Following Jesus amidst the tombs

This weekend I worked an adventure camp with kids who come from notoriously bad neighborhoods in L.A. I always enjoy these camps, because I essentially get paid to hang out with kids and do fun things with them. The part that is always difficult, however, is hearing their stories of the tremendous obstacles they face in life.

One obviously intelligent and creative 16 year old boy, allowing himself to dream a little, was telling me what he hoped to do when he got older. Just as quickly as his face lit up, however, did the sparkle die out as he lowered his voice to tell me that he knew this would never happened since he did not have "papers". His parents had brought him into the States when he was 3, and he knew the difficulty of receiving his documents. "I'll probably just end up doing nothing," he told me quietly.

Another girl sobbed out pent up pain with me outside in the freezing mist while the rest of the group was involved in a "conversation circle" inside. It seemed to me that her pain came just as much as from a profound sense of isolation as the hurt caused by being abandoned by her father and difficulty with her mother.

Hearing these stories reminds me that I do not enjoy feeling my own pain, not to mention other people's pain. The temptation to isolate myself from others' pain is a powerful and potent force. The day I got back from camp, however, I read the story of Jesus and the Gerasene demoniac. It struck me that Jesus seemed to have gone there for the sole purpose of meeting with this naked man who lived among the tombs. Assaulted by the demonic, this man was surrounded by the scent of death, yet Jesus walked in the midst of this. In view of my visceral reaction to pain, I have no doubt that I would have been hiding behind one of the tombs during the interaction between Jesus and the demoniac.

To follow Jesus, I have to follow him amidst the tombs. These kids are assaulted by those same forces that were in that ancient graveyard, forces that are attempting to destroy their lives, to bring them to a point of hopelessness and resignation at the prospect of things ever being different. To follow Jesus, I have to be present with them, to be able to squarely look at and try to understand their reality. This means really listening to their stories and allowing myself to be affected by their pain. Perhaps this allows me to bear a small bit of their burden, even for that moment that they are telling me their story.

Spinal Tap: Part 2 "Normal or just plain fishy?"

Dr. Ray Pevey is a strange man. Sometimes he seems borderline normal, but other times it seems that he pushes some kind of button and goes into an "auto-mode" chiropractic sales pitch.

Being as I had never had any chiropractic experience before, I tried to keep an open mind throughout the experience, although some parts of it made me a little uneasy. The office was one of those "used-to-be-house" type places decorated in a hunter green with pink accents. However, there was a front waiting room and a receptionist who seemed refreshingly normal.

As I was waiting for my appointment, I picked up a big binder with raving patient testimonials...the problem was most that of them were for a "Dr. Hess". Of the 4 or 5 that were singing Dr. Pevey's praises, one had a line that made me shudder: "It took 3 electric shock treatments before Dr. Pevey could even start working on my shoulder...." Electric shock treatments?

First, I was forced to watch a propagandaish video that detailed the entire educational process for chiropractors, narrated by a polite woman's voice that frequently assured me: "Your chiropractor is well-educated". Finally, Dr. Pevey sailed in to get me started. I was a little taken aback when he instructed me to take off my clothes and put on a hospital-type gown with Velcro in the back. After he left, I stared at the gown for a couple of minutes. "I wasn't expecting this," I thought. "What are my options here?" I opened the door just slightly and peered out into the hallway where I saw another patient clad in blue gown following another doctor (probably Hess..the guy with the fan club) down the hallway. "Okay," I thought. "So it is not just me...I guess it is standard procedure. My chiropractor is well-educated."

I donned the gown and then went through a series of tests and x-rays. Nothing bad happened, but I was mortified when I also had to walk down the hall in my gown of the "used-to-be-house" to the x-ray room. "Oh, Melody," Dr. Pevey boomed in a rather loud voice. "I'm really glad you came in, I think you came in just in time before some of your issues go too far down the line."

At the end, Dr. Pevey informed me that he had to "carefully analyze all the data" to come up with conclusive, comprehensive answers and recommendations and told me to come in the next week for the results. In retrospect, it wasn't too bad....except when I told my roommate about it (who has been to many chiropractors)and she said she never had to do most of that stuff. Hmmmmmmm......

Spinal Tap

We who live on the financial edge are drawn to the word "FREE" like an overheated dog to a pool of water. And so I found my legs heading over to the sign with said word at the Monrovia Street Fair.

"Mmmmm, " I thought as I saw the sign that read: Free Spinal Screening. I pictured a mealy-mouthed man with slicked-back greasy hair running his fingers down my spine. I kept walking past the booth.

"But when will I have another opportunity to get a spinal screening?" I thought. "I mean, I have been having trouble with my knee and foot." One minute later, I found myself in front of the smiley woman with the clipboard.

Initially, I was very suspicious of Dr. Ray Pevey who looked like an ex-body builder gone doctor. "A little too polished," I thought, "for someone who has biceps that big".

However, he conducted himself with utmost courtesy and validated my own suspicions: my pelvis looked to be out of alignment. He then offered me a fantastic deal...a full screening at his clinic that was regularly $195 for only $20! My suspicions were slightly alerted again when he mentioned "neurological testing" as one of the many tests they do (perhaps I am just chiropracticaly ignorant, but what do neurology tests have to do with your posture?) But somehow, before I knew it, I was signing up for the series of tests for next Friday. Although I have been known to be suckered before, Dr. Pevey does have a real business card and his smiley receptionist gave me a receipt, so it MUST be okay, right? After all, I can always flee the premises if it turns out to be a shady deal. Misaligned pelvis or not, I feel confident I can outrun Dr. Pevey with those big biceps weighing him down. What a great deal!

Tales from the Coffee Kiosk

I'm not really sure why I stopped writing over this quarter. It certainly wasn't for a lack of material; oh, the stories I could tell of crazy cat women, meeting Tony Blair, learning about the daily life of the homeless, falling out of windows in an attempt to rescue a cat(no, I am not in the "crazy cat women" category!), and so much more.... I will begin, however, with a story that moved me deeply of a homeless man name John.

I now work at a coffee kiosk outside of a public library. I was previously unaware of the centrality of a public library in the lives of many people: it is used it as a home, a warm, resting place, and a community center. The first thing that I noticed about John was that his nose had a black, cancerous looking growth spreading across it. Polite and quiet, his body held the posture of weathered survival. He would pay with change for a cup of coffee once a day. Apparently, he had lived in the apartments behind the library, living off of his social security check until the always-increasing rent forced him out on the streets, where he used his social security check to try to make food last for the month.

One day, one of our "dailies", a lawyer who worked across the street, began to slip us money for John so that he could have something to eat and drink when his social security ran out for the month. I felt sick to my stomach when one afternoon John came out of the library, pondering the kiosk's food selection, and decided on a scone for dinner because he felt that it would be the most filling. The most astonishing thing, however, was John's presence when he learned of his "special funds" we kept stashed in the cash register. His body, once bent over, stood straighter, his shoulders were back, he looked me in the eye, and would strike up a conversation with me. I was astonished at this change and mused over its ramifications with my boss.

"I think he felt that someone actually cared about him, and that made the difference, " he said. My boss, who seems to be part business owner, part counselor, part social worker for all the people who come into his coffee zone, took it upon himself to locate a place where John could have a bed for awhile. It warms my heart to see John come visit now after a good night's sleep in a warm place. "I won't be coming in tomorrow morning, " he told me the other day, "I think I'm going to relax and sleep in tomorrow!" What a potent reminder of the transformative power of love in action!

Eyes of hope

These two pictures show myself with two Serb teenagers who just graduated high school and one Albanian who also just graduated. Of course, they went to separate high schools, but they do know each other through the Summer English School that the missionaries here run at the community center. Through this summer program, these teenagers have broken down some walls, become friendly with each other, and will even greet each other on the street.

Roza, the Albanian, related an incident that happened a few months ago. She was walking down the street when she saw Elena, the Serbian, across the street. Roza greeted her and Elena returned the greeting. The group of Serb teenagers that were standing next to Elena said: "Don't talk to her...she's Albanian!" Elena replied: "She's my friend!" Although their friendship does not extend beyond greeting, I believe this is a significantly hopeful story.

The Serbian teenagers were extremely guarded about what they said to me regarding the situation and expressed little hope that anything would change. In fact, "uncertainty" would be a word to describe the state of the Serbians here.. . many are half-expecting to have to move to Serbia. Ironically, although Serbia is vying for Kosovo, Kosovite Serbs are not exactly welcomed to Serbia, being seen as "country cousins".

Roza, on the other hand, was full of optimism and hope about the future, wanting to build relationships and leave the past in the past even though her family had endured many hardships at the hands of the Serb soldiers. Even those that express this hope for the future, however, cannot practically relate how these relationships could be formed between the two groups.

I myself felt tremendous hope as I looked in the eyes of these young woman who were setting off to university. Despite difficult situations, there is an expectancy and enthusiasm that spills out of them, and in their eyes I saw the secret dreams and hopes that are so wonderfully bound up in youth. Hope, I believe, is a grace from God because it allows people to move through the rubble of broken lives towards the kingdom.

Albanian Hospitality: A night of tea(copious amounts) and talking

Amhad and Habbibba live with their 3 children in two small rooms in the small town of Lipje, where I am staying for several nights. I accompanied a young missionary couple on their visit to this family as my first experience interacting with some Albanians. I was met with warmth and friendliness, and I was amused to see their young son greet me in a miniature U.S. army uniform. Albanian Kosovites love Americans because of the NATO bombing, seeing us as their liberators. They celebrate July 4th and jokingly state the adage: God first, America second. Kosovite Serbs, on the other hand, have exactly the opposite feelings towards Americans for exactly the opposite reasons.

With one eye on the conversation and the other eye on my Turkish-style tea glass to ensure that I was drinking at a similar pace as everyone else, I found myself drawn into Amhad’s passionate views on Kosovo. “Nobody wants to speak the truth here, “ he claims. People shut their eyes to the truth of all the corruption, the mafia, the humanitarian aid that is being exploited for the rich….people are too afraid to speak the truth because you might compromise your relationships with people. And besides, most people play along with the corruption. They may not get even half of the aid they are supposed to get, but at least they get some if they keep their mouths shut.” He proceeded to tell me about last winter, when there was no wood for the stoves at his kids' school. Since the winter before had been mild, the municipality had pocketed the money designated for school fuel. Consequently, the kids were suffering through below 0 temperatures at school. Amhad tried to rally the parents to demand fuel, but no one wanted to raise any trouble. Eventually, Amhad went down to the president of the munincipality and demanded that either he take action or Amhad would go to the media. The next day, a truckload of wood appeared at the school.

By this point in the conversation, I had already drank 5 cups of the tea, and there was no end in sight. I asked Amhad if he believed peace could exist between the Kosovite Serbs and the Kosovite Albanians, since most towns were completely segregated(even the schools) and mistrust and hatred for the other are rampant. Amhad declared that people needed to decide to see the other as a person and not disregard them for their ethnicity. He said there needed to be an increase in morality. He said that if justice came to deal with the corruption, the economic situation improved, if people had jobs, then it would be easier to live in peace once more. Amhad himself has not worked since the war: 12+ years ago. In fact, he turned down a job as a border guard because he would have had to participate in corruption. "I may not have money, " he said, "but I am clean. Someday they will have to answer for every penny they take."

After 2.5 hours of conversation and swimming in a stomach-full of tea, we took our leave amidst warm handshakes and their promises to make me Amhad's famous Swiss coffee were I to visit again before I left the country.

Albanian hospitality is equivalent to the Serbian hospitality I experienced. However, they are divided by language, religion, and a bloody past. Both sides have committed ethnic cleansings, although history is viewed through only one lens in each respective group. If the children remain segregated, learning about the other in terms of mistrust and hatred, I fear for this new country. I would guess most ordinary people, like many others I have met in the Balkans, only want to live their lives in peace, being able to provide for their families. However, it seems that the way to peace is impassable by the fierce rivers of an unresolved past.

P.S. For those concerned with my previous dire post, the next day in Belgrade was much better. That lady made some more time for me and I got to ride on a green scooter next to the river. Who can ask for more?

Wilting in Beograd

Yesterday I hit a wall; in fact, if it hadn't been for the kind painter, the cafe waiter, and Ratko, I think I might have had a complete meltdown. It's been very hot here in Beograd, Serbia--close to a 100 with humidity. Yesterday I had two appointments scheduled, and the first lady was supposed to drop me off at my next appointment. We were supposed to meet each other in front of a massive hotel; so, I walked around this hotel about three times looking for her.

I was baking in the heat, drenched in sweat, and feeling extremely miserable because there was no pay phone around and I was in a completely different part of Belgrade than I was used to. I had a map, but having a map is not exactly helpful in Belgrade. Why? Because even though Serbian is almost the same as Croatian and Bosnian, they write it with the Cyrillic alphabet. In other words, when you look at the map, you might see a street that looks like this: Lbjinka. When you look up at a street sign, you might see something like this: #@%#L*$. Well, not exactly, but the characters are about as foreign as that.

I finally tried to communicate with some painters that I needed a phone. After much wild hand gesticulating, a painter took me around the hotel again and took me down to a little cafe on the river. Talking animatedly, he seemed convinced that I would begin to understand him. I tried to smile and nod a lot, hoping I was agreeing at the right places in the conversation. He took me up above the cafe to the manager's office and the manager let me use his cell phone. When I found out that the lady had left the hotel at 12:15 after waiting for 15 minutes(because it was so hot). I felt the weight of a whole lot of factors pressing down on me: I did not have much sleep the night before because certain people in my hostel were not practicing good hostel etiquette, I didn't know where I was, this was a very important appointment, I lost my hostel bed for the night and had no place to stay, I was hungry, and the intensity of the heat..all these factors contributed to my incoming meltdown. I was so discouraged that I wanted to sit down and cry. I think the painter saw the look on my face and took me back down to the cafe where he told the cafe waiter to bring me a cold sprite. They wouldn't let me pay for it, and the painter left after shaking my hand.

After riding on a random bus for an hour, I finally was able to figure out how to get back to the main part of Beograd. Dirty, sweaty, hungry, thirsty, I stumbled into my next destination: a small humanitarian organization. I think I might have had a touch of heat exhaustion, so my head was spinning as I sank into the warm hospitality that Bread of Life offered me. I met Ratko, one of the Christians who worked there, and my day got a whole lot better. I related the story of my day to him, and he began giggling so hard that I also began to laugh.

When the sun went down, he gave me a little tour of different sites. He helped me take my luggage to the new hostel, and then took me out for a drink. We walked all over the city and enjoyed the nightlife and I tumbled into bed at 2 a.m. What a day!