Sarah & Mike in Fast Company Magazine

Back in November Mike and I attended a fascinating panel discussion on the “revitalization” of Harlem, our neighborhood, sponsored by Aloft Hotels and Fast Company magazine.  Architects, designers and community leaders sat on the panel and shared their stories, histories and experiences in the effort to  transform Harlem into the hot spot it is now: new restaurants, new hotels, new green spaces.  One person commented that Harlem hasn’t been revitalized, it’s simply continued the path of transformation down which all urban communities travel.

I met the architect who redesigned my favorite green space, turning it from a parking lot into a beautiful park with piers into the East River, places to sit and gaze at New Jersey, bike and roller blading paths, as well as a running trail.  I also met some of the people who lobbied for years for that park!

The event, hosted in the first hotel to open in Harlem in more than 40 years, included time to network with others and was catered by  Sylvia’s, a neighborhood restaurant known for it’s flavorful soul food.  Our infamous photo was snapped during that tasty hour.

Image from www.unviolencestudy.org

There are times when reality barges into my safe world and I don’t always know how to respond. Balancing the tension of the imperfect can be uncomfortable and disorienting. How does the Gospel make a difference here? Do I step up, step in? How? What do I say?

The bus was late, and I had a raging headache. It crossed my mind to stay home from our Tuesday night small group, but seeing those people has quickly become one of the high points in my week. After being away for ten days, the idea of joining them for a home-cooked meal and a rousing discussion about the Bible and last Sunday’s sermon was too tempting for me to skip. Raging headache and all.

Five minutes late, seven minutes late… now we would be late, too. Note to self: take the subway to small group, and the bus home.

I shared the bus stop bench with two men. The one sitting in the middle was tall, sturdy and talkative. The other was older, frail, with a beard and a curved wooden cane. When the taller man sat down, he greeted the older man as though he knew him, handing him a piece of fruit out of his white plastic grocery store bag. They carried on a lively, mostly one-sided conversation in the evening chill. Mike stood to my right, in front of the large illumined H&M store ad featuring two blond women wearing surprisingly inexpensive clothing.

I heard a noise behind me, as though a scuffle had broken out, and now someone was crying. I twisted around on the bench and saw two kids on the ground about four feet away: a little girl in her pink coat, hood up, backpack strapped to her back, was struggling to get up from the wet sidewalk. A young boy, maybe junior high age and wearing what looked like a thin navy blue jacket was on his back with an open-mouthed wail. I think I saw tears. Two women were standing over them. The one with her hair slicked back looked angry and was yelling at the boy.

My heart skipped a few beats and I turned to my right to look at Mike for reassurance or explanation. He looked down at me and softly said, “She pushed them down.”

I swiveled back around to my left, protected from the wind by the bus stop shelter, and looked at the scene again. How could that be? The older woman had the young girl by the hand by now, walking down the hill ahead while the angry woman and the boy were standing still on the other side of the clear bus stop partition. She was yelling at him, but he was wailing louder and had a hand on his head.

I turned back to Mike and asked him to repeat what he had said because I simply could not work out the mechanics of it. It didn’t seem to be an accident. Anger radiated from the scene and I was glad we had the clear plexiglass of the bus stop to shield us from that angry woman. Mike said the woman pushed the girl into the boy and knocked them both down. I can’t imagine the force she used, for when I first looked, the kids were splayed out on the ground like bowling pins after a someone throws a strike.

Now the angry woman grabbed the boy by the collar, pushing him backwards over the black wrought iron railing. Unfortunately for the boy, the railing was made up of vertical black poles of varying heights. It had to hurt to be forced backwards over that fence.

I felt sick to my stomach and glued to my seat. This wasn’t an episode of Law & Order. This was really happening in front of me. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted someone to intervene. What do I say? What do I do? My mouth felt clamped shut. Would anyone say anything? What would the angry woman do next? Would she turn towards her audience at the bus stop and unleash her anger on us? I was scared and shaken.

The pair walked away: the boy holding his head, still wailing with an open-mouthed cry and his unzipped jacket also wide open in the chill wind, the angry woman still shouting unintelligible words. I think she was oblivious to us, though we were only four feet away.

I sat still, shocked, feeling ill, unsure of what to do next. The large man on my left made comments about how a boy can’t stop crying when a woman is hitting him.

That’s when it hit me hard: this is reality. For many people. This kind of abuse is an everyday occurrence. With more than 8 million people living on an island 13 miles long by 2 miles wide, you’re going to run into all sides of humanity. How had I lived here for over a year and not yet run into situations like this?

I’ve seen the sad, fallen side of society like poverty and the plight of the homeless. I’ve volunteered time and muscle to help. Jesus said we’d always have the poor with us. But this scene was energized by anger and incited fear in me. Now my raging headache was accompanied by a churning stomachache.

When the M11 bus finally arrived, I climbed on in a shell-shocked state. I took a seat near the back, next to the window to search the passing sidewalks for the foursome. But they were long gone. Do they live in the apartment complex across the street from my place? Will I see them again? Was the boy at home, cowering from the angry woman? What was it like for him everyday? Scenes from the movie Precious punctuated my questions.

Two and a half miles south on Amsterdam the happy hum of conversation greeted us in the Upper West Side apartment, along with the comforting smells of homemade lasagna. People smiled and called out warm greetings as I wriggled out of my puffy down coat. It was the kind of scene that a movie director could use to close out a film, complete with clusters of conversation around a big table, soft lighting, with a few people in the kitchen washing the dishes while a sense of joy and fullness radiated from everyone in the place.

But this isn’t the end of a movie. This is the tension of living in the now and the not yet, believing in a Redeemer who binds up the wounds of the broken, restores what was stolen, and brings justice, yet not seeing the complete fulfillment of these promises in the lives of other people, or even in my own.

Oh Lord Jesus, I want to live out the truth, righteousness and hope of your Gospel, but I don’t know how to reconcile the harsh reality of our fallen, broken world with what I know to be true about you. I live sheltered from so much of the hurt others experience. Lead me. How do you want me to live?

Photo from www.RachaelRayShow.com

Living in New York City provides opportunities for unexpected fun which you can’t get anywhere else.  Take yesterday, for instance.  A friend gave me tickets to see a taping of the Rachael Ray Show, and I sat in the front row of the audience with my sister on my right, and a friend on the left.  Next thing I knew, I had a microphone in my hand, a camera trained on my face, and I was standing up asking a baking question to Rachael Ray and Buddy the Cake Boss as they made a cream puff pie dessert.

Photo from http://www.andol.info/life/1222.htm

I shoved my gloved hands deeper into my jacket pockets.  It wasn’t a frigid winter day, but it was windy and damp, having rained on and off.  Staff meeting was over and I headed back to our apartment to finish up a report for our team leader.  We had a team dinner in three hours, so I had just enough time to make the final edits and revisions.  I was glad to have words to wrestle with for the afternoon because near the end of our staff meeting sorrow had wrapped itself around me like a warm blanket on this chilly day.  I didn’t expect the sorrow, so when I realized what I felt, I was surprised.  I needed the comfort of mindful editing so I could ignore the unexpected sorrow.

This was a unique day.  Because three of our teammates are leaving the city, moving out, we had a day of farewells with fond memories and an encouraging send off.  But walking away from that, I didn’t feel happy.

It felt like everyone else on the team was moving on to something new: new ministry locations, new teams, new adventures.  And the one other couple remaining in the City  had a baby just a few days ago.  It seemed like everyone had new chapters of life to explore.  But I felt the weight of empty arms and was reminded again of the baby we lost.  If I hadn’t had a miscarriage, I’d be 5-6 months pregnant by now and we would’ve had our new chapter to look forward to, too.

Oh Lord, how do I move forward in this sadness, this sorrow, this emptiness?  May my wounded heart learn how to rejoice with those who rejoice, and mourn with those who mourn.  Fill my heart with healing, with hope.

Rather than exploring my yearnings for a svelte figure or organized and clutter-free living, I’d rather write about WHO I hope to be in 2012 rather than WHAT I want to do. I’m back at the be vs. do challenge around which my life often circles.

Who do I want to be this year? Me, but a growing version of me: ever learning, exploring and creating.

I want to walk in greater avenues of humility with a tender heart, asking for forgiveness, and offering it without being asked.

I want to be a woman who doesn’t hold grudges, nor thinks more highly of herself than she does of others.

I want to be a woman who says “yes,” to new friends, experiences, challenges and opportunities.

I want be a woman who doesn’t “should” on herself: I want to cease making oppressive, unrealistic expectations for my character, behavior, appearance, accomplishments, and anecdotes.

I want to be a woman who lives in the freedom of grace and extends it to others.  I want to be a woman who gives herself and others room to breathe.

It sounds like this is my 2012 manifesto.  As with the resolutions regarding behavior changes, this manifesto of ME development will need accountability, action steps and goals which are broken into achievable tasks.

Did I just turned my WHO into a WHAT resolution?  Maybe that’s just part of who I am.

"The Art of Living" Hostee Manifesto from ArtStormer.com

]]> http://www.eversfam.com/2012/01/this-is-your-life.html/feed 1 http://www.eversfam.com/2011/12/small-steps-to-the-homeless-shelter.html?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=small-steps-to-the-homeless-shelter http://www.eversfam.com/2011/12/small-steps-to-the-homeless-shelter.html#comments Fri, 16 Dec 2011 16:39:38 +0000 Sarah http://www.eversfam.com/?p=1012 Continue reading →]]> The roasted vegetables smelled really good.  I’d been standing behind the serving counter for an hour picking up clean plates from my left, scooping out a generous spoonful of those veggies and passing the plate to the person on my right who filled the rest of the plate with spaghetti.  It smelled really good.  I was hungry.

He was hungry.  His back was slightly bent.  He hadn’t shaved for a while.  It was a cold day, but he didn’t have a warm coat on.  He came to the homeless shelter at the same time everyday, and stood in the same line which wound around the building.  He was a regular, and he knew that hungry men like himself were allowed into the dining room in shifts so that there was room for everyone to sit down in a warm place to eat.

I was hungry.  He was hungry. But I wasn’t as hungry as he was.  Looking him in the eye, I acknowledged his dignity and greeted him with a smile and an overflowing plate of roasted vegetables and spaghetti.

There’s something good about serving alongside your staff and students when you aren’t wearing the hat of leader or director.  It puts everyone on an even level and let’s face it, there’s something about looking hungry people in the eye and handing them something hot to eat that removes any sense of hubris.

Wikipedia, that vast bastion of ever evolving information, says, “Volunteerism is the act of selflessly giving your life to something you believe free of pay.”

at the Rescue Mission

I agree, but I’d also add that when campus ministers and ministry leaders put our love in action by serving alongside of our students, we demonstrate the Gospel in a deeper way.  With over 300 verses in the Bible about the poor, social justice, and God’s concern for both, putting my faith in action seems like a reasonable act of worship.

For years I’ve thought about volunteering on a regular basis.  I had a roommate four years ago who spent one night a week in a local soup kitchen.  I didn’t even know that our small city had a soup kitchen.  As I watched her go week after week, I thought about how she put her faith in action so well.  I put my faith in words very well, but I felt a great divide between my words and deeds.  I justified my lack of intentional effort to serve others by my full time ministry role (unpredictable hours, seasons of craziness, I’m already trying to meet the spiritual needs of so many), but lots of people experience similar work stresses and still find time to help people.

This fall I’ve volunteered at a homeless shelter and a warehouse with supplies for the underprivileged.  Yes, it takes a bit of time to get there, and I have to say “no” to other great opportunities to keep those time slots open.  But those few hours spent serving people in need (people in REAL need) while connecting with my students have given me some sweet gifts and insights.  I walk away so grateful for how faithfully God has provided for me.  I walk away with a full heart of worship, having had my heart touched by compassion.  I walk away knowing that someone else’s hard life was made just a little sweeter because of those few hours.  I walk away with a greater appreciation for the decisions my students make to be there every month, and I get to know my students in a different context.

What’s the next step? I want to model servant leadership by helping “the least of these” without an agenda to advance my own purposes.  For me, it’s to commit to a monthly time to serve at the homeless shelter.  I’d like to make it weekly like my former roommate, but I’ll start with small steps.

What about you?

Earlier that first volunteer day I almost backed out of going to the homeless shelter.  “I’m just so tired,” I thought as the time flashed up that strange greenish color on the microwave clock.  I didn’t know if I had the energy to make the subway trek down to the Bowery Mission.  Enough of our students said they wanted to volunteer at the soup kitchen to serve meals to homeless men that I didn’t think it would make a difference if I showed up.

But it did.  It made a big difference.  To him, to my students, and to me.

originally posted on the CruPressGreen Campus Ministry Blog on 15 December 2011

Decorating Christmas cookies is a holiday tradition for some people, but none of the students had ever decorated cookies.  Julie and I made a quick training video for them.  The video was in jest, but I thought you’d laugh with us!

Our hostess, Kelly, was rather clever about the event, covering her table with a plastic table cloth and setting out paper towels and plastic knives along with the colored icing and sprinkles.  Christmas music and Christmas cartoons played in the background all afternoon as we all got to know each other and “ooh”ed and “ahh”ed at each creative design.

One sweet aspect of the day was that the first six dozen were set aside to give to a halfway house for men with mental challenges.  It was great to show that Christmas isn’t just about getting, but about giving, too.

And in that spirit of giving, Julie led a short discussion about the individual art of decorating each cookie and made parallels to how God was directly involved in “decorating” us when He knit us together in our mothers’ wombs.  She then talked about gifts God has given us, and that December is when we celebrate the greatest and most significant gift of Jesus Christ.

Three hours into our decorating extravaganza, and with plenty more cookies to decorate, some of the student men crashed us, er, rather, they stopped by unannounced and little hungry.  We made them work for their eats, and showed them the fine art of slathering sugary confection all over small, sugar cookies.

Image copied from facebook and used without permission.

You know that feeling in the pit of your stomach when you’re going to be physically ill?  I’ve had that feeling since last night when I read the Grand Jury Report on the Sandusky sex scandal. It’s 23 pages of depravity and horribleness, and it’s not for the faint of heart.  It’s degradation, it’s debasement, it’s degeneracy.  It’s a dishonor and a disgrace.

I’m a Penn Stater who grew up in State College, PA.  My parents met and fell in love at Penn State.  Two of my three siblings are Penn Staters and all four of us graduated from State College Area High School.  Our blood runs blue and white, I know all the words to all the PSU songs, and I’ve been to countless home football games and even a few Bowl Games.

But reading these reports, watching the breaking news on national TV, and following tweets and hash tags and trending topics online is evidence that all is not well in my beloved, hometown in Happy Valley.  I know the people who are named and talked about: I went to school with them or with their kids, though I’m not in contact with them now. These people are (or were) our hometown heroes.

I don’t think I know any of the victims, but that doesn’t diminish or lessen the heart break I feel over the alleged advances, abuses, and rapes they endured.  (It’s hard for me to use “alleged” because the Grand Jury report was so explicit.)  I can’t imagine what nightmares they’ve grown up with, or how their views of authority, power, men, themselves and healthy relationships have been shredded.  “Good” well-intentioned people failed them, whether those people knew it or not.

I feel physically ill about what happened: about the abuse, about how many people could’ve stepped in, but didn’t.  I can imagine that people thought they had done the right thing by informing their superiors, or by putting boundaries on Sandusky, but those “boundaries” weren’t enough, and as it turns out, simply informing superiors wasn’t enough, either.  And when the police were involved in 1998, the Grand Jury report says the investigation didn’t turn up anything.  Why was that??  But then again, sometimes people can be charismatic or slippery when questioned.

Marc Rutter, US Leadership Development Director in the faith-based non-profit for which I work, leads a presentation about the some of the reasons leaders experience a moral failure.  In that talk, he highlights contributing factors to these moral failures which often include a lack of moral accountability and an increasing amount of isolation around their inner life, a growing sense of privilege, an attitude that one is “owed” something by the organization and an increased secrecy about personal life and behaviors.

Is this true in Sandusky’s case?  Maybe.  Did people turn a blind eye from him because of his standing in the community, Penn State’s reputation, his history with Penn State Football, or the good works by his foundation The Second Mile?  Maybe.  I don’t know.

Image of Jerry Sandusky copied from the internet and used without permission.

I think of the utter darkness Sandusky was in, how there were opportunities for his secret to come out into the light, but when it did, people covered it with darkness again, shrouding his shameful, nefarious actions in secrecy.  Nothing good grows in the dark.  The Grand Jury report quotes Sandusky speaking on the phone with the mother of one of the victims saying, “I understand. I was wrong. I wish I could get forgiveness. I know I won’t get it from you. I wish I were dead.”

I know our football program hasn’t lived up to it’s National Championship reputation of the glory years of old, but when people ribbed me about our football win record I’d boast about “our” academic emphasis, “our” football player graduation rate, “our” values regarding character development and molding boys into men of valor.  Ugh.

Unlike many Penn State students who chanted profanities during the Alma Mater, I actually knew and sang the words before every home game.  The last verse of the Penn State Alma Mater says,

May no act of ours bring shame, to one heart that loves thy name, May our lives but swell thy fame, Dear Old State, Dear Old State.

Now what?  I don’t know.  I still feel ill.  I feel a great sense of sadness and sorrow, and I’m expecting more victims to emerge.  At least, if there are more victims, I hope they will find the courage to come forward.  I hope Sandusky sees this as an opportunity for complete honesty and confession.  My heart goes out to the victims, their families and the families of everyone involved, for I think this will be a long, on-going story and I don’t think we’ve seen the depths of depravity yet.

One friend sent the book I’ll Hold You In Heaven which is written to parents of children who have been aborted, miscarried, stillborn, or died in early infancy.  This book was a quick and reassuring read exploring through scripture the idea of the unborn having souls from conception.  It helped me realize that I have a child waiting in Heaven.  What a humbling thought.

Other friends sent prayers which made me cry as I read them.  I’m overwhelmed at how many people have suffered the loss of an unborn or stillborn child.  I never knew the depths of grief so many friends have struggled with, but as a friend who struggles with infertility recently shared with me, “loss is loss.”  You don’t have to have experienced the heartbreak of a miscarriage to understand the heart ache of unfulfilled dreams and longings.

Several people told stories of friends who held memorial services for their lost little ones.  I thought I was “beyond” that, for I’d already poured out my heart in an authentic, vulnerable, soul-bearing way just days after I lost my heartbeat-less baby.  In other words, I’d checked “grieving” off of my list and I wanted to move on without experiencing any more grief.

Mike, though, thought it was a good idea, and I wanted to be supportive (but not too emotive), so I begrudgingly agreed.  I didn’t want to open that wound again for it felt like the healing had started — was well in motion — and I wanted to simply move forward into the future with vague reflections on that sad time in our lives.

Two weeks after our loss Mike and I took the Hampton Jitney (bus) out to Montauk, NY, where my family has been going for over 50 years.  My Gramps and my Dad are both buried in that small, unassuming, unpretentious beach town, so Mike thought it would be an important place for us to memorialize our long-prayed for baby.

The weather was perfect: a sunny October day with clear skies.  There was even a festival in the middle of town.  Mike looked for a baby blanket or some kind of object we could use to represent our little one, but none of the boutiques he walked into carried the kind of items he wanted.  I didn’t think I could handle shopping for baby items without crying so I sat on a park bench near the town square and watched happy families buy large jars of pickles.

As a last resort we stopped into White’s Drug Store deciding on baby socks. Because the florist shops were closed, Mike gathered wild flowers from along the winding road as we walked up to Fort Hill Cemetery.

Fort Hill is one of the most beautiful places I’ve visited.  From that quiet, grassy place you can see Montauk Pond, the Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean.  There’s a meandering trail with scenic vistas and teak benches which are perfect for long, thoughtful rests as the sun sets.  There’s usually a soft sea breeze blowing across the top of the hill, too, taking the edge off the heat and humidity on hot summer days.

Sitting beside my Dad’s grave, Mike and I spent an hour praying to God and talking to each other about the baby we never held.  It was a surprisingly, unexpectedly healing time for us. I didn’t know what to say at first but sometimes silence suffices.

Here we are one month later.  Physically I’m healed.  Emotionally, I’m tender.  Spiritually, I have questions.  See, I had hoped that after my previous foray into writing about our miscarriage I’d be able to dam up my emotions and move forward with veiled references to loss and heartache.  But I’m learning that God has more for us than that: He is calling us to live authentically with loss.  We will have many opportunities in the years to come to celebrate with others while taking our broken hearts to Jesus.  We will live with the reality of lost dreams in a way I never imagined, marking milestones by someone else’s precious baby.