, the other day I decided to get creative and I cut out the bottom of a Noah’s Bagels’ box that Doug had brought home from work and taped the thing up to the wall. It’s a little bit like the toddler version of kids nailing milk crates up on posts which I saw a lot of in Chicago.

Aaron calls it “the net”.

As I played ball with my son, I was reminded of three boys who also loved basketball and who, like my son, were willing to make do with much less than the ideal.

The kids I worked with through the Big Sister/Big Brother program I led in Chicago were desperate for a safe place to hang out and be kids in those “so easy to get into trouble” hours between school dismissal and dark. My senior year at North Park, we cleared out half of a dorm basement (the other half was stacked with boxes and furniture and junk) and opened a very ghetto drop-in center for junior high kids. We had old, lumpy furniture, a ping pong table that sagged in the middle, and a Foosball table where half of the little guys were missing their legs (yes, this makes for a very challenging game). We had tables for homework or art, a handful of games, and most importantly a crew of college students who would listen and laugh and play. We opened our doors to the community two days a week.

Someone brought in a little Nerf basketball and hoop that could be attached to the wall (much like the one Lauren has in her house), and it hung on a support post near the edge of where the junk began. There were three eighth grade boy, Jonathan, Ivan and Jamar, who came regularly and who always played basketball on our “net”. They were good players and knew how to have fun with our tiny little hoop and ball. Their laughter was contagious as they would very competitively enjoy their “games”.

It was some time in that first week that the Nerf ball got tossed into the junk portion of the room and we could not recover it. A ball of duct tape became the substitute, and this in no way diminished my boys’ delight.

Every time I walk into my kitchen, I see those same three boys smiling at me. There is a picture of them on our refrigerator: Jamar with his arms folded in the middle; Jonathan to the right, head cocked, with his arm on Jamar; Ivan, to the left, sober-faced in his stocking cap, with his hand on Jamar’s shoulder. And behind Jamar, to the left, is a crooked orange basketball hoop with a blue net hanging by a few threads on one side.

Those boys. That broken hoop. A meager attempt at meeting a need. Those days go down in history when I think of who I am today. And as Aaron calls out to me to find the ball that is now lost in our own little junk pile here, I think of Jamar and Ivan and Jonathan and I smile with wet eyes.

Mercy watched The Prince of Egypt yesterday at her little best friend’s house, and when I came over later and the kids were all playing in the playroom, I overheard Mercy role-playing with some random assortment of figurines. Two of them were God and Jesus, and they were talking to Moses telling him that he should tell Pharaoh that God is in charge of the WHOLE world.

I thought that was a great summary.

We have a narrow driveway that leads to the parking area behind our apartment. I am so grateful for on-site parking in our building (Kenwood is notorious for it’s overcrowded parking situation) but I have a complicated relationship with this driveway: I once popped the tire on my sister’s little Nissan Sentra when I borrowed her car to go check out Fuller during a visit before we moved here. There is a metal fence-post that must be cleared, and in that instance I was not successful in maneuvering past it. Since living here ourselves, I have also slashed the tire on our Nissan Altima, grazing that same fence-post while backing out.

As I mentioned, we are now the owners of a minivan, and we park the van behind our apartment. Doug will back the van in when he is driving so that I can have the cleanest, easiest exit possible which is very thoughtful and sweet. But often enough, I am the one driving so it is parked facing in, thus requiring me to back out the next time we go somewhere.

Now, Doug has not been subtle in making comments about my driveway-maneuvering skills in front of the children, and there was honestly a stage where every time I would back out, there would be a steady commentary coming from the matching Britax carseats in the back row: “Don’t hit the trash cans!”; “Be careful Mommy!”; “Watch out for the fence!”

Mercy really took the cake one day when, after I had explained how AAA functioned (coming to fix your car or tow the car if it breaks) and given her my old card to carry earlier that day, she began shrieking desperately from the back seat as I started to back up: “Mommy, WAIT!!!! I forgot the AAA card!”

Thanks, Doug.

I realized, though, that since acquiring the van, I am actually much better at managing the driveway. I think there is something about knowing that there is just no margin for error that makes me more cautious, careful, attentive, etc. The time I took out the Altima tire, I was going way too fast and was being quite careless. I was in a hurry and drove like it. In the van, I know that hurry is simply not an option. Only careful, deliberate driving can get us through.

It has been a long time since I have bumped a trash can or come close to scratching the fence-post (that green line on the side of the van? oh yeah, that’s from Doug), and even now when I get in the Altima to run a quick evening errand, I find myself having to concentrate so much more, and I often come much closer to getting scratches or scrapes than I ever do in the larger vehicle.

One result of rooting our family here in this neighborhood, in this city, is that I find myself living much more carefully, intentionally, than perhaps I would if my environment were not as challenging. Our life feels a lot more like backing up a minivan than a little Nissan Sentra in terms of risk and difficulty, but I think that something happens that actually results in better handling. The ways that our faith is growing and maturing; the level of engagement we have with God and neighbor; the questions we bring to the scriptures and to the Body: as much as we do still struggle and fail, I am pleased with how I see us “driving”.

Maybe I’m pushing this analogy too far, but it made sense the other day as it took me three tries to get the Altima past that fence.

My parents celebrated thirty-nine years of marriage on Saturday. When I talked to my mom that night, I thanked her for her and my dad’s commitment to each other for all of these years. I realize that I am likely in the minority of my generation with regards to still-married parents at my age (not sure exactly what the stats are but simply by experience, this would seem accurate) and while I only have six years of marriage under my belt, I understand that staying committed through kids, job losses, illnesses, financial challenges, and family conflicts is no small thing.

On Sunday I preached from John ten which describes Jesus as our shepherd, and the passage goes to great lengths to assure us that he is not a hired hand: he will not run away when the wolves come; he will not flee at the sign of trouble. In fact, he will lay down his very life for the sake of his sheep. There can be that hired-hand mentality to marriage as well: when the hard stuff comes, it can be easy to choose self-interest over sacrifice. Our culture permits us to run, and so it takes a fierce commitment to stay and face the wolves.

I am grateful for the example my parents have given to their kids and to my kids. I celebrate the ways I see them delight in each other, seek out new adventures, take on challenges that make other people shake their heads, and continue to build a life of love and faith and generosity together.

The View from the Hotel Fig

Fireflies caught and cozy in glass
On tables lounging poolside
Friday night lights drowsy beneath
Stretching arms of fluorescent checkerboards tickling heaven.

The corner absorbs me
Throat warm
A cherry in amber
Tasting this funny place that loans me a seat among Angels.

Not far the skate punks rule with baseball bats
Helicopters hang and dive like insects over the bloated light ocean
And every rough edge screams
Like infants gasping the first breath.

The music and costumes try their best to create importance here
Edges paid for, consumed and worn
Cigarettes are casually smoked and do not burn children on this side of Figueroa
Neighbors, strangers, creeping toward each other separated by price tags, papers and siren walls
The cherry tastes bottle sweet and I struggle to swallow.

At one point I prefaced a line of questioning with these words: “As someone who believes that Barth is not a Christian….” Van Til quickly and decisively cut me off. “No, no!,” he exclaimed. “I have never said that Barth is not a Christian! What I have said is that an unsaved person could not come to understand the gospel properly from Barth’s theology. But that he himself is not a true Christian—this is something I have never said, and I never would say.”

Van Til’s remark left a lasting impression on me. He was firm in his verdict that Barth was far removed from historic Christian teaching, yet he was still unwilling to offer a similarly critical assessment of the state of Barth’s soul. Ever since, I have tried to exercise a similar caution. It is one thing to evaluate a person’s theology. It is another thing to decide whether that person has a genuine faith in Christ.

From Dr. Richard Mouw