Counter urban. . .refreshment

The gift of children, a gift to a child

All who work among adults would do well to remember this truth, both for the sake of the children and the adults.

"If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder, he needs the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement, and mystery of the world we live in."

--Rachel Carson

Thin Places

Maybe you've experienced one.

You find yourself in place that seems to "connect" with other realities, either in your past or possibly a sense of what might be ahead for you. 

Some refer to these extraordinary experiences or realities "thin places," those locations or dimensions that touch the "other side" of life, allowing you to sense something at work beyond your control but important for your life.

I moved up against such a "thin place" recently while visiting with homeless friends at The Corner (Malcolm X and Dawson where I pass out ice water almost every Thursday).

Two gentlemen approached, each taking a bottle of water.  We chatted for a bit, talking about the day, the project across the street and life.  One of the men, Eric, said something that told me he was not originally from Dallas.  When I asked about  his home, he told me that he was from Shreveport, Louisiana.  I shared that I had lived in Shreveport for two years and forty-five minutes!  The back story on that comment will need to wait for another post!

I took a seat on the porch of Billy's old, abandoned house.  My new friend from Shreveport sat on the steps just above the sidewalk.  We both enjoyed the shade.

After a few minutes, I took a chance and asked a pretty far-fetched question.

"Did you ever know a guy in Shreveport named Wayne Nelson?" I asked.

A little background.  Now, I first met Wayne when he was 10-years-old.  I was a very young minister working at a church in the heart of the city located between a very rich, old neighborhood and a very poor historic community. 

Wayne lived with his grandmother  across the street from my church in one of the row houses that had degenerated into a slum block, owned by a slum lord. 

The day we met Wayne was outside the church attempting to get a drink of water from a fountain that hadn't worked in years.  When I happened to walk out of the church, Wayne jumped on his bike and flew away!  I shouted for him to come back, and he did. 

"Come inside.  We have a ice cold drinking fountain," I told him.  [What is it about water and this very 'thin place'?]  We went inside, Wayne got a long drink of cold water and our friendship began!

Wayne became the first African American guest in our declining church, maybe the first ever.  But that gets into the back story that will have to wait for another day. 

He visited with me after school most afternoons.  He came to our house for meals and play and fun. 

By the time we moved to New Orleans, Wayne had turned 12.  He really wanted to move with us.  I've often wondered what might have happened had we worked that out with his granny. 

Wayne seemed developmentally challenged.  He was not as far along as other children his age.  I really loved the kid, and he loved me. But, I haven't heard from him in years.

Fast forward to the corner and back to my crazy question to my new friend, Eric. 

"Did you ever know a guy in Shreveport named Wayne Nelson?"

"Black guy?" Eric asked thoughtfully.

"Yes," I replied.

"Crazy Wayne?" he exclaimed.  "Everybody knows Crazy Wayne!" exclaimed.

"What do you mean by 'crazy,'" I pressed.

"You know, kinda slow," he explained.

"Yes, that sounds like it could be him," I said.

"Man, I stayed there by Wayne," he told me.

"You mean you lived in the row of houses across the street from the church?" I asked with growing wonder.

"Yes, right there off of Southern Avenue," he explained.

"My church was on Southern Avenue!" by now almost shouting at Eric!

"Wayne's doing good these days.  He lives out by my sister," he told me.

"Was he a skinny guy?" Eric asked

"A rail," I replied.

"Yep, that's him.  He was always skinny, skinny, but now he's fat!" he explained through a mounting laugh.

"Eric, do you know the odds that we would meet on this corner almost 40 years after I met Wayne Nelson and have this conversation?" I asked him and myself.

"My sister sees him," Eric offered.

"Next time you talk to your sister would you tell her to tell Wayne that Larry, the preacher said 'hello'?"

I intend to try to find Wayne.

But one thing is certain to me.  The Porch on The Corner is a mighty "thin place."

Witness

"To be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda or even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery; it means to live in such a way that one's life would not make sense if God did not exist."


- Emmanuel Célestin Suhard

[From "Verse and Voice," May 12, 2011, a service of Sojourners via sojo.net.]

Whose house?

Here's a little quiz for you.

I snapped the first photo below of a multi-family apartment complex just down the street and around the corner from the house captured in the second photo below.

The neighborhood reminded me of many I've driven through in Old East Dallas, but these photos were not taken in Dallas.

Here's the question: Who owns the home in the second photo?

The person to answer correctly in the comment section will win a copy of Richard Stearns' new book, The Hole in Our Gospel.

The Zen of fly fishing

Something happens when I stand beside or, better, in a stream. The farther away from civilization the better, although I've had the experience on streams rolling through towns and cities!

The river, the stream, the surroundings, the relative quiet, the imposed and delightful silence, the pesky fish, the wonderful fatigue of simply walking a stream for several hours--all combine to drive home the truth that all of us are a part of the magnificent, mysterious whole.

Why do we find it so hard to focus, to reflect, to retreat for the sake of renewal, but even more for understanding? It is almost as if we resist the places where understanding draws near because we know that life, as we normally live it, remains cut off from deeper reality that would help make sense of every ordinary, routine challenge or problem.

To put it simply: I've gone fishing for three days!

.

Jane Lowe

I'm thinking of you today, Jane Lowe.
Lots to remember as I stop to think of you;
Your dirt-floored shanty nestled under
That Claiborne Street overpass right downtown
New Orleans--folks driving by, but never seeing your truth.

Been now nearly thirty years since you made your rounds in that
Wild and wonderful city of light and song and fear,
Coming by my place in the mix to read my palm, tell my fortune
And share a story to draw down a tear and a laugh or two--
Always asking about my babies.

I remember your dirty face, your toothless, grinning mouth;
Your black and gray hair pulled back tight in a greasy knot,
All you owned--a treasure trove--piled high on your grocery cart;
And you, the most optimistic person I've ever known,
Who had so much pain and little else to show, or so it seemed at first.

At times you worked me for a buck or two,
A meal, a bit of cash for the bus, or
A bottle that I'm sure consoled you in the
Darkness of your lonely nights and
Very hard days on those stressful, amazing, wonderful streets.

You were my church, truth be known, smelly though it surely was
And full of frustration and gaping need; but I never could relate much to the holy folks come into town from elsewhere
To make their bucks and secure their futures, and pay my salary
But you just coming by to make sure I was okay, and to help yourself.

Cheap assurance you sure provided,
No doubt in my mind your wisdom about life was more than sound;
Your needs so simple, your laughter so real, old, homeless woman, I know you were an angel, sure enough,
Come down to those streets for me.

Journey. . .mission. . .walk

Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.

Don't try to see through the distances. That's not for human beings.

Move within, but don't move the way fear makes you move.

Rumi

[Lifted from SoJo.net, the on-line service of Sojourners magazine and community.]