MIRACLE WHIP AND MERCY

As a kid I grew up experiencing a very typical Thanksgiving complete with the traditional turkey dinner and a family running around in socks and sweatshirts. At school, the holiday meant the best cafeteria lunch of the year and construction paper art projects that were a welcomed break from English and Math. My favorite projects included making black pilgrim hats with gold buckles and hand turkeys out of corn and dried beans. The fact the pilgrims had belts on their hats instead of their pants might have been the first clue they would need help from the Indians.

Television in the 70's portrayed the Indians as savages bent on attacking covered wagons, and who could blame them after we broke every treaty we ever signed? When it came to breech of contract I was the same way: when my cousin and sister tried to walk away from the field of play when it was my bat (verbal contract) I picked up the pitching mound (a brick) and threw it at them! Gravity saved their life.

So this portrayal of the Indians as saviors during Thanksgiving was quite interesting. Their get- together with the pilgrims probably had no pumpkin pie, no cranberry sauce, and probably no turkey because the foods simply weren't available. For me, if there is no Miracle Whip for the turkey you can just throw the whole dang meal in the trash. Yet in spite of the lack of traditional food and a football game, they celebrated survival...that's right survival. And isn't that the way this whole year has felt for a lot of us?

Back in January it looked like I was about to conquer Starbucks with my fancy slogans of "Star who, the Buck stops here," and unique drinks like the Dirty Snowman, but then the economy slithered into a deeper recession in spite of the debut of the Fricken Sandwich. By May, sales had dipped 40% and the big dream was starting to fade. My father stepped in with some assets and I bought out my partners and reset things with the bank. It wasn't until October when I saw signs of life. It has been a hard year and the old Tahoe is going to have to last a little longer.

Whenever I felt a little overwhelmed I pulled out a book entitled Night written by holocaust survivor, Elie Wiesel. I don't recommend it for the faint of heart. The book details a man's experience in the concentration camps during World War II. It's a tremendously sad story with graphic detail and it is not afraid to ask hard questions. How could God let this happen? How could God watch a million children go up in smoke, literally? Yet then I thought, which is worse, to watch a million children massacred or watch your own son crucified by the ones he came to rescue? (For great discussion on these topics read Phillip Yancey)

I read about the holocaust because Joan of Arc always said, "There is always somebody who has it worse than you." At the time I always thought, "This does nothing to help me feel better about only getting one bowl of chocolate pudding." Little did I know I was probably one of the luckiest kids on earth. A candle seems small, until you know the darkness.

First I want to come to God's defense about the horrible state of the world, not that He can't defend himself. I believe God's heart is broken by what is happening in his creation. I also believe there is more at play than simply rearranging a few pieces. I'm sure the free world (meaning a world were mankind is allowed to do anything he wants) is quite tempting for someone who has unlimited power to invade, to pick up bricks and start throwing. My favorite film, Schindler's List-a movie also about the holocaust, has an interesting dialogue between Oskar and Anon when Oskar is trying to talk Anon out of killing children. Oskar says that real power is having the ability and authority to kill but choosing not to, that restraint is harder than throwing. For God to invade the world would surely mean devastation to far greater numbers of people than it would help, but instead of invading he saves, instead of running through the streets with a sword, he crawled through a barn with a child. God limits his own power, he restrains himself.

Second, in spite of the delay of my dreams turning into reality, in spite of my own insignificant suffering, I plan on celebrating my survival Thursday. All three stores shows sign of life. Monday two men were praying at Green Frog with their Bible's open when I walked in with the Sam's order. Last week at Java twelve girls huddled around three tables pushed together, talking about this Child who crawled into their lives. This past Sunday an employee from Ja Ja's sent a text that said if we look to God we will be delivered. The signs of life, something to celebrate, something to be thankful for.

I am thankful for my kind, hardworking staff; for my loyal and "faithful" customers many who have become close friends; but most of all for a loving God who practices restraint when it comes to dealing with me. I have always heard never scream for justice because "you" might get it. I think if I scream for anything it will be mercy. (crying, don't know why but writing this last sentence was very powerful, it almost felt like I was a child who has been struggling against my father but who has collapsed in tears into his arms to be comforted) Mercy. Give me mercy. I am grateful for His Mercy.


So we took gifts from the Indians and celebrated life... and then we killed them. God knows how it feels. I'm sure a lot of people who have ever been betrayed, know how it feels. But do you know how it feels to create something on behalf of love and then watch them kill each other? Do you know how if feels to have the power to stop it but enough knowledge to understand that by doing so you will destroy more than you save? Do you know how it feels to be accused of not loving when loving is all you ever do? Do you know how it feels to be powerful and merciful and be accused of being weak and heartless? We owe the Indians and God an apology...but remember God isn't really interested in hearing it (prodigal son story) He just wants to hold us in his arms and have a feast to celebrate our survival.


P.S. When we sit down at the banqueting table in Heaven, don't be surprised if I ask for Ketchup if we have steak... and Miracle Whip if we have turkey. They'll have it, because it's gonna be perfect.

KING KONG LEFT SOMETHING IN MY YARD

One of my morning rituals is to take a quick peak at what is new on You Tube. Typically I scan through the favorited or feature videos. This morning a featured video was the birth of an elephant named Riski. In spite of the fact I grew up on a dairy farm, the next five minutes were a roller coaster of emotion as I watched an intense struggle for life in the middle of an intense puddle of fluids. Woke me up better than a cup of coffee. Ruined my breakfast.

Hungry but queasy, I walked outside to observe my pair of Ginkgo trees in the front yard, one male and one female. The female Ginkgo trees have a reputation for smelly fruit, a mix between rotten eggs and dog feces. And this year is a boomer crop. I read in the news that several cities are removing the trees from their parks and sidewalks because of the foul fruit. I also recently found out that 1 in 100 male trees goes through a metamorphosis and also produces the smelly fruit. Well I just figured out I won the lottery: both my trees have a bumper crop of rotten eggs!

Ginkgoes were originally planted because their wonderful green fanned shaped leaves turn bright yellow in the Fall. These bright leaves typically all fall off within about a 48 hour period, leaving behind a fantastic yellow skirt. It is almost as if someone shoots the tree and, like a cartoon cat getting hit by a cannon ball, it reveals it's bones. I think I might sit on the porch this year and wait for the gun to go off. At least the sight of the majestic yellow frenzy might compensate for my yard smelling like King Kong took a squat.



Yet this is were it gets serious. Within this Ginkgo dilemma is a lesson for life: hard things often lead to beautiful things. Blessed are they that mourn for they will be comforted. Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs' is the Kingdom of Heaven.

I have a heart for the poor because four years ago I had 37 cents to my name. I am now far from wealthy but I fell asleep last night in a king size bed staring at an electric fireplace. I have a heart for the homeless because four years ago I was homeless. My stint at homelessness involved me intruding on my parents or other friends for a place to sleep for about six months while transitioning from ministry. While working part-time as a barista at Java Cafe (the real beginning of my dream of Green Frog Coffee) I slept on a mattress on the floor in a garage of a house for sale. I remember several nights in the garage wondering where my life was going and at the same time being thankful for what God was teaching me. It was during that time that I finished my book Chainsaw Preacher.

Two recent events involving customers prompted me to write this post. One was a homeless couple simply seeking a place to land in between what were probably difficult nights. The gentlemen appeared to be quite a few years older than his younger pregnant wife and they were wrapped in mystery. They had been frequenting the shop for a few weeks always scanning the paper for affordable housing while sipping on a dark roast coffee. Yesterday this gentlemen began thumbing through my book and started asking me questions. The first question was, "Is Bartholomew still alive?" in reference to a cat I mention. I said, "No. Steve accidentally ran over him two weeks after the book came out." After reading a few more pages he asked if I had an old copy laying around that he could borrow. I told him to take a new one. Ten minutes later he told me gave his life to Lord 13 years ago and just needed to get back on track. Up until this moment they had just been a couple of people taking up a little too much couch for a little too long but after our short conversation I guess you can say- the leaves turned yellow.

Another event happened on Saturday when I was in Jackson outside cleaning off tables and was about to throw away a fourth of a Coke someone had left behind. A gentleman in a long gray beard dressed in a trench coat and dirty jeans approached me and said, "May I have that?" I paused and handed it to him and came inside. A very attractive woman dressed to attend a wedding observed the exchange and proceeded to remind me to wash my hands because of the threat of swine flu. I assumed she was concerned with the man being unclean. I tried to explain to her how we don't let beggars bother customers but admit I was distracted with her perfect face being highlighted by a small smear of chocolate from her fried pie (nobody's perfect). It was an incredible contrast: a thirsty beggar cherishing a swig of Coke and a pretty woman concerned about my safety while helping a thirsty beggar. I left thinking about how while some struggle for life the rest of us sometimes struggle with watching them struggle.

I guess what I am trying to say is don't let the smell fool you. I think life teaches us more often than not that what we see is not always what we get. The smelly Ginkgo turns into Cinderella. Too often we believe that Christians have nice homes and drive nice cars and that financial blessing is a promise to those who "truly" follow God. We forget that Joseph and Mary were once the same as the pregnant couple seeking shelter (perhaps minus a few tattoos). We forget that their Son, our Savior, was also homeless, also hungry, and also thirsty. We expect the Kingdom to be clean and full of pretty people. I have the feeling the Kingdom might actually be clean and full of pretty people but I wouldn't be surprised if it is actually our perspective that has changed and not the people we hate to love who might be exactly the same... and I imagine we'll be fascinated by their yellow skirts.