The Meaning of Margins

Each Sunday in Princeton, Han and I reviewed English vocabulary. She'd bring her list of uncertain words culled from articles or TV of the week. I'd muddle through simplifying dictionary definitions.

She'd always start writing a word outside the margin line. Maybe to conserve space? She wasn't compartmentalizing word from meaning, she just acted like the line didn't exist. Whatever, it irked me. Often I'd swallow the sentence, "Don't you know to leave the margin empty? Write inside the lines! They keep your paper clutter-free!"

This morning I visited a church that sang in Spanish and English. The line "to the outcast and the weary" became something like, "a los marginados y los cansados." To the marginalized.

My new goal: live life across margins.

Backpacks in Brazil

This is Adriana, one of the coolest people I know. She just got back from Brazil where she held this little girl whose silent tears streamed down those tiny cheeks.

Adriana also scraped black mold off ceilings in a two-bedroom house - with little ventilation - shared by 16 Brazilian boys, all orphans. Each of the rooms' four walls are lined with bunk beds, and sandwiched between them is a cabinet that holds the each of the eight boys' belongings. Eight people's things fit into one cabinet.

One backpack could hold everything a boy owns.

Convicted today.

Johnny on the Corner

W Bellfort & 59-N Frontage Rd.

Tonight I prayed with a homeless man. Actually, he prayed for me, our hands clasped through my open car window. After cleaning my windshield on the corner of W Bellfort and the 59-N Frontage Rd., I handed him a $5 bill - a completely uncharacteristic move for my when-helping-hurts philosophy. But my windshield really needed it, and, hey, he was being proactive.
“Thank you, sir.”
“God bless you. My name’s Johnny.”
“Johnny, I’ll be praying for you.” My internal dialogue quickly chided, “That’s trite. Actually engage with him!”
“Johnny, how can I be praying for you?” I corrected, when I really wanted to just hear his story.
“Hmm, can I pray for you instead?”
So before the cars could start honking, we held hands. “Lord, it’s Johnny and Meredith, and we’re here today as brothers and sisters. You know whatever financial situation we’re in, but we ask you to just be in the midst of it.”
The light changed. I had to cut the beauty of it short. I don’t know his story. I don’t even know if he’s actually homeless. But He prayed. For me. Now, hours later, I still feel the pressure of his handshake.

A Second Cup

Tomorrow night I'm trying to check out this coffee shop, A 2nd Cup. A quick mention on NPR tipped me off to the place, and I figured if a coffee shop values NPR enough to advertise on our local station, it can't be bad (self-professed NPR junkie, that I am). But it exists for an even higher calling than public radio.

I know I'm super naive, but I had no idea sex trafficking happened in America, much less in Houston. Come to find out, Houston is a hub for human trafficking with is proximity to the Mexican border and as a major port city. A 2nd Cup exists to raise awareness and fund after-care programs for survivors - housing, mentoring, tutoring, and job skills. Their incubator coffee shop has been open since June and has raised $40,000 of their $220,000 start up capital goal. My latte and one bag of grounds (and maybe a stinkin' awesome logo mug... and pin... and tote?) might not help much, but I'm really curious to see if this is something I could advocate. Find them on Facebook.

See the city map taped out on the wall of trafficking hot spots? I live DIRECTLY under that horizontal yellow strip on the west side. It's happening all around me. How long will I be blind?

A Baha'i, a Buddhist and a Brahman

I spent the day with a Baha'i, a Buddhist and a Hindu. No, there's no punchline. But I learned some things I hope to build on in later discussions.

11:15 a.m. - The Baha'i faith was created about 160 years ago (in Iran?) from the belief that world religions should stop their arguing and just get to serving the one Source, though Baha'is have their own set of sacred writings, contributed by two prophets... one preceding the other, preparing the way (maybe like John to Jesus?). All world religions are just different paths to the same God, they say, at least from what I'm interpreting. My question in a follow-up discussion will be, in your faceted study of these faiths, have you discovered substantial inconsistencies? If so, how do you rectify them? Or, if you've only read the Baha'i teachings, do you think there is value in reading the actual sacred writings of other faiths?

2:30 p.m. - I learned one reason Buddhists don't like to keep pets is the belief that animals will try to absorb humans' spiritual energy to jump up a few rungs on the reincarnational ladder. Question: what is it about human energy that sets us apart as a specie? How is that differentiation bestowed upon us? In a reincarnational worldview, are all animals conscious of their need to move up in the world?

6:00 p.m. - This particular Hindu friend, of the Brahman caste, is to be more pious than those beneath him. He's recently been through his thread ceremony, "marrying" him to their goddess - I'm gathering, sort of a pledge of loyalty to his beliefs, before his earthly marriage. He feels guilt when he slips and eats fish or after the occasional glass of scotch, a feeling alleviated after confessing, informally, to his family. So, where does this feeling of guilt come from? Do you feel it toward your deity or just toward your family's public honor? What is your relationship like to the god and goddess? What is your motivation for following their teachings? Do you feel their presence often?

Really grateful for deeper discussions and the necessity of solidifying my own faith through these questions.

Burger Beautiful

Two recent instances of burger-ness are blog-worthy.

Sacramento is home to illegal food trucks congregating in a public park, coffee shops with personal french presses and the best patty melt sliders I've ever  - had -  or had the pleasure of ingesting. Cafeteria 15L. It's the bomb. "swiss, caramelized onion, special sauce and rye bread." I wish I'd snapped a food foto, but I was too busy trying not to cry. Yes, they were that good (and the space was just as cool).

Back in H-town, Natachee's did not disappoint. When I have trouble choosing between burgers alone, I know it's a good set-up. Opting out of the jalapeno option for once, I went for the Outside-In: "Hand-spanked burger full of cheddar and jack cheese, grilled to perfection, then topped with sauteed spinach, pickles and Ranch dressing." I couldn't put it down; it was that good, but also that juicy. Why waste napkins when you could inhale it instead?

If you grew up in the Shreveport // Bossier Metroplex, did you ever go to a place on Barksdale Blvd. called Teddy Bears? Best burgers ever! Juicy with a special sauce. And then it shut down. Along with my childhood dreams (i.e. all rewards for good grades were eaten up here, good memories with Mom). People are still talking about it on online forums... you know, the people who still read those.

Where Teddy Bears possibly used to be, according to Google Maps?
My 3rd-grade memory is fuzzy.

Midtown's Natachee's was the reincarnation. I can't wait to bring all my out-of-towners here! Raise a glass - or a patty - to making new memories at places like this.

The Search for Church

The search for a multi-ethnic, multi-generational church continues. I hesitate to say anything negative about the Church, capital "C," for fear of adding to the din of complaints from outsiders. But as a Christian in a new area, I'm a little confused and frustrated. And convicted. And not just by the sermon I heard today. I realize the Church is me. [sic]

Thus far, I've visited two churches, little "c," in Houston proper and probably won't make a second date with either one. During my interview back in June, my then-future co-worker made a point to tout Houston as the 4th most diverse American city. True, I've passed two masjids this week and ate dinner at an Iranian deli yesterday. I've already pre-set Hispanic radio in my car and plan to hit up Chinatown for bubble tea this afternoon. The proximity of these cultural pockets excites me, but that's just what they are, pockets. Compartmentalized cordoned-off blocks that jut up next to each other, but never mix. I'm learning there's a difference in observing diversity and actually participating in it. I'm worried I spend too much time observing.

Back to the sanctuary. Look around. Everyone looks like me. Mid-to-late-20s, thick, black prescription (or not) frames, plaid shirts or scarves topping off skinny, dark-wash Levi's and TOMS (or Van's, take your pick). The messages from the pulpit have been good, I can't deny! And I'm so grateful for truth taught. But I've been so distracted by the shininess around me that it's hard to digest anything of substance. I'm drowning in coolness. Should church be cool?

I think the cause of this uniformity is well-intentioned. We crave authentic community, and for some reason, 20-somethings seem to seek the "real experience" more than any other age bracket. We grew up in such a time of decadence (hello, 80s' Dallas & Dynasty) that our subculture is reactionary. Give me a salvaged, solid-wood countertop and craft beer out of a mason jar over a discussion about worldview. Hashtag, #Boom. #Real? #Maybe.

Here's the catch: community can't be authentic if it's insular. Why? Because people will be so preoccupied making sure they qualify that no real relationship will be exchanged. It's just a glorified youth group.

I want to go to church with parents, grandparents, widows, married couples with kids in kindergarten or kids in college, because they have wisdom I don't. I want to celebrate different forms of worship through varied traditional music because, God knows, Chris Tomlin isn't going to be the only headliner in heaven. I want to be introduced to facets of Christian theology that can only be highlighted in the context of multiculturalism. I want the homeless people we serve to sit with me in the same pew.

Because you know what's authentic? Bringing heaven to earth. And I hear heaven is full of a bunch of people who don't look like me.

But then I look at myself. Do I wear hipster glasses? Yes. When I actually attended a diverse church, did I engage other cultures past a warm, passing smile? No. How much do I seek out other ethnicities (or even socio-economic groups!) Monday through Saturday, making its congregational continuation on Sunday simply natural? Not much.

See, I am the Church. I am the problem. God, please save me.