Love Thy Neighbor

You may have heard about Rosenberg in the news lately. In fact, you may have heard about the very street I live on. If you have, its probably because a man that lives down the street from me is under suspicion for killing his wife and mother-in-law in her home, just a few streets away from my home.

Is it safe for me to write about this on a blog? Or even legal? I mean, its not like I know any information. Anyways, the point is that the police have been on my street, searching a man's house for evidence of murder. The man hasn't been around, and as far as I know, he hasn't been found. I know I should probably be afraid, but I'm not. What does that mean?

Its so terrible. They have children. I'm not sure how old the kids are, but I am sure that it doesn't matter. I don't know what else to say about the situation.

Well, there is this: I've been contemplating the old adage "love thy neighbor" quite a bit. I think, "Its difficult to conceive of loving someone despite an act like this." So then I start thinking about the times that I've visited prisons with Seekers, and I remember how deeply I felt for the inmates. Their guilt was visible, from their IDs to their jump suits, as was their shame. And as we all stood under the same roof to praise God, I thought, "What really makes me any different from these men? Aren't we all made the same way?" When we lined up at the door to shake their hands, many of them hesitated to make eye contact, and they let their handshakes go limp. There was no confidence there, no pride. They were stripped. It made me hurt for them. I know that criminals must be served justice, and that they have stripped innocent people of their pride, confidence, and in many cases, much more. But I struggle with revenge v. justice. Where do you make the distinction? I just don't know... but that's for a different entry. Still, I wanted them to know that I saw a different future for them, one where they are not convicts forever labeled as guilty. They are my neighbors, and I want to love them the way Jesus loves them.

But I am not Jesus (surprise, surprise). And I am finding that it is more difficult to conceive of loving my neighbor when he is truly my neighbor. I just can't stop thinking about those children.

I would title this "Diverse City..."

... if only Toby Mac had not taken that title back in the day. Yes, I know who Toby Mac is. I'm cool like that. And if you know who he is, well... you're cool, too!

After moving in with my dad and stepmom in lovely (maybe?) Rosenberg, Texas, I've found myself as scattered as ever. All of my stuff is finally in one place again, but I feel more unsettled than ever. After four and one-half years in college, I definitely did not imagine myself "striking out on my own..." back in with my parents?! Hold it. That is not the dream. No, no, no. The dream is graduate, score the dream job, secure the trendy loft apartment at a criminal-low price, buy the new car, and start the first day at said job to an overwhelming welcome of applause from the general public (who lined up to greet me at the doorway, obviously).

Hmm... not so much. Although I have been blessed to fulfill one part of the dream. My dad helped me to buy a new car. Thank you, Dad.

Other than that, I'm pretty much doing the same thing I did in Abilene. I'm working at American Eagle and looking for a teaching job (still, to no avail). And looking for sources of inspiration to keep my mind from degenerating into a pile of goo now that I don't have classes to stimulate my thinking. Oh, how I miss my English classes! It turns out that I really am a nerd.

Today I had an experience in diversity that really got me thinking. I worked the register for six straight hours today. That is a lot of talking. "Hi How are you Do you have an AE All Access Pass Would you like to sign up for one No Okay that's fine Will this be all Do you need a gift receipt Thank you Have a good Christmas!" As "diverse" as some people tried to make Abilene out to be, it has nothing on Houston, a fact that I've been smacked by over the last few days at AE. I enjoy diversity. In fact, I sometimes crave it. I get so bored when everyone listens to the same music as I do or uses the same colloquialisms as me. Still, I am human, and like most humans, I settle quite comfortably into homogeney. But today, diversity was hard. A woman came to the register and asked me to search for her in our customer database. She had a very thick Indian accent. That, coupled with the high volume of the rockin tunes (heh) and my manager's voice yammering in my headset ("Everyone be sure to greet all the customers!! Tell them about the promos! We need to get our conversion up! Other managerial phrases!!"), made it difficult to understand her. She gave me her last name (twice before we resorted to spelling it out: "I'm sorry, was that a "P?"), then her first name (three times), her address (I lost count), and her zip code (numbers are easier, thank God). We were both frustrated to say the least. I cannot speak for her, but I feel confident in saying that we both wanted to give up. "Who cares? So you (I) don't get the points for your (my) purchase? At least we'll stop screaming letters at each other."

I've realized something--it is at this point that me must committ to plow through. Diversity is worth it, even if it is hard.

An explanation of "ubuntu"

In my previous blog, I referred to this philosophy called "ubuntu" without properly explaining it. Please allow me to do so briefly. Lately, I've become deeply interested in South Africa--and no, not just because "Invictus" just came out (although I did really enjoy that movie!). It is an African concept that basically says, "I can't be human without you." Desmond Tutu explains, "We think of ourselves far too frequently as just individuals, separated from one another, whereas you are connected and what you do affects the whole world. When you do well, it spreads out; it is for the whole of humanity." This speaks so much about the complexities of human relationships and so much about how God asks us to treat one another. That is what I want to explore in my writing. You, me, they, we, us--interconnectedness.

Shout out to Ben Berry--thanks for cluing (I can't believe that is the correct way to spell that word!) me in.

Meditations in a Crisis (well, not quite)

I was driving home from dinner with my dear friend Arielle last week when I was rudely reminded of something I had forgotten. At the corner of Judge Ely and Ambler, I got into a minor accident when I rear-ended the car in front me. Bummer. I followed the car until it pulled over on the side of the road, parked behind it, and switched on my hazard lights. A girl stepped out of the car. At that moment, "the car" ceased to represent an obstacle in my drive home and came to represent a life. I had forgotten about the lives in the other cars.

Before you freak out and call the DPS, demanding that my license be revoked, let me explain myself. I don't mean that I had forgotten that other people are in those other cars that fill the road beside me. I haven't been swerving and sliding down the roads, like an unstoppable moron with complete disregard for the physical lives of other drivers. I am well-aware that these other cars are not operated by robots. What I do mean is that I had forgotten about the life my fellow driver lives. While we were on the road, totally disconnected from each other by barriers of white stripes, stop signs, break lights, and steel frames, we were not aware of each others lives. I forgot she had plans for that night, just like me, and that they were disrupted by the night's unfortunate events. I forgot that she was listening to music that probably was not the same as the music I was listening to, and that she was phoning friends who I had probably never met while she sat in her car, waiting for the cop to arrive, just like me.

In short, I knew she had a life, but I didn't think about it being lived. I've been so wrapped up in myself, worried about, "Am I going to find a job? Where am I going to live?" and on it goes . . . I have forgotten the very thing that drives me as an educator, a friend, a daughter, and a Christian--my life is not about me. Just like George Eliot wrote, there is a roar on the other side of silence that is someone else's life, and I've gone deaf to it.

When the cop came along, I was written a ticket, obviously. But so was she. Her tags were expired. In that instant, I was reminded of "ubuntu." My actions had affected her life, and not in a positive way. I know I am not guilty for her tags being expired, but the fact still remains.

How deeply--and sometimes, shallowly--are we all connected. And how easily do we forget it.