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There were 3 kinds of chips, 4 kinds of dip, 5 kinds of vegetables and some kind of nut mixture. Which was kind of ridiculous, considering the meal was yet to come.

People hovered around the table like hummingbirds, dipping into this and that. “That’s hummus,” I enlightened a cousin who was contemplating it, “It’s got olives – you’ll like it, you’re Italian. Well, I mean, it’s Middle-eastern, but whatever.” After delivering that bonbon of a bon mot (funny outside, foolish inside), I strolled to the beverage table.

There were 3 kinds of wine, 3 kinds of beer and 4 kinds of soda. Which was kind of ridiculous, considering wine was the only one worth drinking.

“Hey, Ben,” another cousin began, after a swig of beer, “where are you living now? Your dad mentioned something a few months ago about you living – ”

“In the ghetto,” I sang.

“Right,” he chuckled, “how is that?”

“Well, the other day some kids beat my car with a bat,” I smiled, raising my glass to the kids.

“Really?” He murmured.

“Really,” I repeated. “They probably think they’re the 99% and we’re the 1%.” I gulped some wine and looked into the half-full glass. “They’re probably right.”

Punchinello

I wasn’t feeling so into it.

Shadows fell over my soul like the lights coming down in the auditorium.

A self-proclaimed approval junkie, service whore and control freak, pregnancy and all its limitations and needs have not been easy for me. My sense of self-worth had taken a beating over the past few months that would liken itself to a climactic scene in any of the Rocky movies.

Our row was filled with an odd mixture of caring adults, too-cool teenagers, an overly excitable 5^th grader and our pastor’s son – who looked slightly bewildered by the whole thing.

“You are Special” heralded the fifteen-foot-tall book at center stage. Don’t cry, I mentally coached myself. Chaperones don’t cry.

The ballet began. A whirl of colors and sounds, organza and puppets filled first the stage and then our own hearts with a sense of wonder and excitement. Even the too-cool teens were sucked in as the story unfolded.

Each puppet was different, hand carved by their Maker, but they stuck gold stars or ugly grey dots on one another, based on performance.

Some of the puppets flew across the stage in great leaps and bounds and twisting flips that would make Mary-Lou Retton green. Others stumbled over their own ballet shoes by intention.

Our eyes grew wide as the story came to its crux. The clumsiest, ugliest, most unwanted of all the puppets went to talk to the Maker.

The puppet bemoaned his existence, but the Maker waded through the muck of his self- doubt and embraced him, explaining, “You are special, because you’re mine. I made you and for that, and no other reason, do you matter to me.”

I watched the children, so many of who don’t hear that they are made in God’s image and loved dearly by Him, except at Bible Club, once a week. Their faces glowed as the realization that this Maker was a picture of the same God we talk about all the time. Their faces were a testament to the realization, at least for that moment, how special they are to Him.

It’s true, the Spirit whispered, and a tear dropped from my eye.

The pride and joy of my life, my collection of stars and dots, was revealed in that moment for what it truly is: ropes of lies I have believed and told myself, tying them over and over again, my whole life.

As we exited the auditorium, the kids were all giggles, but I was silent.

I heard the Maker’s voice again. “You matter because I made you. You are mine. Nothing else matters.”

A grey dot fell out of my back pocket.

Treasure

How has the neighborhood changed since you’ve been there? What’s the biggest difference from when you first moved in? I get asked questions like these once in awhile. And I feel like I’ve heard it more often recently. It’s a fair question. We want to see progress and change. We want to know that something we’ve invested in is doing what it’s supposed to, making an impact in people’s lives, and changing things for the better. If what we’re doing isn’t producing change or doing something different that was happening before, than why do we do it?

Well, I don’t know how to answer those questions. What is the way to measure if I’ve been “successful”? Is the crime rate lower? Are there less foreclosures on the block? Are there fewer fights between kids? Are there less people living in poverty? I don’t think I can answer a definite yes to any of those. I don’t know if I can give positive answers to a lot of questions like that. But what I can say is that I’ve been changed. I’m different than when I moved in. I have been changed by neighbors’ generosity. I have been changed by hearing the perspective of those Jesus says are blessed. I have been changed by being faced with my greed, selfishness, and privilege among many who are poor and oppressed.

I haven’t seen drastic changes take place, but I have seen glimpses of the kingdom. Little things happen that remind me that God is at work here, that he hasn’t forgotten the poor and oppressed, and that seeds of his kingdom have been scattered all around. And the kingdom is like a mustard seed- it starts out small, but will one day grow and become a huge tree offering rest and shade. It is like a treasure-a treasure so great you might want to sell everything you have to get it. Because it is beautiful. It is priceless. It just takes awhile to uncover it all.

Home Alone

The wind blows from its diaphragm and the trees do the wave like a crowd at a sports game. For a moment I marvel at the movement; it’s paradoxically collective and individual. It would be maddening to animate. Maybe this is why there aren’t many animated movies starring trees.

For three days the housemates have been at a conference. Every day I have the same conversation with a different kid, or the same kid. “Where Kevin at?” they ask. “At a conference.” I answer. “Where Ben and Megan at?” They ask. “At the same conference.” I answer. They walk away.

The conference is hosted by the Christian Community Development Association, and I was invited, but I declined. It’s held in Indianapolis. Indianapolis, Minneapolis…what stupid names. “Welcome to the city of the state we live in.” That’s more Original than Werther’s! Oh I know, there are several Greek scholars who could expound on Polis in terms of Philosophy and History, but I would get angry and argue with them, and then gyros would be ruined, ruined, and I don’t know why that matters since I don’t eat gyros due to Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

A chill tickles my spine but I refuse to go inside and put on a sweater because I would soon take it off. Tonight is the restless middle child of summer and autumn; so desperate is its desire for approval, and its denial of it, I am almost moved to pity, but move past it to repulsion.

On the curb, several stacks of furniture and garbage form makeshift memorials, commemorating those who have recently moved out – people of various sizes and textures, each one of them a feature in the topography. Opening the door to my car, sometimes I patted a hand on the kids’ heads, waved a hand at the adults. Closing the door to my room, I laid hands on the keyboard.

A friend calls. I do not answer. They leave a voicemail. I listen to it: “I’m feeling lonely, but that’s not your fault.”

Across the street I see a man on his front porch holding a cell phone. I wonder if he sees me.