Awakening

The alarm is ringing. Presently, life’s greatest struggle becomes wiggling those rock-heavy eyelids open to the harsh light streaming through my window. The world pierces my corneas with a familiar, painful sting. But then I pause. That dream. Vividly, it floods my mind again. Mysteriously, it was special. Holy?

The dream was simple. And fleeting. Both very much unlike, and at the same time like, life. I suppose I was at The Mission. The setting is blurred and unimportant in light of the faces. Those faces that I know so well. Monica and Carla. Junior and Shawn. There were Cody, Sandy, and many more. They were there and they surrounded me, laughing in radiant splendor. They ran and played, looked up at me and touched me.

I spent six weeks of my life this past summer, three times a week, at The Mission. Not a dream, it was very imperfect. I was naïve, as usual. It was difficult and exhausting. But I was joyous and the toil was rich and stunning to my ever-awakening soul. Indeed, my soul is being awakened to so many different depths and facets of life. My eyes become wider when surrounded by new people, a sparkling breeze amidst the flow of that which I have grown accustomed. The new faces, young and old, dark and light, bright and weary, stir up senses that never tire.

Let’s be honest here. During the summer and outside of those fleeting hours at The Mission, most of my time was spent with very Caucasian, very Starbucks-drinking folk between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two. Or those with the last name Stiles, who are admittedly also, Caucasian and Starbucks-drinking. So it was inspiring to work alongside some beautiful women who have lived a little more, seen and learned a little more, than myself. It was humbling to watch people humble themselves, just to walk in the doors and accept the meager amenities offered inside. And oh, how delightful to spend hours with children! Now, after weeks to debrief myself of all the ideas and questions upon which my mind has begun to chew, I feel like I can dictate what I have begun to learn.

I felt, for the first time, a “grown up”. It was my first time on a leadership team away from the confines of a school or youth group. It was my first time to be paid to do something that both my mind and soul could engage in—no offense to babysitting or coffee making. It was my first job in which there were adult decisions, with difficult implications, to be made. To put it bluntly, I was new to adulthood, new to nonprofit, and I had no clue what I was getting myself into. My eyes were opened to frustrations and questions that remain, although wrought over, unresolved. When am I to submit and when am I to stand up? How do I act as both a respectful youth and a zealous adult? Where is the line between doing a job well and over-doing a job? How do we begin to go about fixing small parts of such a big, broken world? Though not easily answered, I deem it utterly and inexplicably necessary to keep probing for traces of truth.

As a leader working for a nonprofit centered about Christ, I awoke to an appalling reality about in the way one might find himself in the middle of the night, tearing through sheets after a wicked nightmare. There were a few days when I drove to the Mission, did the whole thing, recited bible verses and the whole shebang, and never once had Christ in mind. First of all, this is disturbingly hypocritical and I am ashamed. But second of all, it occurred to me that I am not the sole owner of this issue. There are others. They are pastors and Sunday school teachers, religious organizations and Christian platform politicians, Christ followers of all denomination. They are easily strayed and we have all been, at one time or another, easily swayed. I see this now. It was incredibly eye-opening for me to experience the nasty side of shallow religion, the lukewarmness that lurks, waiting to seep into leadership. Like they said back in Sunday school, “Oh be careful little eyes what you see….”

On the other hand of finding some falsities in the community of pursing Christ, I found a striking truth in the old adage “give it your all”. There is now no doubt in my mind that the best teachers are those who pour everything they have into their class. It is something that cannot be faked. For me, this looked like wrestling day after day with a young boy with severe ADD, desperately teaching him to add 2+2 over and over again. It looked like making up songs and hand motions on the spot for children growing weary of bible verse memorization. It looked like putting my class into the hands of a volunteer so that I might coax a girl to emerge from her stolid face and glass eyes and enter into communication and interaction. It looked like giving those kids the food off my plate and the jacket off my back. On no day did I present myself perfectly, but the adage remained true and good advice. The more I gave, the more the children received. And the more the children received, the more I wanted to give even more.

Of course, there will always be resistance on the road that is good and right and I found my resistance the further I pushed the barriers of my personal comfort. It is never a cozy experience to spend time with the very needy, at least not in my experience. It probably shouldn’t feel cozy, because there is something intrinsically wrong with the “us and them”, “rich and poor” system. As I walked the hallways of the Mission, I saw the faces of discouraged and downtrodden people. It makes me feel uncomfortable even to speak of them now, because I fear not treating each person with the respect that they innately deserve. Nonetheless, with my full belly and braces-straightened teeth, I plastered a smile on my face and beamed at them. I was trying to be nice, trying to be friendly, trying to do something…anything…in the face of not knowing at all how to behave. I think that somewhere deep inside of me I thought I was lighting up their day with my beaming teeth, but it made me feel disgusting inside knowing just how little my smiles did in light of all they needed. I felt as though my smiles put me on a pedestal, all the while my insides screaming, “Why me? Why them? Why world, why, why, WHY?” And of course, as with every important question, there is no easy answer.

None of it was easy, actually, but that only makes it all the more fruitful. I spent some hours with children—I wouldn’t dare complain. Hours with children may be measured differently than hours in the adult realm. And while I taught the kids a few short bible verses and some simple arithmetic, they showed me much more than I might have ever offered them myself. Children possess a sort of wisdom absolutely unseen in adults. They so often proclaim their words and actions unabashedly. Many times humorous, with a closer look their ways are quite eye-opening. The last day of the children’s program, as the kids were leaving, I pressed my lips together and attempted to get my breathing under control. They were laughing and gleefully receiving brand new backpacks, and it was all I could do to stand there and wipe the escaping tears from my cheeks. I dried up my face and put on a smile as they drew to my side, reached up and around for a big hug. Some hid their faces in my side, some looked up, some looked away, and I admit I found this strange at first. Why weren’t these kids talking to me? But once it had been done it made sense. A silent hug was the only true, wise, and appropriate gesture for such a goodbye. They knew that, and now I am beginning to understand as well. These small, young people are tapped into realities long forgotten by the rest of us.

With children, I have never been the teacher before. Until this summer that is. I believe that in our humanly interactions, we learn from each other about the Being of God. Incredibly so I did. Each day as I stood before them, trying to appear, you know, authoritative and teacher-esque, I saw the faces of the children of God. Each one, I loved and delighted in. In spite of unavoidable less-than angelic moments, I would shower each one with hugs, kisses, affection given the chance. As kids, they have arguments, and sometimes one child is right and the other wrong. But even in the midst of such, I truly feel that I loved both equally, and it made me realize the way that God loves me. Those kids showed me a glimpse of God that I hadn’t seen before, and for that it was all worthwhile.

The best way I know how to describe my summer at The Mission is an awakening. Like from a dream, there were times when it was sheer beauty and times when it was sheer pain. Right now I see a little, but much remains unclear. I am older and more complex in this newness of morning. The experience was amazing and in no way replicable. I wish I could go back, but time keeps moving. There goes that alarm again. I stretch, put on some coffee…I am waking up.