“I’m number five!” The freckled-face boy bounced past me waving a white card above his ginger crew-cut. After waiting fourteen hours, rising early from a Chevy Suburban and eating breakfast from Subway, he had his prize. Free pizza, every week for a year.

I figured his mom was the craziest or the coolest ever. Crazy for staying all night in a parking lot with a half-dozen pre-teens. Cool for giving them great memories. After all, how often do kids get to sleep in a parking lot or crash on a strip mall’s sidewalk?

While I waited in line, watching Crew-cut high-five his comrades, their greater blessing occurred to me. Free pizza’s fantastic and storefront slumber parties probably rock, but just miles away some children won’t play in their own yards let alone crash outside. Some even fear sleeping in their beds. They prefer the floor away from windows and stray bullets.

I saved their stories in a weak attempt to validate their lives. As though throwing away newsprint somehow discards them, again.

Like the five month old baby boy in recent news, smothered and tossed into a dumpster. I watched city workers drive earth-moving trucks over mountains of landfill, scooping the putrefied waste, while others searched in vain for his tiny body. Joshua died violently and is still out there, crumpled beneath the stench of rotting trash, slightly worn Nikes and last week’s takeout.

And here, kids slide out of an idling white Suburban, air-conditioned for an hour to cool their flushed faces. As Crew-cut and his friends were handed tickets for gourmet pizza, they were probably oblivious to real need and suffering. And that’s okay. They are children.

But, what’s my excuse?

Remember, I was in line too. Number thirty-seven of fifty who scored free pizza. Waiting in line for an hour and a half with my daughter, a good book, and iced coffee was fun. But, while I’m free to enjoy this abundant life, can it blind me and become an abundant lie?

My everyday pursuits often distract me, tucking me neatly into oblivion. I’ve even chosen to go there – to that state of forgetting. It’s more comfortable. Like a newborn babe, I get wrapped up in myself, bound to inaction, blind to anyone outside my inner circle.

Like children chilling in white suburbia, we’re all susceptible to being lulled by luxury. Swaddled, pampered and pacified, we fall asleep. Waking only for our next meal or new toy or fresh round of gossip.

Have you listened lately to what we complain about? We often ruminate on the ridiculous and meditate on the mundane. Trivial stuff, really, in light of heartache and hungry bellies and little girls with pink-ribboned pigtails or boys with Spiderman backpacks fearing playgrounds or their own homes.

Let’s not be deceived, my friends. Violence, neglect and abuse don’t discriminate against skin color, income level, or zip code. They walk among us. They drive shiny cars, own sparkly homes, and lurk behind squeaky-clean faces. Broken people are everywhere.

Do you ever think about what breaks your heart or which injustice ticks you off? Maybe you’ve thought: There’s got to be more to this life.

Even King Solomon wrestled that thought. He denied none of his desires. Food, wine, material wealth and hundreds of women – as many and as often as he wanted – yet he still wrote, “Meaningless! Meaningless!”  His pleasures distracted him, yanking him away from his divine purpose. Lustful lies left him empty and “chasing after the wind.”

Yes, abundant life can become an abundant lie. We – you, me, and Crew Cut – are free to enjoy good things. But it’s a lie to think that’s all there is and it’s all for us. I’ve heard, “The only thing that can stop us is the lie we choose to believe.”* God calls us to love extravagantly so others can live abundantly. Now that is better than free pizza.

                      “The city streets will be filled with boys and girls playing there.” – Zechariah 8:5

 

*Brian Wangler

 

As I settle into this Chicago suburb choosing paint colors, shower curtains, and no MSG on my oriental take-out, I fear settling. Not making-a-home settling. Military moves made me an expert at that. I mean spiritually, at the soul-level, settling. My mind tends to nestle into comfort and cruise in familiar territory. But then there’s this recurring, niggling reminder: This isn’t just for you.

This restlessness comes and goes. I banish it with busyness and excuses. After all, there’s laundry to conquer, shopping to endure, and Bible studies to facilitate.

For years, I appeased this uneasiness by opening my home to strangers and family members in transition. But now, with less messes to mop and mouths to stuff, this agitation’s gaining momentum in my gut. My pastor calls it a “holy discontent.”

For months, I’ve reasoned, over-thought, and wasted time fretting about wasting time. What if I fail or make the wrong choice? But fear breeds confusion, like bacteria dropped into the Petri dish of new opportunities.

I feel like a rubber band attached to a toy airplane’s propeller. To fly the plane, you twist, twist, twist that band until it either snaps or spins. Now, this may be a terrible analogy because those things never fly right but bear with me because I’m about to snap … or spin … or both. All I know is I’ve got this inward churning urging me to figure out the next umpteen years of my life and this outward pull to do it now, now, now.

But then comes a gentle nudge. “Just take the next step.” And attached is a promise, “I’m with you.” Then a warning, “ Don’t expect comfort.”

So, my God is doing a new thing in me. He’s teaching me to trust, takes risks, really live. But not just for me. Friends, neighbors, strangers, enemies. He wants to use broken-confused-limited-socially awkward-me to share life with them.

Fear still coaxes me to settle. But I choose not to comfort cruise while nestling into this lovely Chicago suburb. I’ll heed this holy discontent because settling frightens me more than the unknown.

 

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” — Jesus

 

Ssshh … Can you hear it?

Stop a minute.

Listen.

 Perhaps a wave of memory’s pain,

Screaming lies,

Or today’s stress

Drown it out

But it’s a pathway to healing.

 Don’t run from the chaos.

Run into it. Hear it.

Feel it. Mourn it. Endure it.

And be done with it.

 Be delivered from fear to freedom.

Hear the sweet, sweet gift of silence.

Do you ever miss an important moment because you’re preoccupied? Something else grabs your attention: a hobby, TV, a text, or a tweet? I’ve been there too. But for me the thief is often more subtle. It’s an attitude robbing me of engaging in the now, being present in the present. Let me tell you about a moment I almost missed.

My granddaughter, Madison, was three when the rose bushes drew her in. Cupping a Barbie-pink blossom with both hands, she nestled her face into its petals.

I knelt in the dirt yanking weeds that invaded my flower garden and my sense of justice. Even Madison singing my name didn’t soften my attitude.

“Meema, your woses smell so good.”

“Be careful, Madison, don’t smash it.”

The day before, I’d returned from a weekend trip to a cluttered home. Now, the overdue weeding stoked the fires of my martyrdom to a rolling boil. I have to do everything around here. I live with the laziest people on earth. And, why am I raising my granddaughter? I, the victim. I, the under-valued. I, so sweet and blessed just days ago at a women’s retreat.

Mid-pity party, I turned to see a bush half-stripped of roses. My face flushed hot.

Madison twirled. Eyes shut, head back with pony tails poking straight out, she raised her arms, palms to the sky. Rose petals fluttered from her hands and floated to the ground.

A pink path meandered around the other two bushes, now nearly naked. Silky shades of pink to white blanketed the brown mulch and covered those noxious weeds that wanted to rob me of the moment.

Wobbly from her dance, Madison tried to stand still. Her blue, wide-open eyes admired her work. “Oh, Meema. Isn’t it boo-tee-ful?”

The harsh words rising up in me had already dissipated. “Yes, Madison Grace. It’s absolutely beautiful.”

Eyes off myself, I embraced God’s gentle reminder to take it all in.