Cultural artifacts

As I struggle (often in vain) to relieve us of some of the clutter that creeps into our closets and drawers under cover of night, I keep finding fascinating items that really, can't be called clutter at all. Rather, I think of them as artifacts and I, the archeologist of sorts, am left to relate their ancient significance to our current state of affairs. What can we learn from them? How far have we come?

Those of you who knew me growing up might well have a clear and working definition of just how far I've come. (I won't dare post a picture here to inform those who weren't blessed with the daunting and often terrifying experience of watching me navigate the teenage years.) Sometimes, though, I am swept away with memories that focus a little too clearly on the eyeliner and paratrooper boots, completely missing the wonder of the girl beneath. Is it so easy to take even myself at face value?

Maybe I should get to the point.
Well, maybe.

As I've wound my way back to Jesus over the years I have been consistently amazed at the traces of his presence along that long, dark road I dragged myself down. I can't not wonder how that girl became this girl.

(and an old song comes to mind- "Nothing but the blood of Jesus" and in looking for old hymn singing I find some very non old-hymn takes on it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bYpSZxF4hE0&feature=related) and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wej1jHtiH-M&feature=related.)

And yet, what I've learned is a deep appreciation for the journey that is loving Christ. The process of it all, the rich teacher of experience, and the irrefutable beauty of weakness. It is where we are most weak that we find the beauty of his love. It was when the clothes got crazier, the tongue got sharper, and the heart screamed out for something I couldn't know, that the beauty of unconditional love and grace became clear. Huh, so he really does work ALL things to his glory.

But there is more to this jaunt down memory lane. What I found, suprisingly, is that this passion for connection and relationship and love of the lost and the least, has been there all along.

I remember serving Thanksgiving dinner downtown Chicago at Uptown Baptist Church and my father describing it, teary-eyed, as a defining moment in his/my life. I was maybe 10 and without pause, laughing and loving on and serving joyfully some of the filthiest, least desirable, most dangerous (knives slipped from pockets as I pour them more coffee) folks to be found on the city streets. And I could have stayed for days. My story is one that leads me to exactly this place. It is not by accident that I sit here working on action items for moving SENTralized forward, thinking about the friends I've made at the local food pantry, and anxiously imagining the opportunities to simply, well, to simply love. Afterall, as it turns out that is what it is about. Simple, radical love.

I couldn't see it at the time and I certainly didn't realize it looking back over the past 15 years until yesterday when I stumbled across one lovely item buried in the office.

The Donovan Family Christmas Letter - circa 1997.

It reads (in part):

"Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring. Is this really OUR house?

Greetings from the Donovan Home for Throw-Away Kids. What, you didn't know we had 15 or 20 children who call us Mom and Dad? Right now only our daughter, Jana, lives here but 1997 saw a parade of residents in "Anna's" room. (Remember, Anna was our exchange student from Romania who lived with us during the 1995-96 school year.) Some kids bring home stray animals, but our daughter brings home stray kids. Bless her heart.

Our home has been home to about 5 teens at various times and for varying lengths of time during 1997. These kids are, for the most part, homeless and forgotten by their parents and society. Many besides the 5 have practically lived here. Especially throughout the summer, we never knew who or how many would be here for dinner. They came with hair the colors of the rainbow and clothes from punk to preppy. Almost without fail, though, they also respected us and followed our rules. They also ate and ate and ate and drank Mountain Dew by the gallon. But they found love and acceptance and a safe place to be. We tried to show them God's love unconditionally. It wasn't always easy. And privacy didn't exist. But if we had it to do over, we would. Differently, certainly. But the Lighthouse banner in front of our house tells what we try to be."

Wow. Our hope is that our home might be the same refuge for our children's friends, that our children won't know how not to love and give and serve any and everyone. To be a lighthouse and with open arms and full plates, extend the love and acceptance of Jesus.

Praise God.