One day, after a pariculary hard day at school James picked him up with his 4-wheel drive truck. “I think we’re going to go off roading to get our minds off of school,” he told Tommy who had never been before and eagerly hopped in the truck. After a few minutes of questions about where they were going, Tommy pulled a gigantic bagged pickle out of his back pocket. He started munching on it and James said, “I forgot to tell you, there’s a rootbeer for you in the back seat.” Tommy’s eyes lit up and with pickle juice still trailing down his face he grabbed rootbeer and took a swig.

“My favorite combination!” Tommy beamed. James looked at Tommy questionsing the words coming out of his mouth.

“Your favorite? That’s a disgusting combination. Have you even had pickles and rootbeer before?” Tommy sat back and thought about it for a second, looking confused. Than he smiled and shook his head, “No. I haven’t.”

“Than how could it be your favorite?”

“Well,” he paused, taking a another swig to wash down the pickle. “It’s my favorite because its what I have.”

Tommy wasn’t trying to be profound. He wasn’t trying to make a statement or teach a lesson, but he did.

Yesterday I was thinking about Tommy.This week has been rough . Nothing in particular. Just rough. All the dissapointments of the last three months just seemed to tumble right into my lap-and they just sat there. To say I am dealing with discontentment would be an understatement. I guess that’s why I’ve been thinking about Tommy. I never seem to want what I have. I haven’t mastered learning how to experience each thing that I’m given as a gift and I haven’t’ learned how to see each gift as “my favorite”. I haven’t mastered it at all, and right now…I’m wishing I was more like Tommy.

This week I was in a particularly bad mood about going to the laundry mat. I had a lot of home work to do and hated carting dirty clothes from the house to the car to the laundry mat and then back agian. It didn’t help that once we got there I accidently put all the whites in with the colors and the machine wouldn’t turn off until the cylce was done. I was pissed. I sat down and picked up my Human Rights Reader, determined to plow through my reading. Immediately I was greeted by a young boy.

“Can I show you my dance moves?”

I’m not going to lie, I was a little annoyed. I thought, “Seriously kid? I have a lot to do. I have to read the rest of this book before tomorrow, and you wanna show me some  silly dance moves?” Somehow though, I managed to shut up the grouch that was eeking to come out, in time to say, “Sure, show me what you got.”

While bee-bopping his own rhythm he let out an incredible routine of break dancing, moonwalking, and many variations of the robot which I have never seen before. The routine ended with his shoe flying across the room and getting wedged underneath a giant washer. He looked embarrassed. “That part. . . wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, as he crawled underneath the table to retrieve his shoe.

“You know,” I whispered, “You could just make it part of your dance. Just pretend like you meant that to happen. . . Pretend like you wanted your shoe to go flying. The crowd will go wild if they think you did it on purpose.” I could see he was excited about this possibility and for the next 15 minutes he practiced intentionally flinging his shoe off. It was great.

“How old are you?” I asked him, after he sat down to rest.

“Seven, and I can dance better than my 16 year old cousin.”

“I beleive it. You’re pretty good.”

“I know.”

He looked at me suspiciously, as I went back to reading my text.

“How old are you?”

“I’m 24. “

“What are you reading?

“My school books.”

“Wow, you’re STILL in school? I would hope you’d be done by now.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. We continued talking and he told me about his family, introduced me to his momma and told me about how he got into dancing. He said it all started when he was two. Just as he was about to launch into that story his momma persuaded him to come finish his own homework, and I returned to mine.

Honestly though, I wasn’t thinking about homework. I was thinking about community. Community has been harder to establish since moving to California, then I originally thought it would. I assumed I would immediately have community at school, that’d I’d find it at a church, or maybe even in our apartment complex. Oddly though I have found a sense of community at the laundry mat, playing yahtzee with different kids as we fold clothes and watching incredible dance routines by a seven year old boy who should be doing his homework. I didn’t pick this community out or envision being a part of a community like this. In fact I have been annoyed that I have to use the laundry mat.  But isn’t that so often the case? The thing that I’ve been needing and craving the is coming out of the very thing I have been complaining about.

Over the next few months whenever we would do any kind of physical activity the pain increased and James began having difficulty doing anything which caused him to break a sweat. Right before Christmas we agreed that he needed to see a doctor.

The first doctor we went to was a general practioner. She did a barrage of tests, mostly to make sure he didn’t have diabetes or some other easily detectable disease. The tests all came back negative. And while the doctor was cordial, James felt like she thought his symptoms were all in his head. So it was almost to James’ relief when he started having a horrible rash along with the pain. The doctor suggested that we see a dermatologist.

James and I then scheduled an appointment with a dermatology center, where he was almost immediately diagnosed him with Cholinergic Uticeraia, which is a fancy word for constant hives.These hives though were a little different because James’ body basically thought that his skin cells were a foreign invader and every time he became hot from exercise or sitting in the sun, his body attacked his skin cells, almost like an autoimmune disease. While one might hope that this diagnosis would bring some kind of relief or solution to the problem, the doctor’s words to us were, “Well this will probably just get worse and worse over the next 40 years until your metabolism starts to shut down.” We explained to her that it was excruciatingly painful, that it was changing our life and affecting James at his job. She politely told us that there was nothing she could do, and that this was one of the worst cases she had seen. She then suggested that we go see an allergist to see if he could suggest anything that might help.

We saw an allergist and he was not helpful. He told James that the condition would just be “an inconvenience” he would need to learn to live with. It felt like a death sentence. The allergist prescribed some different medications, but none of them worked, they didn’t even touch the symptoms or the pain.

Despite what the doctor told us, James’ condition was more than an inconvence. Every week it was getting worse. A lot worse. James began having trouble walking up stairs. He was taking time off of work and it started happening even when he wasn’t warm. And it didn’t just affect him physically. Emotionally it was taking its toll—on both of us. One night when we were driving, James told me that he felt like a different person. “I saw a kayak on someone’s car today. I used to think ‘Oh that’d be so much fun.’ But now I just think about how much it would hurt to do things.” Some days I would come home and he would be sitting on the couch crying. I never knew if it was the pain or the loss of so much that he loved—not that it mattered, they both seemed to hurt the same.

During this time we prayed. A lot. And so did lots of other people. People we knew and people we had never met.  We prayed for healing. We prayed for hope. We prayed for perseverance. I prayed for me. I prayed that I would know how to support him and love him and I prayed that I wouldn’t become angry. You wouldn’t think anger would be something you’d experience towards your husband who was in excruciating pain 75% of the day, but it’s what I felt. Sometimes I would get so angry because he couldn’t go running with me or we couldn’t go hiking. Pretty selfish, I know. But it’s the truth. I would also get angry at people who had no idea the amount of pain James was in. James did a pretty good job of hiding his pain. He didn’t tell very many people what was going on, and the people that did know, he often didn’t tell when he was having an “attack”. He would just excuse himself and go into the other room or go into the bathroom where people couldn’t see him.

Two months ago we were praying with some friends and I was wrecked over everything going on. There was a lot happening on in our life. We were preparing to move to California so I could go to graduate school. James had an interview with a new job. I needed to find a place to intern. We were trying to figure out how to make it financially. My stress level was high, but all these things seemed to pale in comparison to what was happening with James. Things were getting to be so bad. I felt so incredibly broken over him and over the realization that this was our life. My sister began praying with me. Silently. Which is all I could handle, God knew that no amount of words from anyone could touch the ache in my heart. Which I guess is why He spoke to me so powerfully and said “I see you. I see James, yes. But I see YOU. I see you weeping from the ache of watching your husband suffer and I care about that as much as anything else.”

It was right to the heart. And I was at peace. We prayed for James that night and it was good and God’s presence was in the room.

Several weeks later at our prayer group, James felt no pain while worshiping. He didn’t lose his voice like he had been because of how the disease affected his muscles and he didn’t have to sit down or slow down his rhythm. James had one attack that week. That next Sunday during church James sang like a crazy man and he felt no pain and he had no rash.  I was shocked. We were full swing into summer and there was no sign of his tormenting disease. Over the next two weeks during packing, moving, working on cars, running around, sweating profusely James has not had ONE attack. He doesn’t complain of his skin feeling like it’s going to tear or of the feeling of a million needles stabbing him.

I have only one explanation for this after going through blood tests and biopsies and a death sentence feeling diagnosis—James has been, without a doubt in my mind, miraculously and wonderfully healed by the power of a living God.

I wanna sing Hallelujah thank you JESUS! I don’t know how to tell you about the overwhelming joy that I have. I want to tell everyone I know. I want to tell people I pass by on the street. I want to scream out, “Thank you Jesus, I have found Hallelujah under his skin!” I don’t care if I sound like a crazy televangelist or some weirdo Pentecostal. Why? Because I’ve experienced the power of God affecting the deepest part of my life, the most vulnerable part of my heart, the most valuable thing in the world. Several years ago I might have been embarrassed to write this down for people to read. I might have been afraid of coming off “too Christian” or “too cheesy”, but right now I don’t care who thinks what, I just want everyone to know the most beautiful part about the power of God in my story right now.

Since then her life has not been easy. Is life ever? She’s a single mom, working for a ministry and honestly trying to figure out how to reconcile things from her past with her new life. We have cried and laughed together. We have been angry and excited. We have shared secrets and sat quietly together. Last year she started dating a man and she has struggled with what this kind of relationship should look like in the context of  her new life. Their journey has been filled with much joy and sorrow, but their strength through it all has been incredible.

This last Saturday I was privileged to be a part of the joining of two beautiful Hope Stories. Saturday my friend married her best friend who is an incredible native man who values her and has found beauty in what was once thought to be ashes. I have been in a lot of weddings(this one was number three in three months!) and I have never cried. I’m just not a wedding crier. Weddings are happy and full of joy. Saturday I cried; not because I was sad, but because the soverignty of it all was overwhelming. As they stood together saying their vows, I cried because their wedding symbolized so much more then two wonderful people finding love in each other. It symbolized more then new life and joy. Their wedding was living proof of grace, forgiveness and restoration. It was evidence that something broken can be turned to something beautiful. Their wedding stood alone as a Hope Story. It is what I envision the wedding analogy in scripture being. It said, “You think that you’re broken? You think that you’ve screwed up and have been used up? Well I don’t! And I want to give you the most wonderful thing you could imagine and I want to give it to you in all the ways you were told you couldn’t have it. And I’m not just going to stop there. I’m going to make you a living breathing example to everyone who ever hears your story, that you are beautiful through me and that I really do make all things new.”

The other day my husband saw a woman in a brown Cherokee and we tried to follow her, but she evaded us. I am so intrigued. I want to meet this woman. This woman who steals a chair, replaces it with an ugly one, then almost a week later returns the stolen goods and takes back her ugly replacement.

The car took longer then I thought and I felt pretty grimey, after all I had just obliterated any possible bedbugs from ever taking up residence with me. So I jumped in the shower. Just as I was soaping up, my trusty dog, Vernon Jackson, began barking ferociously. Now something you should know about Vern is—he does not bark and if by some chance he were to bark it would be a cowardly little attempt at growling. So naturally when I heard him barking I was concerned. I called his name but to no avail. I talked to him, he didn’t relent. By this time I was covered in soapy suds, but I thought time was of the essence and I jumped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and opened the door. Slowly I peered around the hallway, nothing. I walked the length of the house (which, alright, is only 500 square feet, but still) and there was nothing. I looked out the window. Someone in a new, light brown Jeep Cherokee had pulled up our ridicoualy steep drive-way and parked. Inside the Jeep there appeared to be a Caucasian, woman in her early 30s talking to a small child who was sitting in a car seat in the back. Neither looked familiar. I concluded that they must have been knocking at the door while I was in the shower and that Vern had taken offense since I was indisposed at the time. But even that didn’t make sense because Vern NEVER barks, especially at a small child and his mother. The woman started the Jeep and began the treacherous decent down our drive-way and drove away. I got back in the shower (to wash off the now crusty soap from my body) and assumed that if it was important they would come back or find a way to get a hold of me through e-mail or phone.

Later that evening as I prepared to leave something felt off. I gathered my things and went outside. As I walked to the car I noticed it immediately. The chair was gone. Horrified I ran to where it had sat. In the place where my beautiful, antique yellow chair had sat only a few hours earlier a hideous short, stalky, brown and white, toll-painted monstrosity sat. Baffled I stared trying to figure out where my chair was and why this disgusting imposter was on my patio.

And then it all made sense. The Jeep, the woman, Vern barking protectively. But why? Why would someone drive all the way up my drive way to steal a very old, clearly worthless chair? And the even bigger question, why would someone feel the need to replace it with another? Did she think I wouldn’t notice? I mean I get that we don’t live in Bel-Air, but seriously, the two chairs look nothing alike! And how could you justify stealing someone’s chair, especially to the point of being so bold as to drive up their driveway and park? The theories that have surfaced thus far are as follows :

• She is a passive aggressive clepto who had seen the chair while visiting a friend next door and decided she couldn’t live without it.
• Her dying grandmother had three other patio chairs and her final request was to see the fourth re-united before she died.
• She is going to commit a crime with the chair, return it, and frame us for the offense.
• She is a famous photographer, has seen James’ portrait work with the chair and decided that the only way she can be competitive in the market is to steal the chair for her own business.
• She saw someone else steal the chair, was too afraid to call the police but still felt so bad that she gave us a chair that she was about to take to the GoodWill.

What do you think?

If you see a woman of the above description with a peculiarly wonderful yellow chair, please report it to the authorities immediately! Or better yet, steal it and replace it with the one sitting on my patio!

Awesome portrait with yellow chair

The offending chair

There have been many stages of our relationship: we’ve gone through boyfriends and girlfriends and roommates and friends. We’ve sat with each other through hard times and we’ve cried together. We’ve made countless dinners and tasted good (and bad) wines. We’ve battled sickness and health. We’ve discussed God and Hell and forever. Sometimes we’ve been closer then others.

 Recently the boys challenged us girls to think of one thing we had never talked about. We came up with hummingbirds, and even that we were unsure if we had really NEVER talked about it. At work the other day a trainer asked us if we had friends that we could talk to without explaining the history of what we were about to say and it started my remembering all over again.  

When I moved to Flagstaff, I asked God for friends. Friends that would be “forever friends”. He placed in my life two people who ended up married to each other and an incredible blessing to both me and my husband. I have judged and loved them.  I have cried and laughed with them. I have questioned things they have said and been challenged to change by things they have done.  I am thankful for who they are and who they will be. I’m thankful for their friendship and their love.

Good-byes have always been one of the hardest things for me. I don’t know why I thought I had overcome this, but I did. I thought that this good-bye would be different…but it’s not and now my friends are leaving and a good-bye is coming and I’m unable to figure out how its all going to be ok.

The last five motnhs of my life have been unlike anything I have ever experienced. They have been filled with tears, pain,  ridicule, curses,  shame, sadness, belittlement, disbelief, accusations, more tears, and heartache. The last five months have been hard, to say the least.

Two weeks ago I was offered a chance to work more directly with kids in a positive and supportive environment. My tears turned to joy and and my curses to laughter. I was ecstatic. So, so ecstatic. My days in the quick sand desert had come to an end. My last day was today.

“So after today you won’t be here anymore?”

“Yeah, remember? I told you last week.”

“Will you even miss us?” The words stung my face as the boy spit them out at me .

“Of course I’ll miss you. I’m not leaving because I don’t like you. I’m leaving becasue I want to be in a place where I can better help kids like you.”

He looked confused. I could tell he didn’t care about ‘kids like [him]‘.

“But who will listen to me when you’re gone?”

Another boy came over to join the conversation, “You are one of the ones we like…Why do you have to leave?”

It was the first time I felt sad about leaving. Yes, I am going to a place where I can better help so many kids. But here, in this place, these kids need so desperately for someone to listen to them. They need someone to hear them say they are frustrated and angry… and for that to be ok.

I have been asked at least 10 times today not to leave before saying good-bye. I tell them not to worry, of course I will say good-bye. They look so skeptical. “Everyone else just leaves without saying anything…and then they’re gone and we never see them again.”

It is bittersweet that, simply because I have listened to them and loved them, I have had such a powerful impact on them. It is such a simple thing and it requires no education or professional experience.  Anyone can listen and love and yet it is such a forighn concept to these children that, when they have the tiniest taste of it, they hold on for dear life.

I know my season in this place, and with many of these kids, is over. I know that where I am going there will be heartache and I know I will be given more opportunites to love and listen. I am grateful that the kids, I have been with for the past five months, have taught me that even in the most discouraging places, a listening ear and loving heart will go a long way.