It's the season of giving. Even for political candidates.

 

Whatever your political persuasion, I think what Bill, Breakthrough's Chief Operating Officer, says is key: it's important for people in our community (and any community) to feel that their voice matters, that someone will be thinking about them when they cast a vote or make a policy.  I know the reality of politics.  But I also know that good policy matters, even- and especially- in urban communities like East Garfield Park.

And let's be honest...the video is a pretty great advertisement for the work of Breakthrough!

In the Bleak Midwinter

Ok, it's not quite "midwinter" yet.  Is it even winter yet?  God, please, say it is.  Because I'm already cold and grumpy.  In a loving, happy sort of way, of course.

Things have been really crazy lately, due to my role in the Breakthrough Christmas Store (it's not too late to donate new toys and gifts for parents to purchase at a discounted rate!) and M's finals (which he ROCKED by the way!  Or at least has rocked the two he's taken at this point- one law class and one policy class).  But we've still made an effort to get out of the apartment and enjoy the beauty of the season.

First stop, the University of Chicago Harper Library (please note: there are not actually any books here.  Apparently there were at some point.)  I like to sit here and just stare.  Come to think of it, that might freak people out who are there studying...especially since I usually have a goofy grin on my face as I'm sitting.

M's enthusiasm is somewhat less than mine.  And by "somewhat less" I mean that he doesn't bat an eye.  Chalk it up to being surrounded by the beauty of the campus on a daily basis.  I, however, just FEEL smarter sitting here.  Smrtuhr.  That's me.

Also, it sort of reminds me of Harry Potter and/or Oxford, which both make me happy.  Sigh.

Then, since you know M is German and all, we have to stop by the Christkindlmarket.

It's the largest German Christmas market outside of Germany apparently.  And they sell authentic German Christmas stuff at authentic (read: outrageous) European prices!  Yesss!!  It's also a great place to have a reindeer propose to you, as one of our Breakthrough interns, Rae, found out.  (They're writing about them all over the world, y'all! Seriously, google it.  Oh and watch the video on YouTube.  I like the homeless lady at the end.)

And when we're tired of walking around, it's always nice to come back to the apartment and relax.

This afternoon, I made some wonderful granola (healthy) and some of my favorite cookies covered in sprinkles (not so healthy).  Does anyone else remember eating these cookies as a child?  They always remind me of being a kid.  Later, as the next winter storm hits tonight, we'll have homemade vegetable soup with bread and prosciutto on the side.  Ah, the life.

So maybe it's not such a bleak time of the year after all.  Beautiful buildings, yummy food and fun markets make the snow much more bearable.  Oh, and then of course there's moments, as you sit in the holiday traffic, when you see gems like this...

Merry Midwinter!

It's a Pierce, Buchanan, Lincoln, Johnson Christmas

When I was in high school, I took AP American History where, in an all-night study session for the big test, I memorized the names of all the presidents to the tune of Hark the Herald Angels Sing.

Many times since then, I've impressed people with this stupid human trick and thoroughly amazed and enlightened them, no doubt.  And if this isn't a reason to invite me to your holiday party- I can do Festivus, Christmas, Kwanzaa or Hanakkuh/Chanukkah/Hawnickuh- I don't know what is.  Granted, I've had to add another Bush and an Obama, but it's relatively easy if you just smash everyone past Carter into one breath.  (Please don't shoot me for that comment, presidential historians.) And come on, it IS pretty cool when you think about it.

That is, until "Christmas music on the radio" season comes along.  And oh, friends, it's already come along.  In fact, it came along about a day or two after Halloween.

And when it does, all of a sudden, when the beautiful Christmas song Hark the Herald Angels Sing begins to play, I can't help but think about Millard Fillmore and Rutherford B Hayes.  And let's be honest.  They don't exactly inspire a lot of holiday cheer.

This face doesn't exactly say, 'Merry Christmas'...

Santa's younger cousin, perhaps?

Washington, Adams, Jef-fer-son, glory to the new born king!

Thankfully I didn't memorize all the members of the Supreme Court to Frosty the Snowman.

So that's what they mean when they say "quilted"

I just don't even know what to say, except, every time I enter the bathroom at our church here in Hyde Park, this is what I see.  And so I'm finally sharing it with you.  (Yes, this is now the second time I've taken a picture in a bathroom.)

Marvel at its beauty, friends.

And without further ado, I bring you "Quilted Midwestern"

(Not to be picky or anything, but for some reason it annoys me that it's out of order.  I'm just saying.  Unless the person between square one and two used a lot of...well...you know...)

My Thoughts on the Matter

I might as well resign myself to the fact that 90% of my posts these days have to do with what I spend the majority of my day doing.  Lucky you.  Because you were getting tired of hearing about wine corks and rainbows, weren't you?   You can really only take so many rainbows.

Having only officially worked in "urban development" for a little over a year, people still think it's appropriate to ask me what I think "the answer" is.  I usually say, "Choose B or C, they're the most common answer."

Hardy har har.  Not really.  Seriously.

Americans- especially Christians- want to know what the answer is to urban poverty.  They want to know what to do, what to fix and how to move forward.  "If we just had better schools, we could fix the problem of urban underdevelopment."  "If we just had more men present in their children's lives, we wouldn't be sending so many kids to jail."  "If there were well designed, low-priced housing units, we wouldn't have the gang problem that we have."  "If only there wasn't so much disparity in our justice system, whether that be sentencing terms, the way we handle different drug charges or the relationship between police and individuals in inner city America."  "If only there was affordable healthcare."  "If only people would just get jobs."

Yes.  The answer is yes.

And yet so much more.  The truth of poverty is that it's not a simple fix, and we do a great disservice to the reality of humanity when we think it is.  It would be so much easier if the answer fit into three simple steps, or lined up with one political party platform or another, or didn't require us to think seriously about our own attitudes and sins, both individual and corporate.  We would rather change the educational system than actually extend ourselves on behalf of the poor.  We would rather tell men to man up and be with their families than live out our lives beside those who are struggling.  We would rather believe that we have all the answers than listen to those who have so much to give, so many assets, in their own development.

Don't get me wrong.  Our country desperately needs power players to lobby on behalf of more equity in funding for schools, lower student to teacher ratios and improvement in classroom standards.  We need investment bankers who will consider how to provide housing with equity, without over-gentrifying- and pushing out- communities.  We need programs like Put Illinois to Work that help place individuals in jobs, learn skills and hopefully become more employable.  We need churches that will support Mom and Me programs or healthy mentoring relationships for young urban men.  We need to support those who are doing all these things with our prayers, our finances and our time.  And we need to take the time  to acquire wisdom, to better understand what's really going on in urban America.

But most importantly, we need to do all of these things- and more- with dignity, not to solve a problem, but to truly love our neighbors as ourselves.

That's why I love Breakthrough- that in everything we do, we are trying so desperately to do it with dignity and respect, recognizing an individual's gifts and talents, and extending ourselves- and our network- on their behalf.  We fail sometimes.  But as we fail, we learn, and as we learn we grow into better servants.  Hopefully better servants that will be a part of the kingdom of God coming on earth as it is in heaven.
_________________________________________

If you're still reading, 1) I'm impressed and 2) you might be interested in learning more about the many faces- and facets- of urban poverty.  I've blogged before about reading suggestions, but want to add a couple more books to your reading list.

One- which I'm probably partial to- is Breakthrough's Executive Director's book The Invisible.  If you want to read the story of a woman following God's call on her life- and what you can do, too- read this book.  Another, suggested to me by another coworker, is Code of the Street, written by Elijah Anderson, a professor of Sociology at Yale (or at least he was when he wrote the book).  A third, Restoring At-Risk Communities by John Perkins (read ANYTHING by Mr. Perkins!) has more "practical ideas" and serves as the "official handbook of the Christian Community Development Association."  If you're a Tim Keller liker, check out Ministries of Mercy: The Call of the Jericho Road.

So What Do You Do?

People- especially those not from Chicago- often ask me what exactly Breakthrough does.  It's not a simple question, and there's certainly not a simple answer.  But if you happen to be one of the people wondering, here are three videos that will tell you more.


Children & Family Services from Breakthrough Urban Ministries on Vimeo.



Breakthrough Fresh Market from Breakthrough Urban Ministries on Vimeo.



Breakthrough Adult Services from Breakthrough Urban Ministries on Vimeo.


I am so thankful to be a part of the transformative work of Breakthrough.

Estate Sale

I imagine that when he approached the Teacher that day, he already had a pretty good idea of the pat on the back he was going to get.

Pushing through the people, with their babies, their diseases, their needs, the young man stepped up to the Teacher himself.

The question was meant to be a straight forward one.  Tell me what I need to do and- if I'm not already doing it- I'll get on it.  I'll check off that box.  I'll do what I need to do to get the results I want.  

But the Teacher knew the man's heart.  He knew what was at the man's core, and that- despite his actions of purity- his heart was far from where it needed to be.  "There is still one thing lacking.  Sell all that you own and distribute the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then, come follow Me."  But when he heard this, he became sad; for he was very rich. ** _______________________________________

I can't help but think that many of us- like the young man- walk away from the true heart of the Gospel, sad that we will have to make what we believe to be such a great sacrifice.  Whether it be our wealth, our power, our comfort or our family, we are saddened by the idea that we can't keep those things that we hold so close.  But Teacher, isn't my outward obedience enough?  I've loved you.  I've been good since I was just a young kid.  I've kept your law.  I've loved people.  Isn't that what getting eternal life is about?  Do you really need this extra sacrifice? 

I don't know what it is that fills your heart, sucks your time and steals your thoughts.  Maybe it's the deep yearning to be someone, to have a voice and to earn the approval of men.  Maybe it is the rampant materialism, so pervasive in our culture- from over sized houses to walk-in closets, to $700 pairs of shoes.  Maybe it is your deep desire to just be comfortable, to have enough, to not be in want.  For me, it is all these things and probably more.

But like the rich young ruler, the Teacher is calling His children, His church, to something more.  To a life dedicated not to the decorating of a house or the seat in the board room, but to a life lived for Him and poured out for others.  A life that gives sacrificially to others and follows Him to those places where others are hurting, abused and dying, where there are deep physical, spiritual and emotional needs.  

Maybe you'll be one of the very few who can truly have these other things- the power, the money, the comfort- and still have the Teacher seated at the center of your heart.  (What is impossible for mortals is possible for God.)  But I suspect that more often than not, it is these things that cloud our heart, blur our vision and keep us from truly surrendering ourselves to the transformative power and work of the Gospel.  It is these things that, while not keeping us from church, or fellowship or even prayer or reading, keep us from the heart of the Teacher's message.  We are so deeply, deeply afraid that He will call us to more, to sacrifice these things that in so many ways define us.  And we are so completely afraid of this sacrifice.  
_____________________________________

More than anything else in my life, I want to have the Teacher seated at the center of my heart.  More than children, more than a home, even more than my husband, I want to take the Teacher at His word and follow Him. Don't get me wrong.  I hope and pray that M gets a wonderful job to use his God-given passions and knowledge, that we're able to own a home one day and that we have a house full of children.  I hope that we can use our home as a place of ministry, providing a safe haven for the orphaned and widowed, and feeding the hungry.  If this isn't what the Lord gives us, I know that as long as we are following His leading, we will be ok.  And yet in some ways, this scares me more than I can even imagine- sacrificing so fully, giving up my own agenda and own way.

But even just in this year of living so differently than we ever have before- I've learned that this "sacrifice" really is no sacrifice at all.  Yes, loving Him costs me everything...and yet costs me nothing.  Sometimes we are so afraid of the sacrifice that we can't even imagine how we might go on living without it.  But when He is in His right place, I am my best self and my Father is most glorified in me.  And whatever sacrifice there might be quickly transforms into great joy.  That is the Gospel.


**(Luke 18:22-23)

My Bank Account Thanks You

Remember how a couple months ago I blogged about getting reimbursed for some doctor's bills that I had (wrongly) paid and insurance had (wrongly) not paid?  Oh you don't?  I'll refresh your memory here.

Notice the date of that post.  August 1st.  Notice the date of today.  October 5th.

And that, my friends, is how long it takes to get a reimbursement from the University of Chicago Hospital Center.  Two months and four days.  Did I mention that somehow in that time they were still able to send me another bill?  But not a reimbursement?  Oh, right.  Of course.  (Please note, we got our tax refund check last year in less than two weeks.  I'm just saying.)

Oh, and the icing on the cake?  We got the check yesterday.  Then, when M got the mail today...there was another check.  For the exact same amount.  From the exact same hospital.  For the exact same account.

You can't make this stuff up.

(And no, we are not going to cash check number two.  Or rather, M says we can't, despite my plea that it's the payment of "interest.")

Two years ago tomorrow, M and I said our vows to each other.

It was a morning wedding (possibly best idea ever).  We gathered early at our beautiful church on Capitol Hill, had the full Anglican communion service and then headed out to the brunch reception on the banks of the Potomac River.  It rained on and off, but that made it all the more beautiful.

We left the next day for a two week stay on the Mediterranean coast of Croatia, with a stop in Paris and a little time spent inland.  I still dream about returning to these places one day again soon.

The trip was a whirlwind.  The next twelve months of our lives were a whirlwind.  I've lost count now, but counting from the day of our wedding, we went to something like ten weddings in the course of the next year.  And then there was the applying to grad school and then the planning for a move halfway across the country and then actually making the move, and then settling in, adjusting to the new nature of long-distance friendships, finding a job, finding a new community.

"Two years" sounds so little when we say it to each other- and yet in the best of ways, it seems like so much longer than that.  It's hard for me to now remember my life without M in it (we started dating in 2006, so apparently my memory only holds good for about 4 years).  I know my life before having M in it was good, but I also know that it fundamentally changed- and fundamentally changed me- when he entered.

I love my husband more than I can even try to express.  I cannot imagine my life without him; even thinking about a day without him makes me get emotional.  He is the strongest man I know, and yet also one of the most humble (maybe that's where the strength comes from).  He's ridiculously smart but doesn't have to prove himself to anyone, even when I want him to (which, let's be honest, happens a lot).  He is a calming force.  He is hilariously funny.  He will be such a wonderful father one day.  He is a great, great cook.  He loves Florida football.  He makes me work out and play tennis, even when I don't really want to.  He is a man who lives every day trying to figure out what his faith means in the world he lives in; he is a man after God's heart.

So here's to these two years.  May the joy of the first two continue- and grow- for the many years to come.

A Respite

The University of Chicago at dusk.

A Holy Disappointment

It's an odd phrase, that's for sure.

And yet I believe it is a "holy disappointment" that God is cultivating in me- a disappointment that I have no doubt Christ felt concerning His followers during His own life here on earth.  (And I dare say we have plenty of evidence to assume that God had a bit of that same feeling toward Israel.)  

It's a disappointment that we, the (American, middle/upper class) church, are so often more focused on our own personal development than on the spreading of the Gospel through love and good deeds.  A disappointment that we care more about talking about romantic relationships than talking about God's concern and command to love and serve others.  (God does care about romantic relationships and personal development.  I'm sure of it.  But from what I can tell from His Word, He's got a lot more He wants to do in us and through us than that.)  It's a holy disappointment that so many of us are missing out on the Spirit-filled life- one that produces great fruit- because we are too consumed by the rest of the stuff around us.  It's a disappointment that while many churches are doing the good works that give life to faith, so many more are not.

It's a disappointment that Satan sometimes uses to paralyze me, to make me cynical and sarcastic.  And yet it is a disappointment that- when I allow God to really use it- drags me to my knees as I beg God to make us- ME- better followers of Him.

And ultimately, it is a disappointment that reminds me of what's so great about the cross.  That God would allow His Son to die for people like you and me who- by ourselves- are pretty darn disappointing, even on our best days.  This disappointment reminds me that things are not as they should be- and yet there is a way that things can be made right.  There will be a day when things are made right.

And while I long for the day when there is no longer a need for holy disappointment, I will allow God to cultivate this holy disappointment in me today, that I- and we- might better serve Him.

 

Isaiah 58

I've been meditating on these verses for quite some time now.  I can't help but think this is what God is still saying to His people.

Shout it aloud, do not hold back.  Raise your voice like a trumpet.

Declare to my people their rebellion and the the house of Jacob their sins.

For day after day they seek me out; they seem eager to know my ways, as if they were a nation that does what is right and has not forsaken the commands of its God.

They ask me for just decisions and seem eager for God to come near them.

"Why have we fasted," they say, "and you have not seen it?  Why have we humbled ourselves and you have not noticed?" 

(can't you just hear the whining?)

Yet on the day of your fasting, you do as you please and exploit all your workers.

Your fasting ends in quarreling and strife, and in striking each other with wicked fists.

You cannot fast as you do today and expect your voice to be heard on high.

Is this the kind of fast I have chosen, only a day for a man to humble himself?

Is it only for bowing one's head like a reed and for lying on sackcloth and ashes?

Is that what you call a fast, a day acceptable to the Lord?

(you tell them, God!  And...err....me...)

Is not THIS the kind of fasting I have chosen:

to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke,

to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?

Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter--

when you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?

Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear;

then your righteousness will go before you,

and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.

Then you will call, and the Lord will answer; you will cry for help and he will say: Here am I.

If you do away with the yoke of oppression,

with the pointing finger and malicious talk,

and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,

then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday.

The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land

and will strengthen your frame.

You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.

-Isaiah 58:1-11

The man

I don't actually know his name.

Though he greets me nearly every morning by name, I'm ashamed to say that I can't remember his.  But I know exactly who he is.  He is the man that every morning- or nearly so- is out front watering, cleaning or doing something outside the building.  He's a resident at Breakthrough, and he treats it as his home, always washing a window or floor.

I don't know his story, either.  I suspect it is similar to the stories of the other men and women that come through our doors.  It's a story in which he is the victim, the perpetrator and every other role in between (just as I have been in my life).  Perhaps he has broken relationships, perhaps he never finished high school- no one else in his family has- perhaps he used to have a steady job before the plant/office/company down-sized.  Or maybe he's floated in and out of different jobs for all of his adult life for a variety of reasons.  He has been wronged by a system that makes him a piece of paper or a number or one left behind, where it is nearly impossible for "someone like him" to succeed.  And frankly, I imagine that sometimes he's tired of trying.  I would be, too, if I had experienced all that he has.

I wish- how I wish!- I could just categorize him in that big lump of "lazy" and blame him for not having a job, or a place of his own or a steady income.  I'm sure that is true of at least some percentage of the urban poor I see on a daily basis.  But God, how I wish it were that simple!  I know that's not the answer, though- it's too simple. Instead, I know that it is "simple" things like supply and demand, bad policies and- yes- evil hearts, that have kept him from getting a job.

The thing is, even if it were that simple- if he was just lazy or an addict or whatever- there would still be more expected of me and my response to him.  I couldn't just tell him to go get a job, even if that were the only problem.  I couldn't just write him off, without a second thought, an invitation in or a crumb (Isaiah 58:7-9).  I couldn't just wish him well and send him on his way, without clothes, without food and without sustenance (James 2:14-17).

I couldn't.  WE can't.

This is not a discussion about policies- though that conversation most definitely needs to be had.  It's not even about who's to blame- though I promise you there is plenty to spread around.

It's about a Man.  A Man who calls me to service outside of myself, my concerns and my needs.  A Man who, for MY sake, became poor (2 Cor. 8:9).  A Man who reminds me that He is happy when I am doing justice to my fellow man and loving mercy (Micah 6:8)- not because it makes me feel good inside, but because in being made like Him, it is in part what I was made for.  It's about a Man who "had compassion" (over and over and over again throughout the Gospels).  On the poor, the orphaned, the widowed.  And on me.

A Man who- because of His life- changed the way that I am to live mine: in service to Him by serving others.  And that is what has made all the difference.

Finally, a "Garden"

There are some real benefits to living in an apartment.

Granted, I can't actually think of them right now, but I'm sure there are some.  Low maintenance costs, maybe?

Unfortunately, outdoor living space is not one of them.  And as much as I've talked about how I would love a garden, our small third floor walk up doesn't really work for a green thumb.

Until now.

These herbs, courtesy of my cousin Allie's wedding (sidenote: herbs make a beautiful centerpiece for reception tables!!) are sitting pretty on the ledge outside our living room window.  Just last night, I cut off two cups worth of basil to make a beautiful pesto and I'm trying to figure out what fun things to do with chocolate mint (it really smells like chocolate!)

It might not be the fresh vegetables I would love to one day grow, but it's a start.  And while we have to thoroughly wash everything since bus and car exhaust from Hyde Park Boulevard does make its way up here, it's definitely a great place for these little herbs to get some sun and some rain.  And that's a start.

It Was Bound to Happen

Tonight we had dinner with friends downtown.  Having driven directly from work, I pulled up on one of the many busy streets of Chicago, did my little pay for parking sticker thing and was on my merry way.  Until, of course, we returned to the car about 2 hours later and saw this.

Ah, yes.  Our first official "Welcome to the City now give us money" letter from the Mayor.  As someone who is quite proud of her sign-reading ability, I'm ashamed to admit that apparently in my rush to park, I had missed the sign (above the pay for parking sign) that told me I couldn't park on the street from 4pm-6pm.

DANG IT!!!!!!

Looking over the ticket, things didn't look good.    $60 price tag.  (Also, sidenote, I noticed that the states of license plates printed on the ticket are "other," which you write in, OR Illinois- duh, Iowa- nearby, Michigan- even closer, Indiana- practically the same place, Ohio- midwest, Wisconsin- cheese is a Chicago favorite, and....TEXAS???   Of all the 44 other states to choose from, you print TEXAS???  What does this say about Texas drivers?  Geez!)  

But then I looked a little bit closer.

Look at that blessed, blessed "other" box.

Do you see it?  Can you make out those letters?  C...A.  CA.  California.  I DO NOT HAVE CALIFORNIA TAGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  (There's no way to mistake that for a D and a C is there?  I mean I'm not going crazy, am I?  Unless the guy was dyslexic?  I know, I don't think so either.)

So as far as I'm concerned- and I am concerned- we're off the hook.  Sure, a tiny, itsy bitsy bit of my conscience thinks, "Well, I should probably still pay the ticket."  Granted, the other 99% is saying "HELL NO" much louder.  I mean, if we don't get a ticket in the mail, we can just chalk it up to "ticketing error" right?  I mean does the city of Chicago REALLY need our $60?  I'm pretty sure the producers of "Transformers III" are contributing enough to cover my little piece...

Multiplying Like Rabbits

We're not.  At least not yet.  If possible, we would like to have lots of kids (4 or maybe more).  But like I said, we're not the ones multiplying like rabbits quite yet.  Check back in a few months.

I'll tell you what's multiplying like rabbits.  The Hyde Park rabbits, that's what.  I kid you not, we saw at least ten rabbits of all shapes and sizes on our walk yesterday.  In the bushes.  In the road (hmmm...someone might want to talk to them about that...) In the grass.  Granted, if I could live in the bushes near this, I probably would, too.

At least rent would be less.

Why should it surprise me that there would be rabbits galore in Hyde Park?  I don't know, maybe it's because CHICAGO IS THE THIRD LARGEST CITY IN AMERICA!  (I mean it's not exactly Mr. McGregor's garden.  Even though the British do now own the formerly-named Sears Tower.)  And yet, here they are.  In all their cute, hippity hoppity splendor.  In the middle of a city.

And I have to say, there's something beautiful about that.  That nature continues to exist in this little corner of Chicago.  One of the things I love most about Chicago, actually, is its green space.  It was designed that way- parks galore.  And I appreciate it.  Trees and grass and beautiful flowers are a much-needed break from pavement, skyscrapers and highways.

Now if only I could find my recipe for braised rabbit.

It's a Good Idea to Check

I am not in love with the health insurance industry.  My "unlove" is for a variety of reasons that I won't go into here (because- let's be honest- you're not reading Hyde Park Heroes to hear me talk about such things)

And so in that strong feeling of "unlove" I always begrudgingly payed the hundreds of dollars in bills (I'm not kidding.  I even considered posting them here) that we received after M or I went to the doctor, even though I thought we would only have to pay the co-pay.  Even though they were just routine check ups, or maybe one test.  But you know.  Loopholes or something.

That was soon to change.  A couple weeks ago, M went to the dermatologist to get some spots on his back checked, but I first called our lovely health insurance provider to make sure it would be covered.  I was promised, and I quote, "you'll only be responsible for the co-pay."  Hallelujah!  Thank you, Jesus!

And then the bill came.  $137.  Scramble to check coverage documents.  Copay = $20.  Not $137.  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!  Hit head and yell not nice words about insurance company.  I had had it with the loopholes.

So, being the proactive, responsible citizen I am who complains when they don't like something, I called up our insurance company.  Punch in policy number.  Punch in birthdate.  Punch in the name of your second cousin's dog.  Forget the name of your second cousin's dog, so start over again.  Finally- FINALLY- a real. human. being.  And then I began, in my sweetest, most sarcastic voice.

Me: "Yes, hello Sally, thanks for talking with me.  I just have to see what is going on with my bills.  Despite your lovely company saying you'll cover everything but the co-pay, I'm still getting bills that are nearly seven times my co-pay.  Or more.  AND I AM DAMN TIRED OF PAYING THEM!!!!!!!!!!!"

Sally: "Just one moment, ma'am.  Let me see what's going on."

(pause.  pause.  click, click.  pause.)

Sally: "Oh!  I see what's going on!  You're getting billed by the doctor AND the hospital facilities where you're being treated.  Are the offices of your doctors in a university hospital or something?"

Me: "Well, seeing as how on my insurance statements- that, I'll remind you, your company produces- clearly identify it as 'The University of Chicago Medical Center' I'm going to go with YES."

Sally: "Oh, well then we need to adjust your claims.  I'll do that now."

Me: "Adjust them up?  Or down?  Or to the left or right?"

Sally: "Oh, down, ma'am.  You've been paying far too much."

silence.

Me: "I'm sorry, can you say that again?  Did you, the insurance company, just say I'm..I'm...paying...too MUCH?  Are you joking?"

Sally: "No, ma'am.  I'm not kidding.  And I'm sorry you've been paying these extra costs.  Wow, it looks like we're talking about around $500, aren't we?"

Me: "Holy freaking cow.  You're going to send me $500!?!"

Sally: "Well, no.  But the hospital will be refunding you shortly, I'm sure."

Me: "I LOVE YOU!  I LOVE YOU!  I'M GETTING BACK $500, I'M GETTING BACK $500!!!"

Now, granted, the hospital hasn't actually sent our refund back just yet. (I'm calling- again- tomorrow.)  And the insurance company said there was no way to make sure this didn't happen again, except to call them each time we go to the doctor.  But yeah. 

It's a good idea to check.

 

"

An Unexpected Joy

An unexpected phone call last Wednesday morning led M and I to turn around (we had both just arrived at work) get the oil changed in our car and head south.  Tuesday evening M lost his childhood best friend; we didn't yet know when the funeral would be but- even though they hadn't talked since high school- M knew we needed to be there.  So we just picked up and left.

We drove over 1,000 miles down to Florida, spending the night in Nashville, then again with Mason's parents in Alabama, finally arriving into Pensacola on Friday morning.  By some gracious gift of God (I really believe that's what it was) my immediate family and some of my extended family were on their annual trip to Destin and M and I were able to spend a few hours with them, before mentally and emotionally preparing ourselves for Saturday morning's funeral (the visitation on Friday was just too much to handle we decided).

But what we found at the funeral wasn't what had been expected.  In high school, M's friend had gotten involved with the wrong crowd, the wrong things.  And we didn't have much hope for a happy ending.  So when the crowds pushed in (and there really was a crowd) and the family walked in, my eyes began to tear up.

But then someone began to speak.  Rather than hearing a story of despair, fast lives and fast cars, we heard something else.  We heard about a life that had been transformed, some four years ago.  Through the funeral preacher- and the friend's notes in his Bible- we got to see inside the very private, spiritual musings of a young man whose life had changed.  We heard of a man who had discovered who he truly was and what he was made for; and who wanted to tell others about what he himself had realized.  We listened to the story of a man who found peace, with himself and with the world.

And at that point, my tears stopped.  Suddenly this wasn't just another "sad story" of a "good kid gone bad." It was yet another amazing story- an incredible reminder- of redemption.  Tragic, yes, and to be mourned, for sure.  And yet...there was something more there.  A peace that was so much bigger than the casket in front of us.  Almost as if, even in death, the friend was not defeated.  It was a simple reminder that lessened, even if just a little, the sting of death and loss.

And in that moment, there was an unexpected joy.

Yes, I said pineapple

One of the great things about summer is that M doesn't have to study every evening.  Not only does this mean that we can go work out together (it's so much easier when someone else is expecting you to do it) but it also means that M cooks dinner quite a bit. 

Anyone who knows anything about M knows that he's a great cook.  I would even venture to say that he might be better than me (and- yes, I'm bragging- I'm pretty darn good).  He's much more creative and willing to try things until he gets them right, making up his own proportions and such.  And 9.5 times out of 10, he gets it spot on the first time.  How did I get so lucky??!  Did I also mention that he's brilliant, humble, wise, calm, quick-witted, athletic, a true leader and super attractive, inside and out?  Because he is.  Just saying.

So anyway, since he's not studying a million hours a day (I am not exaggerating), he's been cooking quite a bit.  So when he offered to make dinner the night I had planned to make lasagna, I couldn't refuse.

And, dear Jesus, it might have been the best lasagna I've ever had.  It had the perfect proportion of sauce, cheese, spinach and noodle and he added a tiny bit of pepperoni to give us a little bit of protein.  But the best part?  The best part was...the pineapple.  Sprinkled on the top, with a coating of mozzarella on top of that, I could have probably licked the pan clean it was so good.

I don't know why it never dawned on me to add pineapple to lasagna.  I love it on pizza, which is basically the exact same ingredients, but I never thought about it outside of the confines of deep dish or thin crust.  But seriously.  Do yourself a favor and try it.  If you like pineapple on pizza, you'll like it on lasagna.  I guarantee it. 

Just Call Me Nadal

M and I have been playing tennis together for over three years now.  And by playing tennis, I mean that he hits the ball very softly towards me and I still sometimes miss it.  I admit it.  Tennis isn't my best game.  But I love playing it, love being outside and am glad it makes him happy to play, too.

And I'm getting better!  He's started doing his little spin ball move on me and he legitimately has to run after quite a few of my shots (I'm learning ball placement.  Finally.)  Granted, I'm the one doing the most running, but hey, I need the exercise.

With a forecast of partly sunny and 85, M and I headed out to the University tennis courts again today, having been shut down yesterday when they were all full.  Despite no room yesterday, we were able to play in our own little cage today so I didn't have to worry about hitting other people with our balls (I have no idea what this layout is called, but there are two courts in each "cage," ie, there was no one on the other court).  

And then, about five games in, the clouds parted, a bright ray of sun appeared on me and...I WON A GAME AGAINST M FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I don't remember what the score of the game was, but what matters is that I BEAT HIS ARSE.  WAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!  Rafael Nadal, watch out.  This Hyde Park Hero is comin' to get ya.

(Now is probably the point where I should mention that M then went on to beat me soundly for the rest of the day.)

Michael W. Smith might just be right

M and I just returned from a (slightly extended, due to complete failure by Delta) trip back to DC for our friend Brittany's wedding.  It was a wonderful time to catch up with friends, spend some time relaxing and not, well, really do anything (minus the whole wedding coordinating part.  Minor detail.)

We are cute!  And bright!

And when we finally touched down last night, I thought to myself that- as much as I hate to admit it- Michael W. Smith might just be right.  Friends are friends forever, if the Lord's the Lord of them... (everybody now!)  The ladies and gentlemen we spent our weekend with are people that we haven't seen- in some cases- in nearly a year and, in other cases, in a few months.  And yet-- these are still mostly the people (outside of our families) who know us the best, who love us the most and who we hope to continue to foster friendships with for years and years to come.  

And then something else hit me: this group, this community, is truly a gift.  It's not just about having fun (though I think riding around with his friend in the cop car might have been one of the highlights of M's time in DC)...it's about rejoicing together, weeping together and ultimately sharing life together.

Of all the things I miss about DC, I can honestly say that this community I'm describing is what I miss the most.  Don't get me wrong, we have a fledgling little community here in Chicago- but man, oh man, I don't know if I ever realized how great I had it.  And yet, more than ever before, I also realize how important it is; to have people there when you're hurting, there when you're rejoicing, to spur you on towards love and good deeds and sometimes say those hard words to you.  At the heart of it, I believe this is what we were created for ("No man is an island" ring a bell?)  I believe that deep- and often suppressed- inside all of us is a desire to be a part of something bigger than ourselves, to be loved and encouraged, to mean something to others and to have others who mean something to you.   

I am so, so thankful for these friends and the others (college roommates, amazing Florida friends, pastors who love us) who are important actors in our lives and who- we hope- will continue to provide this important thing called community moving forward.  

This doesn't mean I'm now a Michael W. Smith fan.

Bright Lights, Big City

I've just this week realized something about Chicago.

It's a BIG CITY.

Don't get me wrong, I've known all along that it's bigger than DC, even bigger than Houston.  And certainly bigger than any other Midwest city- not that I really know or care about many of those.

But, gosh darn it, Chicago is a big city.  This week, as I've driven M downtown for his internship (side note: his office- an intern has an office??- has two large windows that look out over the Carbide and Carbon building and this cool, wavy new condo building) I've been struck by the number of people.  They're everywhere.  On the roads, on the trains, in the cars, in the taxis.  Maybe it's because East Garfield Park isn't exactly overflowing with people and Hyde Park is more college town (nerdy college town, but college town nonetheless) than downtown.  But I've just really been struck by the thousands and thousands of individuals walking to and from work, up and down Michigan Avenue and circling the city on the L.

While DC will probably always take the prize for "most fanny-packed tourists per capita" Chicago is overflowing with tourists all its own.  From places like Small Town, Iowa and Middle of Nowhere, Indiana, Chicago is- for so many people- the epitome of the Big City.  I don't know for sure what it represents, but I think it might be a bittersweet mix of industrial development, capitalism and Americana.  It's midwestern enough that these tourists don't feel too out of place and yet different enough that a trip here can feel like a trip to a somewhat foreign locale.  There is something familiar and yet so completely unknown that it's exciting and daunting all at the same time.

And it is finally now- in this now 10 month adventure in Chicago- that M and I realize how much we love the city.  Not necessarily the specific city of Chicago, but just the grander idea of the city.  In the city, you can't help but rub shoulders with people who are altogether different.  You can't beat the cultural and artistic opportunities it affords.  The city is always thriving and teaming with life; yes, sometimes quite heart-breaking and oftentimes depressing, but thriving nonetheless.  Deep inside of us there is a desire to continue to live out life in a place like this, where traffic will most likely drive me to the point of insanity and we will never be able to afford a house the size of the ones we grew up in.  Which we most likely don't need anyway.  

And yet under these bright lights and in a Big City, we will choose to live our life.  And just like the draw those fanny-packed tourists feel, this experience- so familiar and yet so unknown- will no doubt continue to be both exciting and daunting at the same time. 

We Are the World

I readily admit that when it comes to world geography, I'm a bit of a snob.  Chalk it up to being a History and Political Science major, where I had to learn all the countries (and capitals) of Europe, North and South America and Africa (interestingly, my worst geography is still Asia).  Or maybe it's that I've been fortunate to travel the world relatively extensively.  Or maybe it's that I worked in international economic development.  Whatever it is, I also admit that I'm embarrassed by the lack of knowledge of world geography for most Americans.

As we've been watching the World Cup this weekend, I can't help but think that most Americans had never heard of Cameroon or Cote d'Ivoire before today.  And most probably don't know that Slovenia is different than Slovakia, which is different from Serbia.  Yugoslavia?  Yeah, it's no longer a country.  Neither is Czechoslovakia.  And Austria doesn't have a coast.

But why does it really matter?  What do these little boundaries mean anyway?  We're America!  That's what matters!  (Never mind the fact that Americans would riot if someone accidentally referred to us as Canada or Mexico.)  Knowing geography matters because people matter.  People around the globe matter.  And just as the people of Canada (few that they are) have different traditions and a different history than America, the people of Slovenia have a very different history and traditions from Serbia.  I'll never forget reading Robert Kaplan's book Balkan Ghosts.  Kaplan suggested that if his readers wanted to understand the political, religious and social turbulence of the Middle East, they should look to the area formerly known as Yugoslavia.  In essence, he summed up why I think history and geography are important: if you want to understand what's going on in the world, you need to understand its intricate past and its geopolitical present.

Now who knows where Lesotho is?

Why I now love hockey

Like 98% of the residents of Chicago, last night M and I watched the Blackhawks take on the Philadelphia Phlyers (ok, it's Flyers, but shouldn't it be with a PH?  I agree.)  I have to admit, I think it was the first time that I actually watched an NHL hockey game.  I vaguely remember going to a game of the Houston Aeros- yes, that's how it's spelled-with my dad when I was younger, but they're a part of the AHL- American Hockey League- and they play in Houston, Texas so they don't count.

And now I'm going to say something that will most likely make EVERY diehard hockey fan squirm.  I submit that hockey is a truly, truly beautiful sport.  I know, I know.  Blood, teeth everywhere, fighting, hitting.  Big men covered in pads running into each other.  Men throwing themselves over the walls of their little team box thingy.  (technical term)

All that aside, I can't get over the beauty of the skating.  Even when the men playing look more like Transformers than humans, it's amazing how the players glide down the rink (?) so effortlessly (and slam against the plexi-glass so effortlessly, too).  And even when they're punching each other, it's in such a fluid, graceful movement.

And really, could anything be more beautiful than this?

Congrats to the newest holders of the Stanley Cup, the Chicago Blackhawks!

My own little war zone

(Before I write ANYTHING I want to clarify that I am not actually comparing my story below to a real war zone. Also, I saw Vince Vaughn today at lunch and had to tell someone.)

After a weekend of not using the car at all (it was parked in Egypt because our famous neighbors were in town and our street was shut down) I got into the car this morning and realized that I was pretty much on empty. Not really wanting to fill up at the local BP that will run you $3.19 a gallon, I got about $5 worth of gas and then headed to work.

After lunch, I mentioned to my co-worker S (actually, that's confusing because there are 3 "S" names upstairs. Not kidding. Out of, like, 10) that I was going to go get some gas. She told me about a gas station in the neighborhood where I work that I had never seen before, where the gas is ridiculously cheap. She warned me "it's always crazy" but I didn't think much of it.

Then, I pulled into my own little war zone on the corner of California and Fulton. Never in my life have I seen so many cars going for so few pumps. Of course at a price of $2.81 (I think that was right), what do you expect? It was literally, crazy anarchy (this is why I think government/rule of law is a good thing!) I cringed MULTIPLE TIMES as cars came thisclose to hitting me. And then there was the dude with the thumping, loud music, and the lady who decided to take half an hour to figure out how to use the gas pump. (I'm thinking if you haven't learned by now, don't even try.)

I wanted to flick people off. I wanted to yell at these stupid people. And then I started thinking...it's funny the way people behave when going for what they consider to be "theirs," myself included. You could just see the tempers rising, and people starting to lose their cool. Maneuvering in and out was a mess and I am truly shocked, SHOCKED that someone didn't pull a gun by the time I left. Not that that's the way to fix a situation, but that's the way it rolls a lot of times in my hood.

And then I started thinking a lot about the violence in East Garfield Park. At one point this year, more people had died in Chicago due to violence than in Afghanistan and Iraq combined. What is it that makes us think it's ok to take life (whether by literal death or chewing out or demeaning, or destroying) for something? Is the gas, or your honor, or that piece of candy, or those extra profits really worth the value of a human life? What kind of culture do we live in when self, profit and property come before respect for one another? It's not a white thing or a black thing, or a poor thing or a rich thing, because it manifests itself across all racial, economic and social divides. It's a human condition thing. Why do you we feel so threatened by anyone taking what's "ours"?

And then I can't help but think of this guy I've studied. He said that when someone asks for a tunic, you give him the one off your back. When someone asks you to go one mile, you go two. The reality is that there's no room for selfishness in living out this call. There's no way you can think of yourself before your neighbors. Because, in fact, this Guy said there were two basic rules we were to live by: loving His Father and loving others.

What would our own little war zones look like if we truly lived like this?

I think this is my upstairs neighbor

PLEASE, PLEASE STOP JUMPING OR THUMPING OR WHATEVER IT IS THAT YOU'RE DOING.

Thanks.

Our Newest Challenge

We can't claim the name Hyde Park HEROES if we don't awesomely take on challenges, right? RIGHT! So our newest self-inflicted challenge? Living on a budget.

I know, I've written about budgets before. Multiple times, actually. But now we're taking it to a whole new level. Not just "track what you spend" but "take out only a certain amount of cash every 2 weeks and only use that." And yes, there's this stuff called "cash" and "coins" that are not made out of plastic, are considered legal tender and have pictures of dead white guys on them. It's the wave of the future, I tell ya! Who comes up with this stuff?!

So the plan now is to see how well we can do with this set amount of cash. It means actually thinking before plopping down a couple hundred for new clothes (actually, I can't remember the last time I did that) or having multiple dinners out. And we're not doing this because we're dangerously in debt or because we think credit cards are completely evil- though they're most definitely NOT your friends. We're doing it because, as I've said before, we believe that how we spend our money matters. Consciously choosing to take only a certain amount out and using only that means thinking more seriously about where it's going. It means building in, even if just for another second or two, a pause and a reflection. "Is this what I want to spend my money on? How does it reflect what I support and believe?"

It's most certainly not going to be easy. It's not a lot of money. And I do quite enjoy spending money on non-necessities (this is not to say we are cutting all non-necessities, but we will be spending less on them). It's a challenge that we believe will make us live more responsibly and will make us better stewards of what's entrusted to us. Let's see what happens.

Nine Months Later

June 5th will mark my 9 month anniversary at Breakthrough. And as I’ve written before, it’s hard to imagine that in this transition to Chicago, the Lord would make clear to me His plans to involve me in the work He is doing in urban America. I am more certain of this calling than ever before, though I can only dream of how it will manifest itself in the months and years to come.

At some point, if you’re a thinking, feeling human being, you get to the point where questions of inequality, faith, power, racial justice and mercy begin to haunt your waking and your sleeping. Why is it like this? And, maybe even more importantly, What am I called to do about it? Government programs or pulling one’s self up by one’s own boot straps or just trying harder or sending more money…God, how I wish the answers were that easy!

I can’t help but think that the Lord is deeply, deeply saddened by His children’s unwillingness- or maybe just oblivion- to His very clear calling to love our neighbors as ourselves. He has asked- commanded, really- us to love the “least of these,” not because they are a project to be fixed but because, in serving others, we reflect the grace and mercy of Christ and, in turn, learn something more about who God is. In the process, He transforms us, too, as we’re all in need of a Savior. I am certain God is encouraged by the mentors, the foster parents, the people praying, the tutors, the people sharing meals with their neighbors who don't look like them. But how many of us does that really, truly include? What would it look like in our every day lives to live out God’s calling to love our cities? Would we pray more? Would we give more? Would we serve more?

Maybe we don’t “do” because we don’t know exactly what to do. Maybe we’re uncomfortable leaving our safely-guarded homes, or we don’t feel like we have anything to give. Or maybe we want to fix things, but don’t know what the answer is, so don’t want to try. Or maybe we’re so consumed with ourselves that we don’t see anything outside of us. Or maybe we have our own misconceptions to get over.

I wish I could tell you what the answer is. I wish that right here on Hyde Park Heroes I could say “do xxx and poverty will decrease, racial injustices will stop, and we’ll all live as one big happy family.” The reality is that this side of heaven, I don’t actually believe it’s possible. And yet…we’re still called to do something. I can't tell you exactly what that something is. Realistically, it will look different for each of us. Some will feel called to vocationally serve, as I do. Some will be called to give. Some will be called to volunteer. The point is that inaction is not acceptable.

I would suggest you start here: down on your knees, asking God how you might love as He loved, serve as He served. Pray that He would be at work and use you in that work. Search the Scriptures to know and believe what God is saying. Read books about this work (I list a few suggestions below). Seek out people who are doing this good work. Step out in faith. Oblivion is no longer an excuse.

I long for the day when there is a holy city, where there is no more weeping, no more pain and no more injustice. It’s not going to be here, and to believe that it can be is foolishness, as long as people are imperfect. And yet every day Christians around the world pray that thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.

What would it look like for you to be a part of God’s kingdom coming in urban America?

Book Suggestions

"Truth and Social Reform" (Vishal Mangalwadi)

"When Helping Hurts" (Steve Corbett & Brian Fikkert)

"Theirs is the Kingdom" (Bob Lupton)

many, many more!

They're Not Mine

When I was little, I used to travel with my mom to a women's Bible study called BSF (Bible Study Fellowship, I think.) I don't remember exactly where it was, but I do remember the fun things my friend Rachel, Dan and I used to do while our moms studied the word; things like tracing our bodies on big, white butcher paper and making fun kids crafts. I don't remember much about what we learned or even (beyond the butcher paper) what we did. But I know that the Lord was present, that we were learning and that we- at a very early age- were a part of a community of believers.

If I don't remember what we, the kids, did, I certainly have no clue what our moms did. But before I left for India in the summer of 2004, my mom shared with me one of the things she was told one of the first times she attended BSF.

Her leader challenged the class- mostly young moms- to pray that the Lord would remind them that their children were not theirs. Are you kidding me? my mom thought. This is my baby, my little girl. MINE.

And yet, even with those feelings deep in her heart, I think my mom began to pray that she would believe in the Lord's goodness and faithfulness. That she would remember that- above all else- I was the Lord's, not hers. That she would do me harm if she kept me from doing all that the Lord would call me to in order to protect me or, worse yet, keep me for herself.

And so, in 2004, probably with deep worry (that she bravely did not show me) my mom and dad let me go off to India for six months pretty much by myself. It is because she knew that this was what the Lord was calling me to that she was able to let go. It was probably this same spirit that led my parents, again, to let me go off to DC without a job, without too many friends and without a place to live. It is again, this conviction, that strengthens them when I tell them about the shooting that happened around the corner from my workplace, or M and my deep desire to live a messy, urban life in a "dangerous city."

The greatest gift my parents ever gave me was to trust in the faithfulness of the Lord and His good plans for my life. They could have orchestrated it (or continued to pay for it :) They could have demanded alarm systems, "safe places" and living down the street from them in their safe suburban neighborhood. They could have held on tightly, even as the Lord said "No, she is mine."

I hope one day, when M and I have children, that I can draw upon the example of my mother as I, too, learn that even as I birth and bring up these children, they are not mine. That the greatest gift I can give them isn't to protect them or hold too tightly to them, but, rather, with assuredness to say "they are Yours."

Happy Mother's Day.

In European News...

In case you bought into the bit that all Brits are stodgy, I point you to this.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Official_Monster_Raving_Loony_Party

Oh yes, the Raving Loony Party. I think the States might have a few politicians who are unofficial members of that party, too...

Something BIG

On Saturday, May 15th, I'll spend my day with about a thousand other Chi-towners out in the neighborhood of East Garfield Park. Why? For this.

When I Grow Up from Breakthrough Urban Ministries on Vimeo.

Friends, family and neighbors will gather to officially kick off our Breakthrough Dream BIG campaign, as we work to create a place where families can come together in community and where community can come together as family.

It is, in fact, a BIG dream. In East Garfield Park, less than 40% of all youth graduate from high school. It's easier to become a drug dealer than a doctor. There's disinvestment, empty lots and hurting hearts.

And yet.

Nearly 100 kids arrive at the door of Breakthrough after every school day ready to- wait for it- learn more. Men and women in the interim-housing program open the Word together and study what it has to say. Every month, nearly 800 families in the East Garfield Park neighborhood alone take part in Breakthrough's "client choice" Fresh Market.

God is at work here.

And that's why I believe in this BIG dream. Raising 15 million in a shaky economy isn't easy or- to be honest- fun. But then, when you're certain that the Lord is in something, what's easy and fun don't exactly matter. Because the truth is that God is BIG. And He promises us that He will accomplish His good works, when we submit to His leading.

Don't misunderstand. Plenty of youth have and will slip through the cracks and end up pregnant, alone or bouncing from house to house. Men and women will leave the interim-housing program, only to find themselves homeless and jobless again a year, or two, or three later. I don't pretend to begin to understand why exactly this is: I think it's a mix of broken systems, broken individuals, broken programs and a broken understanding of what it means to love our neighbors as ourselves.

And yet.

We're still called to Dream BIG. To work- FIGHT, even- for the things of the Lord: love, redemption, community, justice, peace and transformation. I am so blessed to be a part of an organization that fights for these things.

So I challenge you to Dream BIG with me. To believe in a God who accomplishes great things. Who has something to say to us about how to love our neighbor. Who cares about poverty, disinvestment and justice. Who longs for His children to be in a place of deep love and knowledge of Him. Who is doing BIG things here in East Garfield Park.

To learn more about the Dream BIG campaign, visit www.breakthrough.org/dreambig

Not for the Faint of Heart

Or stomach, for that matter.

At the corner of Elizabeth and Lake Streets in the West Loop, you'll find Peoria Packing, my newest love. We originally found it back in February when we were showing a friend around the city. And after that one trip...I was hooked.

If you know anything about Chicago- or Upton Sinclair- you know of the city's (in)famous love of, well, meat (and casseroles. It is the midwest, after all). Lake Street is Exhibit A. Meat packing store after meat packing store, which really means giant walk-in refrigerators with literally EVERY PART OF THE ANIMAL that you can imagine. Need a pig head? It's here (you can thank me for not posting that picture). How about an ox tail? Yep. And the most ridiculously large rack of ribs? It's here, too.

And here's the best part. The meat is CHEAP. For instance, I got a huge pot roast, 3 full chicken breasts (which is equal to six separate chicken breasts-that I broke down myself, thank you very much) four thick-cut pork chops and a bunch of ground beef, all for $32. THIRTY TWO DOLLARS. Now, I'm thinkin' this meat ain't organic (which I really would prefer if, say, we had more disposable income) but for what you get, it can't be beat.

So I spent my Saturday afternoon doing a little meat packing of myself, breaking down my chickens, packing and freezing the meat and then making half of the huge pot roast, just as so many midwesterners have done before me. Now I just need to find a good ground beef casserole recipe...

They've Probably Got Something for That

Last night, M and I ventured once again to Chinatown. And let me here pause and rail against the Chinatown of DC. DC, you know I love ya. But really? Writing "Starbucks" in Chinese does NOT a Chinatown make. Or Urban Outfitters for that matter. And certainly not Ann Taylor Loft.

The thing about Chicago's Chinatown that is so thrilling is that one, it actually appears (to someone who has never been to China) to be somewhat authentic to at least a small piece of daily life in China (minus the millions of people, but, whatev.) Secondly, nearly every other store is some sort of weird "pickled or dried stuff in a jar" sort of store. Doesn't that just make it feel more real? I submit that it does.

And so, of course, we went into a few of the stores. And we saw items such as this.

Those are dragon balls. Giggle, giggle.

Sorry, I can't help it.

But. Wouldn't you think they would be...

Ahem.

Anyway.

These, according to the looked-slightly-out-of-it-but-probably-a-very-nice woman, are good for weight loss. Thanks for pointing that out, ma'am. In fact, she said, this tea squeezes the fat out of you. Well in that case, please, give me a couple pounds of this magical treatment. Only problem...one ounce of this stuff costs $7.50. For those of you who aren't math majors, that's a whopping $120 per pound. Um....one ounce will suffice, thanks. I'll ration.

The crazy part is that these beautiful balls (sorry, I'm still giggling) aren't even close to the weirdest or most expensive things in the store. There were, of course, dried shark fins that cost over $400 a pound. And according to the internets, shark fins do all sorts of things from lowering your cholesterol, to making you happier to giving you mercury poisoning. Fun stuff! And there was ginseng everywhere, which is good for, well, I'll let Wikipedia tell you (and why did they have so much of this stuff?!). Or maybe you would be interested in the dried oysters or scallops, and their, shall we say, pungent aroma. Then there were the HUGE mushrooms- I'm not kidding when I say they were at least a foot in diameter- or the whale flipper in the glass case. God only knows what else was in that crazy store. (Because many of the signs were only written in Chinese, and I'm assuming God knows Chinese, so He would know.)

But my favorite? Oh my favorite. By far. And crap, why didn't I get a picture of it?

Sea cucumber.

I will spare you the details of what this lovely little thing looks like (because seriously, it's worse than the Washington Monument). But, like ginseng, these bad boys were everywhere. And coming in at about $50 a pound for the small, dried ones, quite a good buy. Apparently sea cucumbers are not only a delicacy in some Mediterranean countries, it's also good for lowering high blood pressure, treating disorders of the kidneys and reproductive organs, reducing arthritis pain, possibly HIV therapy and a whole host of other things. It's a miracle underwater plant/animal thingy, people! A miracle drug! Patent it now!

So whatever ails you, it's good to know that Chinatown is the place to go. (That should be their public television ad!) Because, let's face it, our medicine might as well be made in China.

Everything else already is.