An Abundant Li[f]e

“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