The Dregs…

Yesterday before church, our family went to Kroger, bought 15 packages of cinnamon-type rolls, and headed for the church neighborhood an hour early. The Whitmores met us there, as did the Wallaces. We each grabbed a couple of bags of the scrumptious-looking pastries and headed down Stanton Street to the houses closest to our church.

Immediately we saw two middle-age gents sitting on a front porch, so we headed over bearing sweets. We introduced ourselves as their new neighbors in the red brick church, asked how long they had lived in the neighborhood, and discovered that they were moving to another town after 30 years of dwelling in the same place. They both seemed depressed and, as was evident from the bottles in brown paper bags and some slurred speech, had been drinking a great deal that afternoon. My heart sank as I thought about the hopelessness they must be feeling and that there was no hope of us having an ongoing relationship with them. But they gratefully accepted the cinnamon rolls, and we moved on. We split into two groups so one group could meet people on the other side of the street.

Next door we met Dwight Evans, an older black man. He was very congenial. I think this was the same man that Amanda invited to a cookout earlier in May. I hope we see more of him and meet his wife. Because there is a fair bit of racial tension in this interracial neighborhood, it may be slow-going to gain their trust and develop friendships with them.

We headed further down the street knocking on many doors and finding no one home more often than otherwise. Perhaps it was a result of the holiday weekend, or perhaps there was some pretending going on. I suppose if I glimpsed a small group of people coming to my front door, I might be more than a little suspicious. Our boys picked up trash from the yards and on the sidewalks as we walked.

The next person we encountered was Heather. She had just moved into a house on Stanton with her boyfriend a few months earlier. Heather was at first reluctant to talk but began warming up as we chatted for a few minutes. At first meeting, she appeared to have the almost universal affliction of low self-esteem and chronic, low level depression that is present in most women of the underclass. She also looked as though she could really use a good friend or two.

Then came the event that our two boys can’t stop talking about: the house with the sign that read, “Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.” We didn’t knock on that door but tried to make sure we picked up some trash from the edge of the front yard as a small, but hopefully unintrusive, gift.

We crossed over Mason Street, and in the first house with someone home we met Paula. She was a pleasant woman who quickly put her suspicion of us aside. Paula’s beautiful old home, we discovered, was in the midst of renovation. We told her that the church was also going to be restored, and having a deep appreciation for beautiful architecture, she seemed pleased. Paula told us she has 7 kids from age 9 on into the teens, so we gave her double the cinnamon rolls. My suspicion is that she is either a foster parent or an adoptive parent. She had the air of a Yellow Springs type that has learned how to live freely and care deeply. The kids playing basketball in her backyard were of more than one race. Cool!

Finally, we were running out of time before church and went to one last house across the street. Brian answered the door and accepted the rolls with bright eyes. He said his mom lived in another part of town and “those Adopt-a-Block people were always bringing her good stuff.” When we told him we were with Adopt-a-Block from the church on the corner, we had an instant connection with him, and he offered more information about himself. He was a very pleasant young man, but I couldn’t help but be reminded of our crack addict friend who could make it snow in July when he wanted to make a good impression. It was nice, though, to know that Adopt-a-Block already had a good reputation with him.

As we left his house, I commented that I have never yet seen anyone turn down food we have offered, even on Baltimore Place in the past three years. No matter how suspicious they might appear at first, everyone takes the food. Often they even smile. Good food seems to act as a kind of language of greeting and goodwill that transcends all races and cultures, a common place of understanding and a beginning point for future relationships.

I hope that in the days to come we will build relationships with the Stanton Street people that will be filled with sweetness and nourishment.

After church tonight, we had our usual meal together. But after that, we had everyone over to our house for a bonfire. It was great fun with lots of good music and talking.

Freda (from our adopted block) was at church tonight with some of her kids and three other kids that she knows well. I love Freda. There is no one quite like her. Some people might call her a busybody, but in reality, she is a woman who is deeply concerned about her neighbors and their well-being. She has improved the lives of many children and adults around her, and it is apparent that God is at work in her life.

Freda married into a Hispanic family and has thoroughly adopted the culture, although she is part caucasian and part Native American Indian. As a result, arrival and departure times have ceased to have the same meaning that they do for us white, bright, and uptight folks.

I looked for Freda during our bonfire bash from time to time and didn’t see that she had arrived yet. In a passing comment to another friend by the fire I said, “I hope she doesn’t come at 10:30.” Of course, I was thinking things would wind down between 10:30 and 11:00, and I would go gently off to sleep by 11:30.

God must delight in mocking me (gently and good-naturedly of course). I think it was almost exactly the stroke of 10:30 when Freda and accompanying crew arrived. Since church, they had grown in number from 7 to somewhere around 11 or 12 (It was hard to count and keep track of all the kids in the dark.)

Even though I was tired, it was good. John played with the kids as only John can, and Rebecca and I sat by the fire with Freda and friend Stefanie and talked. The kids had fun, they were helpful, and they are building memories that will hopefully help them to connect positively with Christ and a healthy church body throughout their lives. Freda and Stefanie had the opportunity to experience a little more of the community that is so very important to our little fellowship.

Freda and crew were the last to leave, just after midnight. Because so much time has been spent in Freda’s home and on Freda’s block, it was very appropriate that they were the last to depart. And as they drove away, John said, “Adopt-a-Block came to us.” Nice.

Last night the kids of Midtown led our worship gathering. There were probably about 20-25 kids present for the event, including some of our friends from the Baltimore Place block. I am still recovering from the event as one might recover from reuniting with a friend previously presumed dead.

The kids sang, read scripture, used puppets, cheered as the adults played short games, and led a time of prayer for the needs of those in the congregation. Some of the kids sang with complete abandon, including my own, dear middle child. They made as much sound as most groups of church kids three times their number. I don’t know that I have ever seen children as enthusiastic about the things they were doing for the church and God as this small group of kids. Their faces and body language expressed it all. It is impossible to fully appreciate the event without having experienced it.

I know it probably seems silly to some, but I sat and cried through worship because I was viewing a transformation that has been worked in my children over the last year. In previous years, there was at best a stoic acceptance that church was something we “do.” At worst, Sunday mornings were an experience of verbal and emotional fisticuffs followed by the whining and moaning that naturally accompanies the loss of such a sparring match. Now my three kids are bothered when we must miss church. I never thought that I would see this happen in my children!

Howie and Cindy worked with the kids for the past month to help them prepare for leading the worship time. But even before that, Rebecca, Jill, and Jen were working hard at helping the kids to feel as though they were a vital part of the church with important jobs. We have no Baptist Battle Church of the Bible Bunker curriculum, just people who want to see the kids experiencing first-hand what it means to know Christ and to be a dynamic part of the community to which Christ calls us.

God bless you, dear children! May we adults go and do likewise!

5/7/05 – Yesterday the Adopt-a-Block (AAB) team went to pray and drive the blocks around the Red Brick Church in an attempt to discern the best place to begin meeting our neighbors and identifying ourselves as members of the church in their neighborhood. Because AAB has a decidedly low-key approach that is one of giving to a neighborhood rather than demanding anything from them, we talked about ways that we could do this around our church. The rest is an account of what followed.

After talking for a while, we head down the block with a couple of trash bags and begin picking up trash when Amanda spies an older black man relaxing on his front porch.

Amanda: “Hey! What are you doing sitting in the shade on such a beautiful day?”

Jason and Amanda go off to talk to the man. So we don’t overwhelm the poor gent, Rebecca and I continue to pick up trash on the other side of the street and move on down the block.

About 10 minutes later, Amanda and Jason come back. She says rather matter-of-factly, “I just invited him to a cookout tomorrow night after church. Can we get a grill here?”

Me: “Uh, I don’t know.”

More conversation about the grill. We decide upon a way to get one to the church. On my way home, I go and buy 48 hamburger patties and buns, mustard, ketchup, and pickles. Amanda will bring the dogs and buns.

Saturday worship time arrives, and we see no grill and no Amanda. Momentary panic issues forth, but then I remember that we have a great track record of being able to pull things like this off with next to no planning (God be praised!). As it turns out, Amanda comes with her little grill, and off goes Greg (a thousand thanks!) to Walmart to buy two little cheapie grills and a couple bags of charcoal. Not the big gas grill we had expected, but it will do quite nicely.

After worship the coals are hot, and the men are at their best – working the barbeque with finesse. The man from across the street does not come, although Amanda goes to his house to let him know we are there. Maybe he isn’t home. But we have a fantastic time eating, talking, laughing, and playing together.

The laughter of God is present in the children climbing the tree on the corner with cars roaring by and in the kids climbing onto the church sign for all of the passersby to see. The smile of God is present in the many relationships that are being strengthened through conversations of the mundane, the serious, and even the silly. The hand of God’s blessing is apparent as 10-year-old Victoria teaches Jesse, a boy who doesn’t get enough to eat, how to safely descend from the branches of the tree.

Let’s do it again next week. As we continue to party on the lawn in front of the church, may the neighborhood people see that we are here to bring goodness and not to demand anything from them. And may they join us and feel the smile, laughter, and blessing of God!

Thanks Amanda.