You can receive future editions of the newsletter in your email by subscribing at: http://eepurl.com/j3EuP

***
This edition of our newsletter was written by Nicole Eanes. Nicole is staff member of Third Chance Ministries and works with God’s Storehouse and a number of other wonderful organizations in Danville.

***
Within each of us there is a silence
—a silence as vast as a universe.
We are afraid of it…and we long for it.
When we experience that silence, we remember
who we are: creatures of the stars, created
from the cooling of this planet, created
from dust and gas, created
from the elements, created
from time and space…created
from silence.
In our present culture,
silence is something like an endangered species…
an endangered fundamental.
The experience of silence is now so rare
that we must cultivate it and treasure it.
This is especially true for shared silence.

In this poem by Gunilla Norris, I am reminded of the beauty and power of silence. I am reminded of the sacred space created when we take time out of our busy lives to come back to the basics — the beauty of breathing, feeling, and noticing which allows us to come back home to the present moment with each other and a little more settled into ourselves.

But, to be honest, I thought it was really weird when I first started praying with Grace & Main folks and I realized they practiced silence together.  A bunch of people in a room, sitting in silence together — it was weird for me. A quick glimpse into the mind of this anxious extrovert would sound something like: “what are they even doing? Are they thinking about something? Should I be thinking about something?” So, yeah, it’s pretty obvious I didn’t really understand the practice.

Slowly, after years of sitting with the awkwardness and unknown of the practice with my community, I began to find my rhythm. And I’m learning that this place of reconnection — this place where I can breathe and feel what’s really been happening in my life– can be found in the most ordinary moments. Sometimes I find healing in the silence shared between Roland and I as we ride together on Sunday afternoons to pick people up and drop them off again after prayers. Other times I find truth in the silence of a shared drink with Walter in his backyard after a long week. And sometimes I find the power of silence alone by the river.

I think it’s easy to avoid this space because it’s where deep, holy, and good work occurs. It requires bravery, honesty, and vulnerability to sit with yourself and others in this silent space. A space that gently shows you all of the limiting beliefs you’ve adopted, the lies of scarcity and fear, and echoes of doubt. But there is hope – if you just wait a little bit longer and get really still and silent, you’ll notice that God is using this space to show you something. Showing you that beneath all of the junk we pick up along the way there is a gentle, loved, and hopeful heart patiently waiting to be remembered. Inside of me, inside of you, inside of all of us — present all the time, but most easily found in quiet.

My hope is that you will find comfort in the fact that silence can be scary and awkward for a lot of us — not just you. I hope you find healing and truth and people to practice with. I hope you know that you’re not alone with your overthinking brain and uncertainty of how the practice goes. I hope you know that you are loved on the days you get it right and the days you don’t. And I hope you know that our community is always open to share some space with you.

***
Please consider making a donation to support our continued work at: bit.ly/3CMdonate.
Advertisements

You can receive future editions of the newsletter in your email by subscribing at: http://eepurl.com/j3EuP

***
This edition of our newsletter was written by Karen Conner. Karen is a member of the Board of Directors of Third Chance Ministries and a local kindergarten teacher.

***
A tornado came through my backyard woods. Its visit was brief but quite productive. It destroyed a mountain bike trail that we had just finished building. Some of the trees were twisted off like chewed-up toothpicks after a sumptuous Sunday lunch. Some trees were uprooted and lying desperately on the ground as future firewood or lumber and some now lean like a tower in Pisa. The next strong storm could easily topple them. In its very brief appearance, this tornado made my backyard woods look like a war zone.

But today, as I look out our back window, the trees stand in full foliage. The sun sparkles off the leaves and the trees in their various states of rest and unrest continue to provide shade and oxygen. With only a quick glance, you may not see the destruction. You may well be deceived by the beautiful, green foliage.

Isn’t this so symbolic of life? Sometimes, we only take the time to notice how put together a person seems and how bright the foliage of their life appears. We don’t take the time to look deep in their eyes and notice the pain. Even if we do, though, we are quick to look away from the destruction and back to the foliage. We certainly don’t take the time for the uprooted ones, or the broken ones, or the ones chewed-up like a toothpick.

We glance through life and we miss so much in the glancing.

We glance at the disheveled man pushing a shopping cart down the street. Perhaps we note that the cart seems to be holding a number of his strange items that may be all his possessions. We may even discover in our glancing that his clothes show obvious wear from overuse. But we’re quick to turn our focus back on the foliage. To really study him, to consider how he came to be in this situation, to actually reach out to him, to know his name, to develop a relationship—well that would take more than a glance. It would take time and energy that most of us are not willing to depart from our busy lives.

We glance through life and we miss so much in the glancing.

My family is committed to rebuilding the mountain bike trail destroyed by the tornado. We’ve had to spend some money obtaining the right tools to clear literally hundreds of trees from our property. It’s going to take time—a lot of time—and even more energy. There will be setbacks and difficulties figuring out how best to do this. We will definitely have to focus on the uprooted ones, the broken ones, the chewed-up ones, and those about to topple. We can’t afford to focus on the foliage and believe its lie that everything is okay. We can’t just glance our way through this work.

It’s really not so different from the way we must know and care for those who are struggling in our cities and towns. It will be a huge undertaking to reach out to those who have been uprooted by tragedy, broken by circumstance, chewed-up by broken promises, and those about to topple. It will take time—a lot of time—and even more energy. There will be setbacks and difficulties. We will need the right tools: mercy, forgiveness, compassion, and grace. We will need lots of grace. We glance through life and we miss so much in the glancing, but I look forward to the day when we do more than glance and see the beauty that waits behind the foliage.

***
Please consider making a donation to support our continued work at: bit.ly/3CMdonate.

You can receive future editions of the newsletter in your email by subscribing at: http://eepurl.com/j3EuP

***

Marlon always calls me when I’m out of town. Over the last year or so, I’ve accumulated a collection of different phone numbers that Marlon has called me from and have saved each one into my phone’s contacts under the name “Probably Marlon.” But, without fail, Marlon calls me when I’m traveling. When his name flashes across the screen of my phone, I can’t help but think of Marlon’s broad smile and throaty, understated laugh. Marlon is a big man with a shaved head, a cheerful presence, and ears eager to hear how others are struggling. He’s just as comfortable sitting on the porch and talking as he is moving furniture and loading or unloading a borrowed pickup truck.

The first couple times Marlon called when I was traveling, I figured he must need something but was deferring his ask when he found out that I wasn’t in town. After all, the summer brings a number of things with predictable regularity in our work, but perhaps none so regularly as increased need in our neighborhood. It wouldn’t be surprising if new needs were creeping into Marlon’s life and he was turning to the community of which he has steadily become a part. We wouldn’t dread the ask—we’d celebrate the trust it showed.

But, Marlon still called me even when I know he knew that I’d be out of town. Talking while we both helped to prepare a community meal, Marlon said to me, “I hear you’re headed to Atlanta. What for?”

“Oh, school,” I responded, “I’ve got class and need to get a ton of writing done.”

Nodding with what might have just been polite interest, Marlon continued: “Oh, well, are you driving or flying?”

“Flying this time,” I admitted, “because the timing is too tight to drive.”

“Oh, I’d go to Atlanta,” Marlon insisted, “but I’m not flying—that’s too dangerous.” With these words, our conversation sprawled into a neighboring duo of Grace and Main leaders, who were checking the contents of the ovens. Over the next fifteen minutes, we had a harmless and shifting conversation about the relative safety or danger of air travel. Like so many of the conversations we share in community, this one was marked by joking and playfulness.

Eventually, Marlon conceded, saying with a wink, “Well, I guess it’s safe for you, but it’s not safe for me.” As we left the meal that night, Marlon grabbed my elbow and wanted to know the precise time of my flight. He assured me, with a smile that called back to the kitchen, that he’d be praying for me. I thanked him and promised that I’d see him in a week or so at evening prayers. Of course, Marlon called me from one of the “Probably Marlon” numbers while I was in Atlanta. After all, Marlon always calls me when I’m out of town. He didn’t need anything, but he wanted to make sure I didn’t either. He wanted to make sure I was okay.

For a while, I wondered why Marlon seemed so worried about my safety when I was away. I wondered if perhaps he had lost somebody in an accident in the years before we knew him. I wondered if his own limited travel experience made it seem more daunting to him than to me. I wondered if it might be a family tradition he was carrying into life in community, as if his family gave special attention to traveling members while they were separated. I wondered if this might be an extension of the way he prayed with us—thoughtfully reflecting on the needs in the room, eyes scanning, before producing a short litany of requests like ticker tape while staring at the rug. I didn’t know why he called but I knew that he did, even if he had to remember again my memorized phone number and borrow somebody else’s phone to do it.

I came close to asking Marlon about it once. As we sat on the front porch one night after prayers and told and listened to stories shared with whoever was around for the telling, I told Marlon how much I appreciated his calls when I was traveling. But, before I could segue into asking him why he called, he smiled and said, “Oh, well, you know I’ve gotta check in on you,” before continuing with a softer, less-joking smile, “because you belong here with us.” I assured him that I knew that and thanked him again for his prayers and thoughts. Usually, I’d respond to words like those by assuring him that he belonged here with us, too. It’s a practiced move that is equal parts hospitality and deflection. But, in the moment, I said nothing and just patted Marlon’s knee.

Whenever I travel now, I look forward to a call from “Probably Marlon” and everything that it means. Maybe we’ll catch up about his family, maybe we’ll talk about the Urban Farm and what he’s growing there, and maybe we’ll just go over the upcoming schedule again. But, one thing I know for certain: Marlon always calls me when I’m out of town. Now I know why.

***
Please consider making a donation to support our continued work at: bit.ly/3CMdonate.

You can receive future editions of the newsletter in your email by subscribing at: http://eepurl.com/j3EuP

***

I was just getting ready to start Sunday evening prayers at one of our community’s hospitality houses when an unfamiliar brown sedan pulled to a hesitant stop in front of the house. I didn’t recognize the woman who got out of the back but I recognized the driver from a local congregation. The driver didn’t make eye contact with me as I walked off the porch toward the street. I imagined that perhaps the driver and his unknown companion would be joining us for prayers, so I was eager to greet them. But, as the anonymous woman closed the car door and I recognized the tears in her eyes for what they were, the driver departed without a word. With a familiar, sorrowful look, the woman sat down on the curb.

With a quick glance around the porch, I hoped to find somebody whose expression would show that they knew the woman or perhaps had some idea what had just happened. What I found in the faces of those who make up our little community was surprise and a creeping realization that this woman had been abandoned here by somebody who didn’t know what to do with her. For all of us, this was a tragedy; but for some of us, this was a familiar experience.

Sitting on the curb next to her, I coaxed her name—Kathleen—from her between sobs and looked back over my shoulder to see if anybody had figured out what to do yet. Kathleen and I were joined on the curb by Brandon. With his intimate experience of what it’s like to be “somebody else’s problem,” Brandon took the lead as I fumbled for words and understanding and Kathleen tried to catch her breath.

Like Job’s friends before they messed it up with their words and false confidence, Brandon kept silence and helped me to do the same. Brandon didn’t know what to do, he later admitted, but he knew how to be a witness to suffering so that one of God’s children doesn’t have to suffer alone. When Kathleen fumbled in her pockets only to find an empty pack of cigarettes, Brandon offered her one of his in a gesture that our shared life in community has taught me to call generous and merciful. With a shaking hand, Kathleen smoked her borrowed cigarette and began haltingly to tell a piece of her story to two silent strangers whom chance and a fast-moving sedan had compelled her to trust.

As Kathleen explained that she wasn’t from Danville and was, in fact, from High Point, North Carolina, I could hear quiet footsteps approaching. Another one of our community’s leaders brought Kathleen a glass of ice water and whispered to me that prayers would wait. While Kathleen began to explain that she had ended up in Danville in order to escape an abuser in North Carolina, yet another one of our leaders started up a conversation on the porch thirty feet away. There wasn’t anything special about the conversation, but so many of our folks know well from past experience what kind of story Kathleen was likely to tell. They also know how hard it is to tell when you’re worried that you might have an audience.

So, in the place of prayers, our little community talked about nothing much in particular and offered a grace that sounds like a low, inconsequential murmur. What our people knew—what they had learned from their own similar, hard experiences—was that you didn’t need to know exactly what to do in order to do something good. Sometimes we all are tempted to strive for acts of great, heroic love and not be satisfied with little acts of love. In pursuit of big solutions, we risk seeing people as problems.

Kathleen continued her story but interrupted every other sentence with an apology for being drunk. Kathleen seemed to hope that her many apologies would pry mercy from our unwilling hands. Brandon spoke for us both when he quietly reassured Kathleen that she was welcome, even if unexpected, and that we weren’t interested in judging her. With that tiny shred of confidence in our hospitality, Kathleen opened up and expressed her fear and anger to us. She was angry at her abuser. She was afraid to go back to High Point. She was angry at feeling abandoned. She was afraid because she didn’t know her way around Danville and didn’t have a place to stay or food to eat. She was angry at herself for leaving her ID in High Point, but she had done so because of the fear that had gripped her heart in her escape.

Then came the question I knew was coming, as Kathleen made eye contact with me for the first time and asked, “So, what can I do?” I had been dreading this imminent question because, like the driver of the brown sedan, I didn’t know what to do. Kathleen wanted to go back to High Point but was also afraid to go back. She wanted to stay in Danville but had no material or social resources here. She wanted to be sober but didn’t feel like she could be yet.

I excused myself for a moment to make a few phone calls and see what our options were for making a place for Kathleen. After about fifteen minutes of phone calls, I still had very few options because there are very few places that pick up the phone on a Sunday evening. Discussing those few options with a handful of our community’s leaders led us to doing something we’d done before but which I still find relatively uncomfortable: making a promise and then counting on God to keep it. We didn’t know what to do, but we trusted that God did and then went about our business of little acts of love.

We convinced Kathleen to join us for an impromptu meal in the kitchen of the hospitality house. We hadn’t been planning on eating, but we didn’t want her to have to eat alone. Sunday Evening Prayer became sandwiches and a tray of finger foods that week. While most of us shared lemonade and tea, one of us made a reservation at a local hotel for a few nights. Between bites of egg custard left over from a meal earlier that week, we promised Kathleen quietly that we could do more nights of shelter if it took longer to find a solution and we scheduled a time the next day for us to sit down and figure out her options.

While taking Kathleen to her hotel room, I repeated to her out loud what the sandwiches and egg custard had said more subtly: “you’re not alone and you’re not a problem.” As I drove back from the hotel room, I had a short voicemail on my phone with an awkward apology from the driver of the brown sedan.

“I just didn’t know what else to do,” he told my voicemail with an apology tinging the corners of his voice.

“Neither do I,” I confessed to God, myself, and no one else in particular, “but I’m not sure that always matters.”

***
Please consider making a donation to support our continued work at: bit.ly/3CMdonate.

You can receive future editions of the newsletter in your email by subscribing at: http://eepurl.com/j3EuP

This story was originally shared on March 1, 2017.

***

Deep down, I’m a worrier. I’m really good at it. I know scripture tells us not to be anxious and Jesus even directs our thoughts to the “lilies of the field” in the Sermon on the Mount, but I need help to get to that kind of trust most days. Even though I’m surrounded by a community of people who have pledged to share resources and needs and actively share their lives with me, I still worry. Even though our work has consistently been supported by donors like you, every January and February is an anxious time as I worry that this year will be different; that this year will be the year that it doesn’t happen. If I’m honest, I sometimes worry that I’m only as valuable or lovable as I am useful. I seem to have so many needs and even more fear of them not being met, even as I live in the midst of God’s blessing and miraculous provision. I seem to have everything I need, so why don’t I feel like it some days?

Perhaps, my struggle with worry is part of the reason I thought I misheard Marcus in the van. He is, after all, a fast talker and sometimes shifts the topic of conversation abruptly if he’s excited. This night, he was excited about some good work he had been doing in the neighborhood and was riding along in the van to drop people off after our big meal. As he told me about meals shared and the ways in which he loved his neighbors, he said something that I didn’t expect: “You know, I don’t need anything. I’ve got everything I need.”

I confess that my first thought was a judgmental one: “how can that possibly be true?” When we first met Marcus, he walked with a substantial limp because of a very significant injury to his ankle. He did as best as he could with it, but the injury meant that he couldn’t get the work to which he was accustomed and by which he had been supporting himself for years. Without a job and reliable transportation, it became very, very hard for him to make it to the doctor on his own. Because of his injury, his shoes didn’t fit and wore out even more rapidly. Before I knew Marcus by his name, I knew him by his walk and the plastic bag he wore over his steadily deteriorating shoe. How could this man not need anything?

As we began to share life with Marcus and help him to get to the doctor, he quickly became a regular at our meals. We first welcomed him into a hospitality room, but eventually helped him to move into an apartment of his own when his income became steadier and his ankle began to heal. The day after moving into his new home, he began offering hospitality of his own—welcoming folks to find shelter in his relatively meager accommodations. In response to God’s blessing, Marcus responded with grace and mercy. Marcus understands intuitively that loving God and loving your neighbor are intertwined. His ankle was still injured and he wasn’t yet well or stable, but he couldn’t wait any longer to be doing our Father’s business. Watching as he once again repaired his shoe with duct tape, I couldn’t imagine how this man “had everything.”

But perhaps the problem isn’t that Marcus was wrong, but rather that my imagination is too small sometimes to see God’s goodness in hard places. Even with busted shoes, Marcus was concerned that there were people we knew who didn’t have shoes. He wasn’t content to wait to help until everything in his life was stable. He didn’t need good shoes before he cared about his neighbor’s shoeless feet. He didn’t need a perfect home before he could open it to others. He didn’t need to be wealthy to be generous. He didn’t need to be full before pouring himself out for others. But, perhaps most importantly, Marcus trusted God and the community to which God had brought him to love and support him.

Marcus has everything he needs in part because he has learned to need less, but mostly because he has learned to trust more.

Nowadays, you’ll likely find Marcus at one of our meals or, even more likely, in one of the gardens at the Urban Farm (he’s a phenomenal gardener!). His ankle is much better now after consistently getting to his appointments and getting the medicines he needed to prevent infections. His shoes fit a lot better now and are in much better condition. He’s always eager to pitch in if there’s work that needs to be done and he’ll still talk your ear off. But, he hasn’t stopped giving or trusting; and, thank God, he hasn’t stopped teaching me the futility of worry and the pride inherent in believing that I’m only as valuable or lovable as I am useful. I’m learning that Marcus is right—he has everything he needs and so do I. Some days, I even believe it.

***
Please consider making a donation to support our continued work at: bit.ly/3CMdonate.

You can receive future editions of the newsletter in your email by subscribing at: http://eepurl.com/j3EuP

***
This edition of our newsletter was written by Nicole Eanes. Nicole was hired in February as a Development and Administrative Assistant with our work. She’s getting more involved in our ongoing work after a while around the edges. Part of her job includes fundraising and when she meets her first goal, her job will expand to include more responsibility and deeper involvement. You can help make that happen by becoming one of our regular donors or making a one-time donation. 

***

My beginning with Grace & Main is a little messy. For months, I was interested but hesitant. I rarely showed up and when I did it was fairly inconsistent.  As I navigated graduating high school, moving to Uganda, and figuring out my faith – the friends I found with G&M were gracious listeners and welcomed my questions and frustrations.  They provided a safe space for me to draw circles around the things I believed and taught me to be gracious with the things I didn’t have figured out.

A little back story, I grew up in Danville and my journey has led me to a lot of new places. From east coast beaches to west coast cities all the way to a small mud hut in Northern Uganda. I’ve learned it’s fairly easy for me to pick up and move my entire life. For a while I thought this was a good thing and I think it still has some pros – but I’ve come to realize it’s easy because I struggle with feeling like I belong. It’s not that I have a difficult time making friends; it’s all the stuff after the initial interaction that I find difficult. So, for a while I kept moving around because when you move around the hard stuff doesn’t have time to show up.

You know, all the stuff that comes with time. The loss of friends and family members. The conflict that happens when you’ve just spent too much time around each other. The miscommunication and the anxiety that comes with busy schedules. All the ways life ebbs and flows and all the unexpected ways it knocks us off our feet.

I’ve learned in my short time here that community looks a lot like loving each other into who we’re meant to be. It’s asking the hard questions and being okay when there aren’t any good answers. It’s taking the long way home with Roland, one of the first members of Grace & Main, because the silence shared brings a sense of comfort. It’s road trips with broken air-conditioning and welcoming strangers into your home. It’s homilies and blessings and holding close to our faith that God is good even when that’s really hard to believe.

Being with the crew has made me realize that we have something different going on. We have a lot of good ideas and a lot of good intentions but it doesn’t stop there. We also have really big love and overwhelming amounts of grace. We don’t just think about good things – we empower each other to live good lives. All of this became explicitly tangible with the loss of our dear friend, Bruce. The days leading up to his death were long and emotions were all too real. But the love in the room was palpable. Until his last breath, Bruce was surrounded by the people he loved. We sang hymns and kept him cool with a cold washcloth and laughed as his cat, Boo Boo, laid by his side. In this moment, there was no pressure and no expectations – only the knowledge that life is really hard and also really wonderful and it’s better when we do it together.

Some days, belonging feels certain and some days I still struggle to find my place because of my own insecurities. But as I continue to find my niche with Grace & Main, I’m thankful for the subtle ways everyone makes me feel like I belong. Through the blessings we say together each week, the meals we share, the late night conversations with my roommates, and the countless cups of coffee shared on the front porch.

All in all, I’m really thankful I somehow fell into belonging with these people. I hope you know wherever you are that you, too, are welcome here. There is a place for you in the vast Kingdom of God. There’s room at the table. And if you live near Danville, our table always has a seat for you.

***
Please consider making a donation to support our continued work at: bit.ly/3CMdonate.

You can receive future editions of the newsletter in your email by subscribing at: http://eepurl.com/j3EuP

***

“Why not take it back to the house with you?” I asked her.

“I can’t keep these with me,” Ms. Parsons told me, indicating the cracked leatherette picture album she clutched in her hands. This album was one of five or six others in a file storage box opened between us. Nearby, Ms. Parson’s son, Ralph, was sorting quietly through some of the other boxes of things that they had stored in our warehouse space. Ralph was hoping to find a cellphone that they thought might still have some minutes on it. We’re thankful that a local business lends us a space in one of their warehouses to store things like donated furniture and appliances until we can find a neighbor who can use them. But, in the case of Ms. Parsons and Ralph, the warehouse was a safe place to keep their possessions when they were ejected from where they had been staying. As long-time regulars around Grace and Main, we were able to find them a place to stay in one of our hospitality rooms quickly, but they wanted to store many of their things in the warehouse to give themselves a little extra space in the hospitality room.

There we stood, surrounded by so many things held precious by Ms. Parsons—things like picture albums, quilts made by family long passed, and cherished childhood art projects—as Ms. Parsons lovingly told me story after story about the people in the sometimes-faded pictures. She showed me some of Ralph’s baby pictures, one in particular included the hands and knees of Ralph’s father, whose face and name remain a mystery to me. Ralph, at least ten years my senior, looked up from his search for a moment to blush and shake his head good-naturedly as his mom told me about the cute things he did as a toddler; the picture had faded with age, but the memory was as crisp as it ever was as Ms. Parsons, smiling, impersonated Ralph’s childish speech.

She showed me a picture of a black and white cat named Socks, of whom she had only a few hazy memories. She showed me pictures of first homes and first cars, both the ones bought before and after everything changed. Ms. Parsons showed me a picture of her father and talked for a moment about the way he’d enter the house after work and what his favorite meal was. Ms. Parsons told me all about her mother with an appreciation honed over decades of missing her. “She was a good Christian lady, I know where she is,” Ms. Parsons insisted with the same gravity as any preacher’s prayer: “acknowledge your servant, a sheep of your own fold.”

Finally sensing that it would be okay to ask, I continued my earlier question: “Why can’t you keep these with you?”

“I can’t keep these with me, “she insisted with grace and gentleness, “because they’re too precious.”
As she closed the album and placed it back in the box with a careful grace reserved for the priceless, I thought I was starting to understand what Ms. Parsons meant. Their preciousness made them vulnerable and vulnerable things often have only one fate in the lives of those who struggle with homelessness, hunger, poverty, and/or addiction: loss. These memories of hers were safe in this place she could not stay, entrusted to our care with a spirit of faithful love. “Well, thanks…” I stammered under the weight of what Ms. Parsons was saying, “…thanks for trusting us with your precious things.”

Ms. Parsons was smiling in response to my clumsy gratitude when Ralph popped up from the middle of the boxes to say he was pretty sure the phone wasn’t here. He thought maybe it was in the pocket of one of their winter coats back at the house. As we turned off the lights and made our way back to the car, I said, “You know, if you ever want to come back and look through the picture albums, we can do that. Plus, I really want to see what that quilt looks like some time.”

“Oh, it’s precious, too,” Ms. Parsons said, in what was likely an understatement, before adding, “I’d like that.”

For so many of those with whom we’re building our lives, the preciousness of a thing is such a tremendous liability. When you’re living life with so little margin of error, one stroke of ill fortune—a missed paycheck, a too-high utility bill, an unexpected medical expense, getting laid off—threatens to break and ruin all that you hold dear and precious. The value of a thing becomes a vulnerability when the world seems to have nothing but hard edges. When there is so little buffer between you and the world, you must often choose between yourself and what you call precious. This is the hard bargain that is ever-present in the lives of so many of our dearest friends. This is the hard bargain that no one chooses, but many must make.

Yet through it all, we must remember something: it’s the same hard bargain into which Jesus entered. When forced to choose between his own life and what was precious to him, Jesus chose what was precious—people like me and you. With faith so fragile it should be wrapped in bubble wrap, we are called to trust that God doesn’t call the precious vulnerable, but rather calls the vulnerable precious and calls us to go and do likewise.

***
Please consider making a donation to support our continued work at: bit.ly/3CMdonate.