Whine whine whine (redux)

I am currently heading toward the end of a boys' lock-in here at the church building. We bought and cooked cheap cuts of meat over an open flame and played video games, and threw tennis balls at each other.

A pretty good night, I suppose.

But I am tired. I am 22, it is 5 in the morning, and I am tired. The boys don't know how to clean up their stupid messes in the kitchen, they won't stop yelling and jumping around, and they aren't tired at all. I put on a movie to lull them to sleep, but they began throwing pillows at each other. I am tired of watching them play Guitar Hero and talk about "pwning" each other, tired of explaining myself and the rules to a very combative and childish 19-year-old, and tired (Lord have mercy, I am tired) of their smell.

Can I do this? Am I cut out for ministry? Am I doing enough? Am I doing anything at all?

I just want to sleep, and then I want to drive until I am out of money. I want to escape, and be alone.

I suppose these words are a tad melodramatic for a blog, but I suppose it doesn't matter when they aren't being read anyhow, eh?

Whine whine whine

It seems my readership has declined on this thing, to say nothing of my commentship.

Ugh, I feel alone today.

Tonight we resumed our Harvest evangelism class. I spent two days of office hours working on this lesson, and thought that it was a pretty good one. In fact, this week I think I've written the best lessons I have in a while.

And three people showed up.

On Sunday morning, there were six in class.

Sunday night, I preached. Four of the teens came.

Tonight there were three.

Admittedly, several were out of town and others had to work and blah blah blah. But it doesn't stop me from feeling like a horrible teacher with nothing to offer this group. "What am I doing wrong?" I keep asking God. "Am I doing enough? Am I doing anything at all?"

Gosh, I feel alone.

"The great turning point in your life comes not when you realize that you love God but when you realize and fully accept the fact that God loves you unconditionally."
-Anthony de Mello






. . .but how?

Sigh.

Last night was humiliation. It is past noon and I have been weeping all day.

On Monday I rode my bike downtown to see if anything was happening on Main Street. On the way, I passed a grass island in a busy intersection that is frequented by homeless people. There were two men there, one sitting slightly hunched and looking like he was grinding or milling something, and the other lying and not moving with his head on a backpack. I wondered if I should go talk to them and rode small circles on Ouray Ave. while praying feverishly.

I decided to go, and they welcomed me warmly. The first man introduced himself as Miami, and in front of him was a piece of cardboard that he had been trying to flatten. The reverse-prostrate man told me his name was Tex, and Miami shot him a look that told me that name was news to him, too. Their friend Brian approached a moment later, handing Miami a Magic Marker and two dollars change. The latter began to carefully prepare his cardboard sign while telling me of his service in the first Gulf War when I was six. He killed three Iraqi people and was discharged. They all told me of the trouble they had in finding work in town.

Soon the mosquitoes bothered us all, so Miami offered his Cutter spray. Brian covered my limbs with slow precision and palmed the spray to apply it to my neck. I returned the favor, and felt like we were sharing in a private communion service. Tex grabbed the can after and threatened to spray Miami in the face, grunting menacingly. Brian warned him not to, and I noticed that he called Tex "George."

Then a pair of bicycle cops arrived and the men instantly became very defensive, disavowing any real knowledge of each other or relationship. Miami mentioned that he had only met the two others a week ago. I was saddened at their fear, but also touched by the surprising concern of the officers for these men who tend to get drunk and possibly get harmed. They left after taking my name and we all seemed to feel closer for having suffered two invasions: one of insects and one of government.

Soon, we began to talk of our faith. The coherent men told me that they are believers, even though they haven't been to church in some time. They agreed to come with me on Wednesday night, providing that I could give them a ride. They began to tell me how encouraged they were that I was with them, and that the Holy Spirit must have led me to them. They prayed thankfulness to God right in front of me. They prayed blessings on me and my family. When we parted that night, I felt joy in my heart like I have not felt in a long time.

Last night the men were not there. In their stead I found a lady I met at the homeless shelter two years ago, Valerie. Her husband Joe was incredibly and dangerously drunk, as was their friend Lucas. The latter sang songs he wrote, one about Jesus and another about masturbation. Joe gripped me fiercely and told me that he did not trust me. He advised me about Spain, having been born in Basque Country. However, he spoke without making sense and I slowly became very, very sad.

I arrived at church a half-hour late and with no companions. I stared at the ground while I sang instead of looking in my family's eyes. I tried not to weep while we prayed. I regretted that I did not get the chance to say, "I am only a humble servant doing my duty." I regretted not getting to serve God by serving my brothers.

I failed again.

Just thought you might like to know that I am ordained.

I will now only respond to "Reverend Lucas."

It was free, too!

God and Harmonicas

One of the youths under my charge this summer is a boy named Kyle.

Kyle was born "normal" (as people here explain it to me), but was injured when falling off of a truck at the age of 7. His brain was damaged in the accident and his physical development was stunted as well. Now he speaks with a severe stutter, although is able to carry on a conversation. He rides his bike with reckless abandon and attempts dangerous stunts daily, and is for all intents and purposes a child in a young man's body. Sometimes relating to him is like singing in different keys.

Lately he has been particularly challenging to connect with. When he is with church friends, he will speak Christian words and churchy language and talk of his struggles (always with mention of how he has overcome them). But when he is with non-church-friends or his parents, he is different.

And lately he has been pulling away from the church, so I try to involve him. He comes to the office, but all he wants to do is play video games (not one of my favorites, with the exception of DDR - and that is not much of an option with his bad leg). We go to lunch, but he just wants me to drive him places to cash his checks, spend his checks, and look at video games. I go to his house, and he wants to play video games or make me watch him jump over trash cans. What is more, lately he has been increasingly irritable and angry at church friends whenever we correct him on anything, however small it may be.

But a couple of weeks ago, we had a breakthrough.

I needed to pick up a P.A. system for camp, and Kyle had been over the day before showing me videos of people beatboxing with harmonicas on Youtube. He wanted to get one to put him on the track of becoming the next Rahzel, and so I called him and asked if he wanted to come with me to the guitar store.

There, he plinked on all of the keyboards and we marveled together at the odd sounds he would produce. He thumped the drums and thankfully did not bother the guitars. We looked at harmonicas together and each picked one out. I bought a cheap nine-buck harp in G, knowing that he would buy a nicer one, and he picked out one in D that costs thirty dollars. We left with our purchases and the P.A. system, both giddy to try them out.

We turned on the radio while I drove, rolled the windows down, and tried to play along. When we got notes right, we celebrated by nodding with the beat. We ate lunch and he played for the table next to ours, infuriating our waiter. After, we stopped at a video game store.

Taking him home, he told me of his hopes for camp and his desire to quit smoking and make serious changes from his bad habits. I told him we'd work on it together, and we played our harmonicas.

And even though we were playing in different keys, we were happy.

Camp is Over

Home.

Or at least I am as close to home as I can be.

I am worn out from a week of untrustworthy bathrooms, cold showers, and less oxygen. I am sick from a cabin of boys that do not cover their mouths when they cough and people that take bites of your food when you do not look. I am bleeding from boots that cut my feet and a kid that doesn't know what nail clippers are. I am exhausted from a week spent with 10-18-year-olds, trying desperately to teach and to love and to serve.

I taught two classes five times each, delivered one sermony-type lesson, MC'd a talent show, and "slept" in a cabin with five smelly teenage boys.

It was a good week.

The snow made things interesting. My first night there, I wanted a shower more than anything in the world and thus ran outside in just my towel and flip-flops. I trudged for a while through snowbanks, confident that there would be dry land before the bathroom. There was no such land, and soon my pace was slowed to a crawl by my sinking in up to my knees. Finally, I reached into the powder, grabbed my sandals, and sprinted in spite of the cold and the blood.

And then the water was tepid.

The highlight that made the week worthwhile: after one class about how we are lovely and valuable because we are created in God's image, I was a little disappointed by the lack of participation from the youths. Miss Ann talked to me afterward and said that one girl had given me her complete attention throughout. This was decent news, and I was grateful.

Later, Miss Ann came up again and told me that this girl had talked to another counselor. She is 13, but has already tried to kill herself. She has a poor home life and had mentioned to me before that "most people don't remember [her] name." Her counselor asked, "Do you know that you have value?" The girl responded, "I know that now, after Lucas's class."

And I wept. How can we let a 13-year-old try to end herself? Have I failed the world that lets this happen? Do I encourage its death-life? Its empty existence and offer of hopelessness? How can this happen?

But God has dreams for what this world will be, and he is changing it. And he let me witness his working, his doing, his being, this past week. This girl wants to become a Christian, but doesn't know how. So we will continue to talk, and I will continue to pray.