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...