“And I come here to tell you how much life these people have given me, that they have an incredible gift to bring to our world, that they are a source of hope, peace and perhaps salvation for our wounded world, and that if we are open to them, if we welcome them, they give us life and lead us to Jesus and the good news.

“It is my belief that in our mad world where there is so much pain, rivalry, hatred, violence, inequality, and oppression, it is people who are weak, marginalized and counted as useless, who can become a source of life and of salvation for us.”

(Jean Vanier, From Brokenness to Community)

Jean Vanier founded L’Arche Communities, which are built on the vision that people with developmental disabilities and those who care for them can learn interdependence and ways of seeing God’s beauty in each other. Like many people, I first heard of them through writer Henri Nouwen, who was part of this community for some of the most formative stages of his life – resulting in insights that have challenged and blessed so many. I’ve also observed aspects of the L’Arche way lived out among a group in Denver.

I have experienced the truth of Vanier’s words over many years through my dear god-daughter Nikkie, pictured here. Nikkie is now 22 and living with a host family in Denver. I’m seldom happier or more loved than when we are working puzzles together or playing chess. Nikkie has taught me much about loyalty in relationships, and also about slowing down with loved ones. She takes a long time to communicate her thoughts, but they are worth paying attention to. She always asks me about things in my life. She laughs at my pretty lame jokes. She gets frustrated and sad at barriers in her life, and we talk about the longings those frustrations represent.

No doubt – Nikki “gives me life and leads me to Jesus and the good news.”

This week I’ve been at Mt. Angel Abbey in Oregon, which is a place for work and prayer. Following the rule of St. Benedict (480-547 A.D.) that “all are to be welcomed as Christ,” I have been welcomed into the daily prayerful rhythm of this place as I take a working retreat. (more…)

“The kind of work God usually calls you to is the kind of work that you need most to do and that the world most needs to have done.… The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

- Frederick Buechner

Today is Labor Day in the United States. I’m thankful to have not only employment, but employment in a vocation that is deeply meaningful to me. I’m very aware of friends and loved ones who have neither at this time. I long for their “deep gladness” to flourish among the world’s deep needs.

I spoke with someone recently who, after two years of unemployment, is near despair. It seems that past mistakes will forever doom his chances. The rejection of job applications seeps into his soul and festers into a sense of worthlessness. (more…)

“More and more, the desire grows in me simply to walk around, greet people, enter their homes, sit on their doorsteps, play ball, throw water, and be known as someone who wants to live with them. It is a privilege to have the time to practice this simple ministry of presence.

“Still, it is not as simple as it seems. My own desire to be useful, to do something significant, or to be part of some impressive project is so strong that soon my time is taken up by meetings, conferences, study groups, and workshops that prevent me from walking the streets. It is difficult not to have plans, not to organize people around an urgent cause, and not to feel that you are working directly for social progress. But I wonder more and more if the first thing shouldn’t be to know people by name, to eat and drink with them, to listen to their stories and tell your own, and to let them know with words, handshakes, and hugs that you do not simply like them, but truly love them.”

- Henri Nouwen

The above video version of Henri Nouwen’s quote was produced by Scott Lundeen in conjunction with the Urban Entry video series (a super resource here). It was narrated by Bill Bridges. Scott and Bill are great friends and co-workers at Mile High Ministries.

“Hoo boy, here comes trouble,” I muttered under my breath.

Our little group from camp—some of our younger orphan kids and a few team volunteers—were off on a walk down a lane in the beautiful rural Romanian countryside. Birds were singing in the sunshine, and so were a couple of our sweet girls. Little mute Marius shuffled shyly, poking a stick at flowers and bugs. Nothing was sweet or shy about Dumitru, and for him this was no “walk.” It was a pell-mell explosion of Dumitru-ness launching headlong down the dirt road. At the moment he was  unleashing his energy in the form of rocks hurled at a panicked bunch of white geese, who were now flapping wings and breaking into a sprint up the road away from the barrage.

I wasn’t worried about the geese. I was worried about the rickety car with a rickety trailer moving slowly toward us. A man—surely the owner of the geese—waved his arms and yelled something out the window. He was a ways off so I figured we could avoid confrontation and feign cluelessness if we just veered off into the field in another direction. He pulled up even with us and kept yelling, so I feigned even more cluelessness and kept us moving, steering Dumitru and his arsenal of rocks away from trouble.

I was relieved when the car moved on, and after awhile we circled our group back onto the road. Not five minutes later, though, the car doubled back and caught us from the rear. An older man jumped out, along with a young woman. They said some things in Romanian I didn’t quite catch, and started fishing around in their trailer. Wow what are we in for now, I wondered. First a verbal assault and now farm implements? I began mentally sifting my shaky Romanian for words of apology and pleas for mercy. With no exit strategy left now, I slowly approached the couple.

In fact, it is sometimes a challenge to keep our kids from wreaking local havoc. They come from very, very hard places. They act out of their great wounds of being abandoned, neglected, and abused. We delight in each child and love them all dearly, but they aren’t necessarily cute or lovely to others. At worst, they face harsh prejudice for their Roma (Gypsy) ethnicity and their misfit status in society as orphans. Together with our local ministry partners, we have helped many young people find well-connected and fruitful places in the community—but it’s usually a rocky process that takes years. Some of that process is very practical, such as education or job readiness. Some of it involves emotional and spiritual healing. Slowly, self-images shift from profound shame and unworthiness toward wholeness and dignity, and images of God move from angry accuser to lavish and embracing parent.

“Bună dimineaţa! Vreţi lubeniţa?” the man asked. In the context of our predicament, it was an oddly jarring question. “Good morning! Would you all like watermelon?” I stammered a response in the affirmative. The woman reached into the trailer to pull out a watermelon, which they enthusiastically  presented to us “for the children.” My mind scrambled to re-set the whole scene. These guys had seen us and the children on a morning walk, and had been trying this whole time to get our attention for their juicy gift. We weren’t making it easy.

I was so flummoxed I turned down the couple’s offer to cut the melon up for us, leaving us hunting afterward for a sharp rock to break it open with. Once we did, what a memorable treat! It wasn’t the only time this summer that my own expectation and even resistance was shattered, leaving me to re-set and re-orient my mind and heart—for who God is and what gifts the Spirit is offering.

“It is impossible for one to live without tears,

who considers things exactly as they are.”

~Gregory of Nyssa

Our Loving Arms Team, fresh back from our time with abandoned children in Romania, knows this.

For the word “tears” in the quote above, I’d add that the word “laughter” could also be substituted. Some refer to this as the tragicomic nature of reality, or at least our experience of reality. In our summer camps with abandoned children, play and sorrow mingle freely. Humor and horror.

A dear young gal loves dolls, like a lot of young gals do. Ok, maybe this gal loves dolls more than pretty much anyone I’ve ever seen. She goes on a rampage through the village, tearing down neighbors’ fences in search of dolls. Geese and chickens scatter. Finding an abandoned plastic doll (what are the chances?), she shrieks with delight. She coos and plays and sings, happy at last. She growls and bites, dismembers the doll limb from limb, and tosses body parts over a neighbors’ fence. Shrieking, she goes back on rampage. We chase her around, and make animated apologies to bewildered residents on her behalf. For the moment, she’s content to have a conversation with what’s left — the head. For her it is a great day, the best of the year. She’s safe with longtime friends who delight in her, and she’s got (part of) a new doll… what could be better? Tonight she will beat her head against the wall and gnaw at her flesh; tomorrow we will drive her back to a hard place. Later there will be tears but for now we laugh — the goofy conversation with the goofy plastic head is just too much.