God Does His Best Work at the Margins

One of the gravest threats to the North American church is the deception of power - the deception of being at the center. Those at the center tend to think, "The future belongs to us. We are the shapers of tomorrow. . . . We have a track record of success." . . . God very often is working most powerfully far from the center. Jesus is crucified outside of Jerusalem - outside - with the very cynical sign over his head, "The King of the Jews." Surprise - He is the King of the Jews. . . . Who are Jesus' brothers? The weak, the hungry, the immigrant workers, the economic outcasts. . . . Who is mostly in the company of Jesus? Not bishops and pastors! The bishops and pastors are the ones who suggest he's a lunatic! Who enjoys His company? The ordinary folk, so ordinary that their characterization is simply this: "sinners."  ~David Zac Niringiye, Anglican bishop in Uganda

Yesterday, I found myself saying to the two neighborhood teens, who were gathered around our kitchen table on their second cup of coffee, that I wished I was in a different season of life so I could be more present for the action downtown. That sometimes, I wished I didn't have the kids with me all the time so I had the freedom to do more of the things I like to do.

The Republican National Convention is in Cleveland this week, and part of me, although I wouldn't be in it for the candidates, felt a little like I was stuck at home with the children. It would be interesting to be down there, meeting people, taking pictures, and experiencing the drama firsthand. It's an exciting time to be a Clevelander.

"Why don't you just get a job, Miss Jacqui?" one of them piped up.

Well, for one, I'd probably end up paying my entire salary to a daycare,

I thought to myself.

"I could..." I said as I placed a pair of shorts on top of a now teetering stack of boy clothes. It's laundry day, and they've been keeping me company as I sort and fold. The clothes used to live on the small couch in our family room in various states of completion, but lately with the amount of neighboring kids around, I thought it best to have more seating available and have since moved my piles to the kitchen table. The logistician in me theorizes that it would then have to be put away by dinner, so we'll see how that plays out.

"But then I'd have to pay for someone to watch these guys all day, and there's a lot of them. Maybe I will when they're all in school someday... Before we had kids I had a job. I used to be a social worker."

"Oh really??"

"Yeah," I say with a smile. Noting the spark of curiosity, I tuck that away for a future conversation.

When you're knee-deep in the ordinary and sick of trudging through the mundane, folding it up just like you did yesterday and placing it in a pile, it's easy to fall into thinking that what you do on a regular basis isn't significant. And that by default, YOU aren't significant. That you don't matter as much as the next guy with the exiting life or the public display of talents.

Suddenly, it feels like the prayer teams infiltrating the city are making a bigger difference because they're in the center of it all. They have literal hands in the game. And I'm missing out. Because taking pictures excites me, as does writing stories and communicating truth with a dose of perspective, so wouldn't I almost be more useful

out there??

I said to Ben the other day that we needed a third rack just for cups because there have been so many these days.

He said that's because I insist on letting the entire neighborhood drink coffee. 

But today, as I sit at the same kitchen table over another cup of coffee, only this time with a child whose behavior prevented him from participating in the fun events of the day with the other kids, I'm cherishing the reminder that

we serve a God who does His

best work

at the margins. 

It's so like us humans to want to put the importance at the center. To want to put

ourselves

at the center. But the center is a place that only God should be.

I'm thankful today that He not only sees the scribbles around the periphery of the paper, outside the border of the red lines and probably written hastily on a diagonal, but He speaks most mightily there. That He reserves the nuggets of truth the author or teacher deemed paltry for those on the outskirts. That He is closest to those whom society views as insignificant and works accordingly.

So that cup of coffee with the neighborhood teens that wander in from the streets? The ones whose parents could care less where they are, the ones who get bludgeoned with four letter words as soon as they get home? That cup of coffee - the one that comes with a safe place, a home cooked meal, and welcoming conversation - could make all the difference in their life today. Maybe even tomorrow.

I'm amazed that Jesus chooses to keep company with us ordinary folk, us sinners big and small. That He can be the center of the most mundane lives, and in being so, that those of us on the margins can walk with Him.

If you find yourself on the margin of life today, I hope this is encouraging. Because God does His best work there.

June 6: So Long, Old Friend...


August 13, 2015

We were sitting outside on the porch enjoying the beautiful, sunny day. Eva was busy with some colors and the dog sat by my feet in the shade of the chair. We spent many a day like this in the summertime.

A friend pulled into the driveway to drop off some papers, and the dog came tearing toward her like she was the neighborhood cat. He'd tangled his leash around the chair, however, and spilled most of my coffee in the process.

As I surveyed the damage following her departure, seeing most of my precious morning coffee now splattered all over the ground, I shook my head and muttered, "damn dog."

My two year old, sitting just a few feet away but presumably out of a whisper's earshot, piped up and said, "what damn dog, mama? He's right there!" Slightly confused, she pointed to our dog, now sitting peacefully in the sun.


***************


We laid our furry friend to rest tonight. 

His little body was fighting so hard just to stay alive, and it was time. His health had unexpectedly taken a turn for the worse two days before, and we had a feeling early on that he wouldn't make it through this. 

He was as old as we were a couple, and we celebrated our twelfth wedding anniversary just days before. Aside from a mere month or two after we got married, he's always been with us. 

He lived in every house, and there's been four.

He greeted every baby as we carried them through the door for the first time--all five of them.

He was there for every birthday, for every anniversary, for every family movie, and for every pizza dinner. 

Except the one tonight. 

The plates of half eaten slices on the floor that lay undisturbed, the leftover crusts in the garbage--they testify to the life that was lost. Reminders of a permanent shift in the way things are. In the way things will always be from now on.

On Sunday when we took him to the vet, the kids prayed and asked God for just one more day with our doggie. They shrieked with joy when they found out he would, in fact, be coming home, for now.

We made sure they knew it wouldn't be for long, that his heart was sick, that his little body was tired. But we ended up with exactly that: just one more day. I love that He answered their prayers.

We gave our doggie lots of snuggles, cuddles, and pets. We hugged him often, told him all the things we loved about him, and ate lunch outside in the sun. I held him in the car as we drove to get some ice cream for dinner, a last meal if you will. He hadn't wanted to eat all day, though, so I began to doubt he would even want the ice cream. I wished we hadn't waited so long.

But the kids picked strawberry with sprinkles, and he gobbled it up. Every last bite. 

When we got home, we said our final goodbyes, myself through many tears, and daddy took him to be put to sleep. 

Every memory we have as a family somehow involves him: one who was loyal to a fault and beyond patient with the children. It'll be difficult and strange adjusting to a new normal that doesn't include him... 

A normal where the bits I drop on the floor while making dinner won't be snarfed up. One where there's no one to eat the cucumber butts or sneak food from the kid's plates. A normal where we come home to a truly empty house. Where there's no one to greet us wiggling at the door. No one waiting on the mat outside the shower, no one to dart out the front door during the summer months. 

He was a good boy, that Jackson, and for better or worse, he'd been through it all right there alongside us. He may have been a damn dog at times, but he was our damn dog. And I wouldn't trade it for anything. We miss that little guy so much.

One more day is still never really enough.

So long, old friend. 


May 31: Big Families Are an Acquired Taste...and It's Okay if You Don't Like Them

My kids have been outside since a little after 8am this morning "playing in the pool."

Why would I put something so straightforward in quotations, you ask? Because things that sound simple are anything but when you have a big family.

You see, by "playing in the pool," I mean yelling at each other to stay out of the pool until it's completely filled up.

I mean blowing the damn thing up again and again due to an undetectable hole. Inflating it with a shop vac. Before breakfast.

I mean screaming, "mom, watch!" as loud as humanly possible before taking a flying leap into the pool. This is alternated with shouting, "mom!!! He splashed me!!"

And at the risk of stating the obvious, I simply respond, "it's a pool filled with water. Water makes you wet."

"Playing in the pool" means someone crying about something every five minutes the entire day we're outside because someone hurt them, they hurt themselves, someone was making fun of them, or they stepped in dog poop. Again.

Intersperse the shrieks of joy and spectator requests with all the crying, and the loudness is pretty much at a constant tempo. To top it off, the 3-year-old just started running laps around the house screaming, "ambulance! ambulance!" with a look of such determination you would think there was actually an injured human desperately awaiting her assistance.

Wailing sirens have nothing on a preschooler with a hero complex.

By "playing in the pool," I mean the storm door slamming repeatedly because someone decides they no longer want to swim in the pool, only to come back outside, now fully clothed, to find everyone else still in the pool "having fun." So they go back inside to change again.

"Having fun" is in quotations because this phrase only applies to a single party within earshot, which would be the children.

Obviously.

I realized this holiday weekend that big families, with their loudness, tendency to overwhelm, and expertise in stealing sanity, are an acquired taste. Especially big families with boys. And it's okay if you don't like them.

Really, it is.

I know many of you don't want to sit by us in restaurants, which, truthfully, we don't tend to frequent, because--five kids.

I know you probably wince when you see us walk through the door at a party, especially if your walls are free of fingerprints and you value your breakables.

I know you probably groan a little internally when you see us show up at church on the week you're scheduled to teach Sunday school. A little row of Roberts' that will inevitably need to be separated.

I get it. We are a presence, and usually a very loud, ornery one, at that.

Do you want to know the truth?

Some days I don't like big families, either.

As crazy as you would imagine life with five children to be, I can guarantee you that it's even crazier. It's like a three-ring circus of ongoing chaos, unless they happen to be watching TV or reading for their mandatory 20 minutes. The requests for attention are constant, the bickering is often relentless, the laundry piles quickly in the hall, and the dishes stack up even quicker in the sink.

Some days despite the best of intentions, multiple cups of coffee, and time with Jesus, I'm unable to tame the monster of stress and want to run away from them all by 9am. The only difference between you and I on those days is that you have the ability to walk away.

Unless, of course, you're my neighbor. Sorry about that.

But if you're willing to give us big families a chance, you might also be able to see what I see:

Little people who, simply because of the sheer volume of them, need to learn early on how to extend some grace to each other. How to make room in life for other perfectly imperfect people. How to share and work things out when they're mad. How to look out for one another, help each other, and do even the most mundane of tasks with laughter. How to function as a team.

They learn how to love well, and they discover that siblings are the very best of friends in the long run because they're friends for life. Solidarity in the flesh.

Please remind me of that the next time they want to play in the pool, which will probably be tomorrow morning...

May 30: Happy 12th Anniversary!


No celebration, no big plans. Just a day hanging out together as a family.

Which, let me tell you, is much better in theory than real life. Because in real life, we have five children to feed, entertain, and discipline all day. 

"No plans" was almost the death of us, but the dirty pool came to the rescue and we lived to see another day.