My Personal Dung Gate
Our church has been going through Nehemiah in the Sunday messages, and discussing it in mid-week care groups.
Last night we were asked about what we each believed God was calling us to strengthen in our lives. Our leader gave us a nifty map of the wall around Jerusalem, showing the various gates (Beautiful Gate, Sheep Gate, Fish Gate, Dung Gate, etc). According to Nehemiah,each family in Jerusalem worked to rebuild a part of the gate close to their own house.
One man in the group said he wants to be a stronger family leader. One couple said that they want to evangelize in their apartment community. One woman is being stretched to hospitality toward young moms. Still another man pointed out that he has probably just four more years to closely disciple a teenager who has, in the past month, become a Chistian.
I said that I've been mulling over wanting to touch the lives of the homeless. But more than than reaching out, I want to reach IN to where they are spiritually. It's way too easy for me to make stuff, send stuff, deliver stuff, or even help out at a shelter once in a while. That strikes at my heart, but thus far hasn't changed it. Not enough. To my shame, I am not ready. I'd love to say with full abandon, "Let's go into the highways and biways, shelters and alleys and bring them in. No matter how they look or smell, no matter their personal histories, no matter what."
My parents modeled this level of compassion. I remember going to a church in Bel Air for many years when I was in middle and high school. People were well-coiffed, well-manicured, and some were well-heeled. They sang in choir.They knew the Scriptures. They taught Sunday School. They met regularly for prayer meeting on Wednesday nights. But I don't remember anyone but my parents bringing poor, stinky people to church.
When we had a station wagon, we girls would pile into the very back and let the S family sit in the back seat. (Usually it was just Mr. and Mrs. S and their preteen daughter.) When the station wagon died, we could only afford one small car. My dad picked up the S family, took them to church, and then came back for the rest of the family. We lived 15 miles out in the country, so it was a real sacrifice for my dad, but never once did he complain. I complained about having to ride in a stinky car after the S family had been in it. Daddy said, "Well, I could take our family first and then go get them, but you'd have to get up an hour earlier." I complained about that, too.
I remember feeling guilty that I hated riding with them because their B.O. would cancel out our freshly bathed aromas. I felt guilty that we had more than they did. Mrs S wanted to be around Mama and Daddy as much as possible. Mrs. S liked to wear her hair really short (you'd call it butch) and so my mom would cut it for her every other week, it seemed. Mrs. S would compare the length of her hair to my dad's (which is always close-cropped) and say with a hearty laugh, "Mine's shorter than yours, ain't it, Lyle?" I never thought that was particularly funny, but we were taught to be polite and agree with the truth.
Mrs. S had a noticeable speech impediment. She liked to tell us how much she and Mr S loved each other, even though he was "sitsteen year owlder" than her.
My mom led GA's (Girls in Action--a Baptist girls' mission club) and the highlight for her was always going to the migrant workers' "homes" in Delaware every summer. Mama would personally go through the clothing donations at the church. It was appalling what some people would "give"--used underwear, dirty socks, dingy bras.
As if poor people don't have dignity! I remember my mom informing the pastor that she was trashing the trashable clothes (a decision, thankfully, he supported). Then Mama would wash and fold the decent clothes with every bit of the same care she did our family's laundry (which is a whole 'nother story, as they say).
Mostly I remember the delight on the faces of the migrants after they realized we were "safe" people. They spoke no English, but I heard many,many "gracias" around the barrack-like compound.Little girls put clean pink shorts on over their dirty brown ones. Boys would strip off their sweaty T's and don fresh, clean-smelling right on the spot. Mama smiled knowingly. She had been poor once, too.
Daddy was a pastor with a side job as a chaplain in a mental hospital. He had such compassion for the mentally ill and handicapped. Still does. In my depression he never told me to "knock it off" or "get over it" or "put on a happy face." He and Mama said they understood and were praying for me. Occasionally I got a card in the mail from them,even though they live 10 minutes away.
We were taught never to make fun of anyone's odd behavior, and Daddy hated alcohol because of the abuse and ruin it led to. He never quoted scripture about abstaining from alcohol, but drinking was complete anathema to him, and he told us it would break his heart if we ever became drunk or married a drunk. Yet alcoholics received kindness and gentleness from my dad, not judgment or ridicule.
So I'm sure that watching my parents reach out--and reach in--to the lives of people no one else seemed to care about, has made me want to do likewise.
But so far I have kept an arm's length. God, forgive me. Forgive me for not caring enough. I just want things and people to be "nice" and "comfortable" and "acceptable." Change my heart, O God, and shorten the distance between my mouth and my hands, I pray.
You've shown me my Dung Gate, Dear Father. Now give me faith, courage, and abundant love to strengthen it.
Last night we were asked about what we each believed God was calling us to strengthen in our lives. Our leader gave us a nifty map of the wall around Jerusalem, showing the various gates (Beautiful Gate, Sheep Gate, Fish Gate, Dung Gate, etc). According to Nehemiah,each family in Jerusalem worked to rebuild a part of the gate close to their own house.
One man in the group said he wants to be a stronger family leader. One couple said that they want to evangelize in their apartment community. One woman is being stretched to hospitality toward young moms. Still another man pointed out that he has probably just four more years to closely disciple a teenager who has, in the past month, become a Chistian.
I said that I've been mulling over wanting to touch the lives of the homeless. But more than than reaching out, I want to reach IN to where they are spiritually. It's way too easy for me to make stuff, send stuff, deliver stuff, or even help out at a shelter once in a while. That strikes at my heart, but thus far hasn't changed it. Not enough. To my shame, I am not ready. I'd love to say with full abandon, "Let's go into the highways and biways, shelters and alleys and bring them in. No matter how they look or smell, no matter their personal histories, no matter what."
My parents modeled this level of compassion. I remember going to a church in Bel Air for many years when I was in middle and high school. People were well-coiffed, well-manicured, and some were well-heeled. They sang in choir.They knew the Scriptures. They taught Sunday School. They met regularly for prayer meeting on Wednesday nights. But I don't remember anyone but my parents bringing poor, stinky people to church.
When we had a station wagon, we girls would pile into the very back and let the S family sit in the back seat. (Usually it was just Mr. and Mrs. S and their preteen daughter.) When the station wagon died, we could only afford one small car. My dad picked up the S family, took them to church, and then came back for the rest of the family. We lived 15 miles out in the country, so it was a real sacrifice for my dad, but never once did he complain. I complained about having to ride in a stinky car after the S family had been in it. Daddy said, "Well, I could take our family first and then go get them, but you'd have to get up an hour earlier." I complained about that, too.
I remember feeling guilty that I hated riding with them because their B.O. would cancel out our freshly bathed aromas. I felt guilty that we had more than they did. Mrs S wanted to be around Mama and Daddy as much as possible. Mrs. S liked to wear her hair really short (you'd call it butch) and so my mom would cut it for her every other week, it seemed. Mrs. S would compare the length of her hair to my dad's (which is always close-cropped) and say with a hearty laugh, "Mine's shorter than yours, ain't it, Lyle?" I never thought that was particularly funny, but we were taught to be polite and agree with the truth.
Mrs. S had a noticeable speech impediment. She liked to tell us how much she and Mr S loved each other, even though he was "sitsteen year owlder" than her.
My mom led GA's (Girls in Action--a Baptist girls' mission club) and the highlight for her was always going to the migrant workers' "homes" in Delaware every summer. Mama would personally go through the clothing donations at the church. It was appalling what some people would "give"--used underwear, dirty socks, dingy bras.
As if poor people don't have dignity! I remember my mom informing the pastor that she was trashing the trashable clothes (a decision, thankfully, he supported). Then Mama would wash and fold the decent clothes with every bit of the same care she did our family's laundry (which is a whole 'nother story, as they say).
Mostly I remember the delight on the faces of the migrants after they realized we were "safe" people. They spoke no English, but I heard many,many "gracias" around the barrack-like compound.Little girls put clean pink shorts on over their dirty brown ones. Boys would strip off their sweaty T's and don fresh, clean-smelling right on the spot. Mama smiled knowingly. She had been poor once, too.
Daddy was a pastor with a side job as a chaplain in a mental hospital. He had such compassion for the mentally ill and handicapped. Still does. In my depression he never told me to "knock it off" or "get over it" or "put on a happy face." He and Mama said they understood and were praying for me. Occasionally I got a card in the mail from them,even though they live 10 minutes away.
We were taught never to make fun of anyone's odd behavior, and Daddy hated alcohol because of the abuse and ruin it led to. He never quoted scripture about abstaining from alcohol, but drinking was complete anathema to him, and he told us it would break his heart if we ever became drunk or married a drunk. Yet alcoholics received kindness and gentleness from my dad, not judgment or ridicule.
So I'm sure that watching my parents reach out--and reach in--to the lives of people no one else seemed to care about, has made me want to do likewise.
But so far I have kept an arm's length. God, forgive me. Forgive me for not caring enough. I just want things and people to be "nice" and "comfortable" and "acceptable." Change my heart, O God, and shorten the distance between my mouth and my hands, I pray.
You've shown me my Dung Gate, Dear Father. Now give me faith, courage, and abundant love to strengthen it.
9 Comments:
What a wonderful example, your parents were! I was in GA's too (I loved it).
On a more serious note, I know exactly what you mean. I struggle with the same thing. I desire to minister to those who are poor not only materially but spiritually. But I my desire to help struggles with my desire for comfort and selfishness.
My specific desires have been Prison Ministry through the church, helping teenage pregnant girls, and ESL for those who live in my area and need help with English. My burden is for people currently outside of the church. Josh and I have been praying about it, and for now, with my current responsibilities, Josh has thought it best to wait until I stop working full-time. Alot of these ministries require day-time work. I've looked into an ESL program and know where I'll go once I'm free to do that.
I'll continue to pray for the Lord's guidence for you in this area and for heart change. But I know for myself, true heart change will happen when I take action. Until then, I pray the Lord will help me not grow lethargic and look at the "unloveables" at my work and reach out to them, and believe me, there are some!
I can't wait to do the homeless outreach soon. I'm hoping it'll open my eyes and bring me out of my cushy comfort zone.
Mrs. Danielle, I think it's so neat that you have 2 of the same desires I have-- prison ministry and reaching out to pregnant teenagers. I cannot wait until I'm old enough to do those. I'll be praying that soon God will give you the opportunity to do what He has given you the desire to.
Dear Zoanna, I'll be praying that God gives you all the strength and love you need to fortify your own Gate. Thank you for sharing your insights and your personal thoughts.
Love to you my friend.
Zoanna, to answer your question about "nellybelly," that's my signin name (not screen name) and somehow I messed it up in trying to sign on. My parents used to call me "Nellybelly with dirt in her belly." Yeah. Strange. I have no idea where that came from. Anyway, they mostly said that when I was little. But when I was 13 and my little sister was born, she couldn't say "Danielle" very well and it came out "Nell." Now everyone in my family sometimes calls me "Nell," "Nelly," Nellybelly," or variations thereof. But my youngest sister still does it the most. So now you know.
Ah, I've been enlightened.
Thanks.
So I meant to ask you, how are you going to practially put into action your desire to reach out to the homeless?
Katrina was a starting point, practically speaking, by shipping 253 bags (made and filled by lots and lots of different people). Our homeschool group plus Wilma Cook are making and filling 45 and a few of us will go the JRC (Jewish Relief Center) next Sunday and accompany Michelle H to a family sheltertogether in the afternoon. Dana and Allie, the Heplers, and Sarah and I so far have volunteered to go up there. We're taking things like toiletries, toys, clothing, and canned goods. The center and shelter are in Cecil County.
I hope you post about your experiences volunteering. I'd love to know more about it . . . my March weekends are pretty packed but in April I might be more free to volunteer with you!
Good! We'll be going in late April to deliver drawstring bags we've made and filled especially for them. Would you like me to cc you my emails to the homeschool group regarding these plans?
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