"Think something of beauty..."

I think something of beauty and human flourishing are one and the same, and the heart of God’s work through Jesus is reconciliation and human flourishing. It is so easy to let anger, self-righteousness and even violence lead, but beauty takes time, thought, patience – something superna
tural – a transformed heart. 

• Sara Groves, from "Why It Matters..."

Noise often drowns it out. A four-wheeler rumbles by in front of my house- I hear the engine vroom and the bass beat thump and the rider shout and the gravel grind as it ascends the short hill. In this season, I hear the rattattats, boys in my neighborhood practicing their drum cadence for the upcoming saint day celebration. Far in the background, I hear a train horn sound a long waaaaank as freight rumbles through town, even though the tracks are almost a mile south. I hear the whumpwhumpwhump of a helicopter overhead. Sometimes I hear the poppoppop of a gun shot in the distance.

Distractions can drown it out. My eye follows the speeding or saggy or sputtering vehicle, but forget to notice the people inside. I see the broken wall, but not the tree blooming beside it. Dust covers the streets, sometimes only browngray dirt, sometimes deep black mud. Trucks filled with garbage, not a garbage truck like from your neighborhood, but dingy pickup trucks overloaded and loaded down with garbage, lose bits and pieces of their load while passing by in front of my house on the way to the dump. Smoke covers the high blue skies in a choky smoggy haze. 

Situation might also drown it out. Boys care for toddler brothers, girls carry diapered cousins, and kids wander the neighborhood in a pack. I don't look far to see substandard housing, walls constructed of pallets, front entryways concealed by blankets not doors, and roofs covered with old billboard canvases. I smell, and regularly see, sewage coming up where it shouldn't. I wonder about the cadre of state police parked on the corner. I pass a group of wide-eyed people wearing life vests waiting at a crossroad.

But despite it all, the beauty, it is always there, always waiting to be noticed, always waiting to be celebrated. Hear the giggles of delight, the high-pitch saludos of a a waving jumping always in motion child, the upbeat tempo of the conjunto sounding from an unseen stereo speaker. See the brilliant pink blooms of the bouganvilla reach for the sun, the irridescent crown of a rooster flash in the sunlight, the wide smiles which cross the kids' faces when they show us their work. Notice the bright yellow door set in the wall you pass every single day, the mare tethered in the field who turns to nuzzle her colt, skies that fade to chalky pastel pink as the sun sets below the horizon. Celebrate the neighbor kids and their casual handshake fist bump greeting, the girl who asks for a bag so her mom can do the art project too, the earnest work of a boy committing the memory verse to heart and then giving his prize to his brother.

Capture the moment in the glow of the streetlight at dusk after finding the friend who moved a handful of streets down the road. Save it deep in your memory and in your heart. Be patient for the hope of change, for transformation, for reconciliation, for restoration. Thankfully praise our God once again, He who is making all things new.   

(photo credit to my dear Kimberly Kaiser)

7/366

The world-making Word had to fuss with the minutiae of making a living. He had family drama and knuckle-headed friends, temptations and distractions to sort out. He spent much of his life making and fixing things that served a purpose and were lost and forgotten. He knew the value and the vanity of toil. The inauguration of the life of the world to come was made up of hard work, simple pleasures, a small circle of influence, and love. The path of the abundant life runs through the otherwise unremarkable.
- Stephen Crotts in "The Abundant Unremarkable Life" at Sayable blog

The photo captures the inside bench of a trash cart here in Aquiles Serdán, making the quote seem especially appropriate. Day to day life here doesn't typically seem very noteworthy. Yet, the days pass and slowly slowly, we notice fractions of change, and indeed, "the abundant life runs through the otherwise unremarkable."

5/365

"Yes, I am a dreamer, for a dreamer is one who can find his way by moonlight, and see the dawn before the rest of the world."  Oscar Wilde

I wake up to sewer smells in the bathroom and to smokey smells in the living room and I wonder how much my life expectancy might be lowered by the various fumes I inhale around here. And I can hear chickens and dogs and a train in the distance making morning sounds before morning sights appear. But then I go outside and turn for the view outside my front gate as I walk to work this morning and the promise of the day ahead, and I count it all grace to see the dawn before the rest of the world.

248/365

We set out, cards in hand, to give out invitations. We're beginning an outreach specifically for girls in our neighborhood, those from 12 to 18 years old. Our hope is to gather weekly and share an activity and some purposeful conversation and some food and some fun and maybe even some transparency, one with another. It's a new thing.

It takes only a few steps to remember that we are not in American suburbia. We comment cheerfully that the street is finally dry. After all, just a week or so ago, green waters lapped the sidewalks, the deep where two streets intersect. A product of bad drainage and a pump project gone bad, the pond had been a fixture since the beginning of the year. Now finally, all that remained is dusty dry mud tracks, petrified dune bumpers on the edges of the road.

As we pass by, my landlord calls us over cheerfully. Chickens peck around his driveway and a couple of dogs and cats lounge lazy in the heat. His birthday is coming up and preparations for the annual celebration have begun. His family is slaughtering a pig to be roasted, and he invites us up the driveway to see. We congratulate him on another year, but cheerfully decline a closer look at tomorrow's dinner.

We turn the corner and see flashing lights at the end of the street, probably an ambulance. We're not the only ones wondering what is happening- lots of neighbors have come out to gaze and guess. We talk to some boys we haven't seen in a while, and exchange the traditional handshake fist bump, reminding them of our weekly community center activities. We greet the parents of one of our girls and leave an invitation. We see her eyes in her dad and her smile on her mom and her face in miniature in her as her little sister peeks up at us.

We go to a corner store, the workplace of a mom of one of our girls. The store owner and my teammate exchange compliments on each other's clothing and we laugh. We learn our girl has moved, and backtrack in search of her. We find her at home a couple of blocks away, in a house without glass in the windows, one some might think abandoned. She greets us with a smile and hurries to change her clothes and put on shoes and join our merry band. We cross the street to meet a neighbor and extend an invitation to two more girls.

The search continues. We walk down streets and look for girls along the way. We give invitations to two girls on their way out of the house. We step into a nearby papelería, lotería cards and wrapping paper hanging from the walls. We crowd through the doorway and lean across a glass-topped case, and leave another invitation with the mom behind the counter.  

We stop at the house of another friend, and find her grandma sitting out front. A family member opens the gate for us and extends a hand and a hello. We greet grandma with a handshake and a kiss on the cheek and ask about her grandkids. She promises to give our invitation to her teen.

We walk towards our young friend's house again. "I like going with you all," she tells us. "Everyone smiles and is nice to you." We laugh, because really it is true. We have no concerns as we walk up and down our streets amongst our neighbors. And yet, I also sigh, because I know that if she weren't with us, the situation would be much different. We have seen how some men look at these girls. All of our kids know stories about violence. We have heard from them threats of robbery and of kidnapping.

We know that our God has been here from the beginning of time, and He is yet bringing light into darkness in this very place.
Be alert, be present. I’m about to do something brand-new.    It’s bursting out! Don’t you see it? (Isaiah 43:19)
Yes, yes we do.

159/365

We started a new thing this spring- a Bible study for boys' in our neighborhood. It seemed like the logical thing to do when the boys who gathered to go to our mid-week cell group study could no longer fit in our car. So, using the same study on Jonah, we started a new group at our house. Not wanting to miss any aspect of the weekly event, we promised that yes, we would have coffee. And we would feed them. 

Guess what? They came, 6 or more boys each week. 

Who says the Bible is boring? Jonah could easily be a made-for-movie story. A disobedient prophet running from God. A hideaway at the bottom of a ship. A tremendous storm. A desperate crew. A confessing passenger reluctantly thrown into the sea. A dramatic rescue by... a Really Big Fish? A remorseful messenger vomited onto the shore. A reluctant missionary sent to a wicked people. A deeply apologetic and repentant city seeking forgiveness. A defiant prophet pouting against the sovereign God. The book of Jonah provides for a lot of conversation. 

For six weeks one after another, they came to the house, through our front gate, through our back gate, even sliding down the pole from the roof to our porch. One week they came still wet from swimming. We'd bring out the coffee and booklets and pens. We watched a short video commentary on the passage of the week and then we talked about what we learned. We talked about Jonas and about what God was doing in that time and place and people. We talked about running from God. We talked about hopes and fears. We talked about His mercy and justice and grace and steadfast lovingkindness. We talked about Jesus. Of course, it wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

Six weeks later we come to the end of the study, and of course, we must celebrate. We promise the boys that we'll make pizzas the next week. But not at our house- at our community center kitchen so we can use two ovens at once and not heat up the house when it's already 100 degrees outside. A couple days prior, I remind the boys when I see them, and ask them their favorite pizza toppings. Maybe that was a strategic error...

Imagine our surprise when we head to the community center on Friday afternoon to prepare for the group and find a mini-mob of more than a dozen kids that were rarely if ever at the study, all ready for a pizza party. Suddenly our Bible study has grown to include kids we've never met. It now includes a few girls? We laugh. Perhaps there is innocent confusion- because we do have activities including a bible lesson a couple times a week at the community center. Perhaps there is wishful thinking, because after all, there is pizza. We decide to include any boy who attended the study at least twice. I promise the girls we're working on a study for them, too. We turn the others away, this time at least. I wonder how Jesus might multiply pizza dough and pepperoni.

So 13 boys (and one little sister) end up making pies on Friday afternoon. Maybe the next two hours would be best be described as Organized Chaos. Each kid took a lump of dough to a table covered with flour, rolling it flat with a glass soda bottle. We ration out sauce. These Norteños are the original meat-lovers; everyone gets 5 pepperonis and 3 cucharas de salchichas. An adventurous few add mushrooms and black olives. A border pizza might not be complete without jalapeños. They cover their discs with cheese and add some identifying mark to the top and send it to the ovens.

While they wait, Pastor Mario goes over a review of the study, and sure enough, some bit of the previous 6 weeks has stuck. Boys shout out answers back at him. We remind them of starting again next week. We pray for the food, thanking our God for His goodness and provision to all of us. He is "a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and relenting from disaster." (Jonah 4:2)

Then, we eat pizza.

157/365

"Here comes the sun..."

I walk out of my little house, already sweaty in just the getting ready, already sweaty before stepping outside. The morning sun, though only a couple hours after beginning it's rise, already shines hot and bright, moving slowly and steady overhead. In the gleam of daylight, I see the dust covering the tile floor and tables on our front porch, covering the leaves of the flowers I'm trying to grow, covering the street in front of the house. The morning school day has just begun for my neighbors. Our deaf youth sit and do their lessons outside at the tables. At least the breeze provides a distraction from the heat.

I exit the black iron gate that guards my house and walk down the concrete street, kicking pebbles, along the way. Brilliant pink bouganvilla flowers color a puddle, limp tissue paper blooms shining bright in the water's reflection. A kitten lays in the shadow of a bench. From down the street, a dog watches me, unwilling to move except for the wag of his tail. A string of deflated balloons hangs from a neighbor's fence, sagging dejected after too much party the previous night.

I turn the corner and walk two blocks, sharing a "Buenos días" with those I pass. Birds crow and chirp in trees overhead. Somewhere nearby a rooster crows, again. A background chorus of cicadas leaves ears ringing with a their high whine song. A couple of ladies sit in the shade of the door of their corner store and fan themselves. I wave, and the little boy without a shirt, playing at their feet, rewards me with a smile.

I cross the pavement to my destination, the gordita stand open from sun up to whenever she runs out. I waited too long earlier in the week and promised to return, but next time, earlier in the day. The owner, chef and plate washer, a one woman operation start to finish, is the wife of a neighborhood tire guy, and sure enough, while he works on a car next door, the driver takes time to eat. I approach the open air stand, oilcloth with bright flowers on a blue background covering the counter. I take a seat on a tall red stool. The menu is written on posterboard, but really, it changes from day to day, moment to moment, depending on cook's choice and what others have eaten before you arrive.

A gordita de picadillo and a refresco set me back 20 pesos, about a dollar according to the official exchange rate this morning. For a dollar I get a pocket of masa pressed flat, cooked hot on a griddle, and filled with a chopped potato and ground beef filling in a spicy tomato sauce. It drips greasy red down my fingers, and leaves a just right amount of pico in my mouth. Between the sun and the heat of the food, I resist the temptation to press the cold Coke glass dripping with condensation against my cheek. While I eat, a taxi driver stops for his morning break. Two young moms watch their toddlers tease and chase each other around the car. And our cocinera continues to slap down balls of masa, rolled flat and flipped when toasted spotted brown.

I finish, fully content with my morning snack, and head to work, the to-do list full, tasks waiting, both known and still to be learned. The sun continues to make it's way above in the sky overhead. As the Beatles long ago crooned, "And I say, it's all right..."

(the photo is of sun mosaic collages created by our students in art class the previous evening)

57/365

O Lord, our Lord,
    how majestic is your name in all the earth!
When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,

    the moon and the stars, which you have set in place,

what is man that you are mindful of him,

    and the son of man that you care for him?

Psalm 8:1, 3-4

It doesn't come naturally, I don't think, to see beauty in unexpected places, to notice the splendor of creation in the midst of dust and grime. 

And yet, I find myself seeking it, striving to find it. 
Opening up my senses to the loveliness begging to be noticed. 

The iridescent changing hues of the rooster feathers, as he turns and crows his way across the street. 
The flash of red and yellow on the wing on the blackbird.
The yellow belly of the kiskadee hiding in the tree.

The crack of blue azure peeking through the cloud cover after day after day of grey gloom.
The bright rays of sunshine hitting the sidewalk dirt.
The wind causing the leaves to dance, the branches to sway, the dust to swirl. 

The emerald green new growth of nopal, sprouting from grungy, spiked pads.
The coral buds of bougainvillea, reaching out to the sunshine after a month hidden in the shadows.
The delicate white blossoms of the orange tree in bloom, its sweet perfume floating across the yard enough to make me stop and turn and follow its scent.  

O Lord, our Lord,
    how majestic is your name in all the earth!
Psalm 8:9

54/365

Around 65 people came through our doors on Friday, and then another bunch on Saturday, numbering more than one hundred in all by the end of the two days. Men, women, teens, children, babes in arms, they arrived and waited to be seen by our volunteer medical providers. They came with coughs and colds, with dangerously high blood sugar counts, with high blood pressure, or just with a desire to see a doc when they usually don't. They sometimes complained of aches and pains, or of stresses and anxieties. We saw kids with scabies and kids with lice. That'll make you itch a bit, just thinking about it.

Only one day before, my pastor friend reminded me that his constant prayer for us is that we would have opportunity to know our neighbors, that we would have opportunity to tell them and to show them Jesus. Thanks, brother! We saw that prayer answered this weekend. We met one man who told us that, not long ago, he had been left for dead in a hospital morgue. He considers his survival story a new lease on life, a new opportunity to live his life differently and with specific purpose. He wanted a bible to take home with him. We didn't have any handy and so we gave him one of mine. (Anyone want to send a case of Spanish bibles for us to share?) We met the mom of one of our outreach kids, who we learned also happens to be the grandma of one of our outreach kids. She expressed eagerness for the girls to learn more, to come to our tutoring. We have a list of many people who are interested in learning more, in participating in Bible study, and in joining us for prayer.

As is often the case, we finish the day tired and humbled. Many of our neighbors have plenty of reason to be anxious and stressed. One elderly woman visited one day and returned the next for a new prescription; her pills had been stolen in the night, most likely by a family member. (They would be sorely disappointed; it was only ibuprofen and vitamins that they got away with...) One woman told us how her young adult son has been missing for over a month and she fears he is dead. Another couple came from their home on the edges of the nearby dump, grateful for the opportunity to receive medical attention once again. Our volunteers talk about nutrition and basic care, but how does someone without much means eat better than the standard beans and tortilla diet? How does a family sanitize their clothing and linens without hot water or a dryer?

And although our providers served our community with first-class medical care, they also finished each appointment with the question, "Can we pray for you?" We know that the physical needs are great, but the spiritual needs are no less. We know that all of us have need of a doctor to address our health needs, but that Jesus is the only one with the mercy and might to heal us for eternity. Hosting a medical clinic gives us opportunity to tell about both, and we're grateful for those that come to us and allow us to share generously with our neighbors.

4/365

Psalm 130English Standard Version (ESV)

A Song of Ascents.

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!
    O Lord, hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive
    to the voice of my pleas for mercy!

If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities,
    O Lord, who could stand?
But with you there is forgiveness,
    that you may be feared.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
    and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
    more than watchmen for the morning,
    more than watchmen for the morning.

O Israel, hope in the Lord!
    For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
    and with him is plentiful redemption.
And he will redeem Israel
    from all his iniquities.

352/365

(DPP18- 20something years of the annual ornament exchange and a sweet Mexican angel from an even more sweet friend!)

Only two items remain on the list as I drive up to the drug store. I'm hoping that they will have what I need- a quick in and out visit. I pull into the parking lot and slide into the space. And as I open my door, I notice the man sitting on the curb two spaces down.

"Do you have any money?," he asks me as I walk by to the store doors.
"I'm sorry, I have no cash," I tell him honestly.
"Oh that's ok, Mama. God bless you."
"Thank you," I tell him. "And you too."

(just for reference, "Mama" is something of a term of endearment where I live. Even little girls are frequently called "mama" or "mamita." It's really a sweet thing most of the time. And so, I wasn't offended at all.)

I enter the store and sure enough, the one thing I need is in stock, right where it should be. But, the man out front remains on my mind and on my heart. I approach the check out counter, but then turn into the food aisle.

What do you buy a homeless guy to eat from the drug store selection?
Who knows what soda he would prefer? Caffeine or no caffeine? Coke or Sprite or...? No, water.
Something with protein. But maybe jerky is too hard to chew. What kind of nuts? There are none of those little tuna & cracker packages. I'll go with trail mix. With chocolate. Because who doesn't want chocolate?
And something sweet. Cookies? But what kind? Oreos? Chocolate chip? Lorna Doones? A candy bar? I finally settle on powdered sugar donuts, because everyone likes a little tube of powdered sugar donuts, right?

I pay for my purchases, and put them in two different sacks. I walk out the doors. There's a fair amount of traffic and people are coming both in and out. Everyone is ignoring the guy on the curb. In fact, as I walk out, I see a car leaving from the very spot in front of the man, as if he is invisible, as if he doesn't even exist.

He gives me a wave, but I stop in front of him and hold out the bag.
"Here are just a few things for you," I tell him.
"Oh Mama! Thank you!," he says as he receives the sack.
"What's your name?," I ask, as I hold out my hand.
He tells me his name and I introduce myself too.
"How long have you been here? What brought you to the Valley?"
He explains that he is from our area, and has family here even now. He was recently released from 21 years in prison, and is still looking for work, for a place to live. I figure that he has probably burned some bridges along the way.
"Will you spend tonight at the shelter?," I ask him as I point up the street.
"Aw no, Mama," he answers. "That guy, he gets in my face. But hey! It's a great night to be outside."
I laugh, because I imagine that he's not much of a rule follower and because really, it is a pretty nice night.
"Ok then, God bless you."

I get into my car, and I drive away. I spend a few miles remembering other people I've known who have spent time on the street. I think about the life that led to this guy passing another night on the curb, thinking about all those who will ignore that he even exists tonight, thinking about circumstance and choices and mercy and grace.
I arrive home, and walk inside, continuing on with the busyness of the day, and quickly, I, too, forget.

I hope you find family and joy and hope today, Abel.

347/365

DPP13-

(A player in the making.)

These boys.
We were in the garage, practicing Christmas carols for Sunday worship, when we found out about the mini-soccer tournament. That is, the mini-soccer tournament that would be start at 3 this same afternoon.

One of the boys brings in formidable, but definitely used, trophy and gives us the task of shining it up. A few minutes later, Mario shows it to Tim.
"Do you think we can make it look nicer," he asks?
"No problem," Tim answers, "When do you need it?" (clearly thinking that it would be by the weekend...)
"An hour and a half," Mario replies.
We all laugh out loud.
The guys go to the kitchen and start washing the trophy.

At three, we walk over to the field, ready for a tournament. We see our neighborhood boys, from ages 8 to 18, gathered to play. We wait on the other team to arrive. About 20 minutes later, they pull up and pour out of a van. About 10 minutes later, the ref arrives, and shakes the hand of everyone gathered to watch. I think that might be good policy, for a ref to start off friendly with the crowd. About 10 minutes later, the boys line up and finally, about 40 minutes after we expected, the game begins.

Clearly, the other team has older players. Most of them have uniforms and even shin guards. And they probably have practiced on the big field more often than our team has- which would be rarely, if ever. Our guys play together frequently, but in the side-yard mini-field of our community center, always against each other. Half a dozen of our little spaces could fit on each side of today's field. Our youngest boys, yet too young to join the team, have no respect for the game going on the field. They use the same field for their own amusement, hustling off when the action gets too close or when the crowd chastises enough them to move away.

At half time, our guys are only down 0-1. The younger boys start running up and down the bleachers, having lost interest in the game.  During the brief break, two more of our older boys show, and things start to look up. But a few defensive lapses and just a plain good shot falling at just the right angle into the top of the goal leave the final score at 0-3. Our guys come off the field.

Supposedly that was when the next team would take the field. But the next team never shows. So after a few minutes, the same two teams take the field and do it all over again. This time, our team scores and we gringo fans holler loudly in support, much to the amusement of the other team's fans. Even with the goal, our team loses again.

But then, out come the trophies! (though not our polished up contribution...; what happened to that one, we're not really sure...) Our boys gather around and mug for the camera phones and everyone takes a turn holding on to the shiny Cup, on the field and all that way back down the street home. The rest of us laugh and shake our heads and smile at them smiling.

These boys! Oh how we love these boys.

324/365

I'm fairly certain that my morning commute beats yours.

First of all, I walk to the office. I don't have to get into a car. No need to check the gas tank on the way or wonder if that warning light was on the last time I drove. I don't have to negotiate traffic or crazy drivers or anticipate what's ahead. Well, sure, I look out for crazy drivers when I cross the street, and sometimes a garbage cart passes me by, but that's nearly always with a wave and a "Buenos dias!"

As I leave my house and lock my door, I stop to listen to the sounds coming from the deaf school next door. "Sounds from the deaf school?" Those who haven't spent time around deaf kids may not realize that many are quite verbal. They laugh, sometimes loudly because they have no sense of just how loud they are. They let out exclamatory noises of approval and disdain. They clap their hands. The deaf are very sensitive to movement around them, so nearly always I catch the eye of someone and exchange a good morning wave and smile.

I walk down the passageway to the Bodega, the workshops for the Isaiah 55 vocational ministries. I often smell the fresh cut wood before I am at the shop, by far the best scent going in this neighborhood! In this season, walking through the Bodega is something akin to passing by Santa's workshop. Our students and neighborhood workers form the crew of elves that creates Forever Gingerbread houses. These little wooden houses are reusable gingerbread houses, created to be decorated and then cleaned and then decorated again. The houses are sold at home parties and craft sales and holiday markets in the United States with sales benefiting the Isaiah 55 vocational programs. I wave at the workers and stop to exchange a good morning hug with Norma, our lead worker.

My longest traffic stop comes in pausing to pet our dogs. There's Neighbor Dog, Vecina, the gentle Pit Bull mix with dark soulful eyes who usually drops to the ground so I can rub her belly. Puppy pushes his way into the mix. Puppy is a tall Beagle-something who makes up for clumsy with enthusiasm. Puppy is yet a puppy and still needs instructional reminders not to gnaw your arm or jump up to lick your face. The black lab female mix, Black Dog (oh, I know, we are so creative in names...) is a whiner. It's been 9 months and she hasn't won me over yet, but I suppose there is still time.

Once out the gate, I turn left. Usually, I share crossing the always dusty and sometimes muddy street with the neighbor's chickens. There's always another few dogs in the street along the way. Sometimes other folks also walk down the street, also making their way to work, and we swap good morning pleasantries. Less than a minute down the road, there's nearly always Miguel at the gate. And there's nearly always the same exchange-
"Buenos dias. Como estas?" (Good morning. How are you?)
"Estoy aquí. Va a llover hoy." (I'm here. It's going to rain today.)
And that is whether there is a cloud in the sky or not.

Makes me smile every single time.

322/365

The Plan for the Day changes multiple times (but who is keeping count?).
Meeting midday for robotics and lunch.
No meeting.
Soccer game at noon.
No, soccer game at one.
No, no soccer game.
Boys coming at 2 for robotics and snacks.
Boys show up at 2:30.
And hey! Guess what! Soccer game at 3!

Since we live within a 1 minute walk of the soccer field, off we go- up the hill and over the berm and to the fields that are very familiar. With the help of the sweat labor of short-term teams, we have spent the last few summers working to improve this complex of fields. And now we get to sit in the stands we helped build and watch the balls go through the goals we set up and painted, our guys playing a team from the other side of the neighborhood. That's a sweet thing.

We climb the stands and take our seats. And wait. Because 3 really means 3:30. Well, 3:30-ish. We watch the boys chalk the field, powder puffing from the coffee can on a stick. The half-line goes a bit wobbly at the very far end, but hey- this isn't quite the Copa Mundial. We watch the warm-ups, and size up the competition, all while we realize that the rest of the crowd may be assessing the two gringos towards the top of the bleachers. It is fun to know Spanish when people are discussing you. (grin!)

Finally our boys take the field. They are a rag-tag team, at best. Forget your images of organized American youth soccer. The field is dirt, with a patch of grass that probably survives because it is fertilized by local animals when they are staked to the goal to graze. One player's dog is on the field until the game actually starts and has to be shooed away. Our boys don't have uniforms today; they just wear their street clothes. A few have soccer jerseys from their favorite teams or teams they played with in the past. One of our boys plays in his jean shorts and plaid shirt. Our guys earn most of the penalties on the field today; they are street-wise and field tough. Our team didn't even bring water for halftime. We know that our boys can run and run, and they did. We know our boys have some good moves, because we see it in our side yard every week when they play the short game, off the walls, never more than 5 on 5. But this is a BIG field, and they are playing a team that has practiced together. Our team is down 0-1 at halftime, and then kind of lose it all at the very end of the game and lost 0-4.

But, I don't think that they are too affected by the score. We go home and get out the garrafón of water and a few plastic cups. The entire team stops to rehydrate in our courtyard before moving in mob on down the street. No doubt, we spill as much water as they drink, and create a mud puddle under the table. Most of the boys leave with a "Gracias!" and the handshake-handslap-fistbump greeting of the neighborhood and we are left with grins on our faces.

Here's to always changing plans for the day, and being in the 'hood, and soccer on a sunny Saturday afternoon.


SaveSave

296/365

I know that it's difficult to see and you just might have to take my word for it. But in the photo, a guy lies under the van making repairs. And standing right next to the car, another guy plays the accordion. I heard the accordion and followed the sound until I realized that it was coming from across the street. That's a new one for me, car repairs with a live accordion accompaniment.

I know one thing for certain, the street where I live will never be accused of being boring.

We have animals- dogs, lots of dogs, pregnant dogs, nursing dogs, male dogs, puppies, dogs who bark, dogs who sleep, dogs who bring garbage into our yard...,
cats of every color,
chickens, yellow chickens and black chickens, lots of chickens, and some roosters. Whoever started the idea that roosters crow at daybreak, they were confused. Roosters crow all day long.
The biggest pot-bellied pig that you can possibly imagine, I mean BIG, used to be spotted across the street, but I haven't seen him in a while, and I'm kind of afraid to ask the owner what happened. He was pretty fond of that pig.

Vehicles- we have a lot of vehicles. A lot of loud cars. Pickup trucks. Carts drawn by horse and by donkey. Delivery trucks, coke trucks, beer trucks. And cars with loudspeakers on top- for water, for tortillas, for gas, today- for tamales (that was tempting...). Vehicles going much too fast, that screech to a halt for a speed bump and screech when they step on the gas again. Bicycles and mopeds and motorcycles all roll by.

We have people- all kinds of people. Men, women, children. Young people in uniform, sometimes with a uniform shirt for a school they don't attend. Moms with kids in strollers. Kids- lots of kids. Toddlers toddling. A grandpa with a walker. People that wave. People that don't.

And the activities in the street- men fixing cars, families practicing quinceañera dances, kids playing games, vendors selling drinks and popsicles and snacks, the weekly lotería game. One time a guy loaded down with pottery was walking down our street, selling it from gate to gate, door to door. We nearly always hear some sort of music. Recently we have heard drums echoing their beat at night, practice for upcoming holiday marking the Mexican Revolution.

The other day, one of our neighborhood girls brought a bullet to the community center, a piece of potentially live ammunition that she found in the street. My teammate disarmed it. Sometimes we see the federal police drive down our street. Sometimes we see young men with handheld radios on our street.

There is a permanent layer of dust in our street, replaced only by slick mud when it rains. But the buildings are bright on our street, painted in brilliant shades of blue and green and orange. Sometimes you might happen to be outside at just the right moment, when the sun rises in the east with a pastel palette or sets in the west burning bright orange and red on the horizon. At those moments, more perhaps than at other times of the day, there is a great peace on our street.

We pray for reconciliation on our street, for the families here to know Christ. We don't bring Jesus to this street; he meets us here.
Maybe even in an accordion serenading a mechanic on a fall afternoon.

294/365

The robot car leader left to look for his students a couple of hours ahead of time, to remind them of the morning activities. At that point, hardly a soul was to be found, windows still dark and even the dogs laying still across the front door steps. He took another trip around the 'hood an hour beforehand, another attempt to pique curiosity. Thomas Edison has been credited with saying something along the lines of success is "one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration." But he also is quoted as saying, "Everything comes to him who hustles while he waits." Clearly Edison anticipated what Tim's Saturday mornings might look like.

Eventually a group of boys, though not necessarily the boys whom we expected, showed up at our gate. And for a while they poked around with the robotics car, and connected wires and willed it forward and back. It all went by much too quickly. We act surprised when boys are distracted by other boys, as if it were something new. We forget quickly, don't we, all the ways boys turn their attention from one thing to another. And so, the robotics project soon turned to a game of dominoes, followed in quick procession to lunch.

We don't yet have a grill, so my kitchen became a short-order diner, though hamburgers the only item on the menu. I fried up a dozen patties, the grease splattering my sturdy cook top. We offered the usual fixings, lettuce and tomato and onion and mustard and ketchup. Only minutes later, we returned to the kitchen for the bottle of hot sauce and the jar of mayonnaise, the staples of Mexican condiments. Instead of potato chips, we served Takis and chili chicharrones. The boys drained a 2 liter bottle of coke and started in on the grapefruit soda, besides.

We shared the meal with the boys and about 5000 flies who lingered long after the boys did. Right now, everything seems to be a Work in Progress- creating a rhythm to our days, establishing routines, remembering to close up holes that let flies into the house now that the days are cooler and doors can stay open... But our prayer is that we will serve this place well, that we will be able to grow and nurture relationships, and share and show our Jesus through it all.

In Psalm 27, David concluded,
I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord
    in the land of the living!
Wait for the Lord;
    be strong, and let your heart take courage;
    wait for the Lord!
Certainly we know that David, too, was known to hustle while he would wait. Perhaps we are in good company.

287/365

Confession: I stopped regularly making my kids breakfast and lunch many moons ago. I could give explanations why, but suffice it to say, yes, they always have food. But those first two meals at our house... well, usually you are on your own. But sometimes, usually when you least expect it (or if we have a house guest), I jump to the task. And then I do it cheerfully- because I don't do it often...

But this isn't really a tale about breakfast. Rather it's a story of foolishness and the kind man who loves me anyway. To make breakfast on this day, I need to go to the store and gather provision before the rest of the house was awake. Around 7:30 I sneak out and head to our Morgan HEB. (note: Our Morgan HEB plays 80's tunes. That, if nothing else, is sufficient reason to shop there.) Surprisingly, this Saturday dawn breaks gray and foggy, and even though there aren't many of us on the road, I decide lights might be a good idea.

I do my shopping. I'm pretty sure I sing along, out loud but hopefully not too loud, to "Karma karma karma chameleon." (It comes and goes. It comes and goes.) I wisely refrain from the Buy 5 Candy Bars Get 5 Candy Bars Free deal at the checkout counter, pay for my goods, roll out the cart out and approach my car. I notice, the back lights are glowing red. Not Good. Red back lights mean that, sigh, I did it again. We love our little white CRV. It has 200,000 really good miles on it and is still going strong. But its pitfall? It doesn't have a little dingy reminder warning bell when you leave the lights on. Who remembers that they turn their lights on in the fog? I mean, technically it's light outside... And not only that, but our little white CRV has a very short lasting battery. I remember the Sears Die Hard battery commercials of days old, "We are parked here at International Falls, Minnesota on a frozen lake through January, through February, through March, and the Die-Hard STARTS!" Our CRV battery simply would not compete. It would probably fall through the thawing ice in April, not able to start. Sure enough, this time too. No matter my coaxing, my turning off the radio, my tender pats on the dashboard, the car will not start. I call my dear guy, and after only one, "Kristy. You left the lights on again?" he comes to rescue me.
(note: Yes, I know that it's not good for the battery life to run it down. Yes, I know that I really need to pay attention. Yes, I know...)

He arrives and maneuvers the Rescue Van in front of the little white CRV. I pull out the jumper cables. (note: Thanks to this problem, well, ok, thanks to MY problem, we now have really nice jumper cables in this car...) We perform the life support maneuvers on the battery and sure enough, she starts right up. I'm back in business, ready to drive home. My guy pulls out ahead of me. But you know, it's still a little bit foggy out. Maybe I should turn on my lights... (yes, I hear you laughing...)

I get home and carry in the groceries. I make tasty, surprise breakfast tacos and we enjoy a leisurely meal around the table. We make plans for the day, and shower and dress and finally, a couple hours later, we head out to the car. DEAD. Well, I didn't leave it running long enough to charge, I think to myself. I call my guy one more time.

"Sorry, but the battery is dead. Maybe it didn't charge long enough. We'll have to jump it again later," I tell him. Right away he asks me, "Did you leave the lights on again?"

With all my soul, I really want to say, "NO!!! Of COURSE NOT!!!" But then I remember. I remember the fog, now long burned off. I remember the lights. "Mayyyy-beeee," I answer sheepishly. "Well, probably yes..." "KRISTY!" he groans. I close my eyes and nod. Honestly. Twice in one day?

I want to say, I'll never do THAT again. Except I probably will. So all I can say is "I'm sorry."
And I hope that there will be a good breakfast waiting for my rescuer afterward next time, too.

276/365

"Los niños están," Miguel tells me before I even have a chance to look across the street. 3:30 in the afternoon, and the students that come for tutoring arrive. But we do not open our gates for the rest of the kids until 5. No matter. On most afternoons, they gather outside the gate anyway. They pester us to open the doors, to let them in early. They push the buttons on the electronic lock, as maybe one of these times some random pattern of beeps will actually work. Some of the little boys consistently start to climb up the outside of the fence, as though we'll congratulate them once they scale the top and land on the other side. We don't. We open the gate and shoo them out.

Some days are louder than others. This afternoon starts lustily. The little boys entertain themselves by chasing a street dog around. "Stop bothering the dog," I shout at them from across the yard. (ugh! why am I shouting?!) I get up and go to the gate and step outside. "Please. Stop bothering the dog and settle down." No one really listens. Finally the dog grows tired of the mob and shows itself annoyed, scaring a boy but hurting no one, and leaves. Without the dog, the boys continue to bother each other. Eventually that leads to a fight, and we separate a couple of luchadores. Each tells us that the other started it. "No matter. No more fighting," we tell them all, "or you won't be able to come in today." The crowd grows, and the pestering at the gate continues.
"Kristy! Kristy! How many more minutes?"
"20."
"Aw."
"Kristy! Kristy! How many more minutes?"
"14."
"Aw."
And on it goes.

At 4:58 we give in, and open the gates to the mob of minis. The din continues. The little boys stack blocks into towers until they tumble and then they do it all over again. The big boys form teams and play soccer until they are covered in muddy dust. The girls chase each other in circles, playing tag, until its finally time to start. They all form pushy compact lines at the door. The little boys race up the stairs, clamor into seats, grab pencils, furiously ready to start.

We stand and wait for them to be quiet.
We pass out the pages.
And then, almost like a miracle.
Near silence.
For more than 20 minutes, these boys, sweaty, loud, generally irreverent boys, crayons gripped tightly, color cats in peace.
The two boys that were fighting in the street less than a couple hours ago stand next to each other, all smiles, eager to show off their work.
And we shake our heads, amazed at ordinary grace once again.

273/365

Tim invited a few boys that he has been doing a robotics project with on weekday afternoons to come over to our house this weekend. They'd work on the robot car and have lunch with us. One of our girls overheard that invitation and she wanted to come, too. Sure! So we made a date with these kids and waited for Saturday morning.

The boys had the robotics project, but I didn't have anything special to do with my young friend. I figured that we could make cookies. Maybe play some Uno. Now before any of you go getting upset and thinking that I'm being sexist while the boys do science and I make cookies in the kitchen with the girls... fine. All I can tell you is that I'm doing what I know how to do. Tim knows robotics. I know cookies. And I can play Uno.

Here's my problem. I've never baked in my new oven. I'm a just a little bit afraid of it, the oven part, that is. It is gas. And the automatic ignition, well, it clicks a lot.

When we lived in Costa Rica, our rental house had a gas oven. To light it, I had to turn the knob and start the gas and then reach in with a lit match to ignite the torch. I'd hear the hiss of the gas, and then I knew, the clock was ticking before the time bomb would explode. Indeed, every once in a while, it did. One time, the gas lit with a small boom and I found myself sitting on the floor beyond the kitchen door. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, the kitchen was about 4 feet square, so I wasn't moved far. And thankfully, I still had eyelashes. But friends, the fear is real.

Considering all that, on Saturday I opted for no-bake cookies. The kind I can stir on the stove top and cool on the tabletop. I gathered the ingredients and waited.

The boys arrived, and did their robot thing for a while. But my friend never showed. Who knows why not. I'll find her today and ask. I made the cookies anyway. Then I heated up taco fixings, and warmed tortillas. (Neat feature of Mexican stoves- the cast iron tortilla warmer in the center!) We all ate lunch together and played a couple rounds of Uno. I offered them some cookies. Um. Well. They weren't a hit. Too chocolatey, too rich, I think.

Maybe next time I need to lite the oven...

256/365

I suppose that I shouldn't be surprised but honestly, I didn't expect it. The reading log has turned into a competition. Who knew that reading Bible stories and making check marks could be a thing? "How many has he read?" "How many am I missing?" "Can I read one more? Just one more?! Please?!"

Boys and girls from our neighborhood come into the community center in the afternoon. These kids do not attend the local schools. Some have them have gone at one point or another, but mostly, they have picked things up along the way. But now, through a government education program that we are able to administer, our neighborhood kids have opportunity to earn a certificate of completion for their elementary and middle school learning. Think of it as a GED for the lower years.

The kids gather at the gate in mid-afternoon, usually before we arrive, and come in and work for a couple of hours, rotating through tutoring in math and writing and reading. I have the privilege of sitting across and next to these kids and listening to them read. I have listened to kids learn to read for a lot of years. It is balm to my soul.

Some of our kids read fluidly, with inflection that makes me want to laugh out loud. I'm pretty sure that one has a potential in radio. Others still falter and stumble, but push on. A couple of our boys also attend a weekly Bible study, a small group from the church meeting in the home of our teammates. On this day, we took turns reading out loud, moving from person to person towards these brothers. And then, they each took their turn, reading out loud too (and old language words from an old school translation Bible- words that might cause many to slow down). When each finished, we let out a cheer and they each smiled big.

I imagine a time when we will have a library of books for our kids to borrow, a means to transport them to far-away lands and meet yet unknown people and take adventures that ordinary life might never allow. But meanwhile, we progress, one story at a time.

255/365

Mid-week, and the visits for prayer and to drop off bags of simple groceries from the church continue. Our first stop comes just yards down from the entrance to Boys' Town, La Zona Tolerancia. And tolerance sounds like a nice thing except that this is the place where prostitution is knowingly permitted. We stand next door to the curandero, next to the tire shop in the wall, and push the button and wait, not knowing what to expect behind the gate.

Our dear little friend opens the gate and ushers us in with smiles and handshakes and kisses. She leads us into the courtyard, and then to her little apartment. Actually, "apartment" would be generous; really, it's just a little room divided by a curtain. Later she will tell us how much she pays weekly for rent and we shake our heads. Surely it should be considered much too much except that "fair housing" has not yet come to this neighborhood. We start to sit inside her home, on the bed, on a chair, and then she decides we should go outside. More room. More breeze.

We gather around in plastic chairs and sitting on the wall and find out how our friend has been. She tells us stories of her health and of her family. All the while, activity goes on around us. The toddler in pigtails, not yet even talking but already running to and fro in the patio, always trying to escape from adult grip. The faces that peek from the doorways of rooms above and beside us, surely checking out the visitors as much as we sneak glances at them. We hear the sounds from just beyond the wall, of water vendors and of the horse hooves of the trash carts and of car tires screeching on the busy entrance road. Our friend grows plants in old paint buckets, certainly for use in healing, certainly to bring a little green to this dusty place.

We pray and the farewells bookend the greetings, handshakes and kisses and hasta luego, Dios le bendiga. We leave with smiles and venture back into the center of the neighborhood, another visit to make. But this address, we just aren't sure exactly where to find this place. We know we are close, so close, but not quite there. Mario calls, and the lady tells us she'll meet us in the street. We make a U-turn and backtrack, and sure enough, there she stands, near the corner but in the street, her back to us, hand waving as she talks to us. We tell her we are just behind her. We watch her look in all the wrong directions. Finally she turns and sees us so close and we all laugh. All the while she continues to talk to us on the phone, leading us to her home a few houses down the street.

Again, her enthusiasm is contagious and we greet each other like lost family. She, too, invites us into her small home. Our eyes adjust to the dark and we smile. Al Pacino hangs across the room from Freida Kahlo; small knick-knack statues fill a short set of shelves. We perch on the low couches and she pulls up a plastic chair. One story blends into another, smiles morph to tears and then back to laughter. She tells us about her health and dramatically pulls up her shirt to show us exactly where her abdominal pain hits. She tells us about her neighbors and her life in this neighborhood for many many years. She tells us about witch doctors and black cats and half-cooked eggs. She tells us she wants to know more about Jesus; she wants to know more about the Bible. She wants us to place our hands on her as we pray over her before we leave. We do.

And always, people are people, no matter the language, no matter the income, no matter the career. People who hurt from relationships and from life. People who need more than anyone can possibly provide. People who long for more. We leave smiling, but overwhelmed if not for our hope in He who is enough.