Thursday, December 11, 2008

Thanksgiving with Karen Refugees [Sara, Urban Neighbor]

Have you ever had dreams fulfilled in a backwards sort of way? I’ve been realizing God puts dreams and passions on our hearts not only for us, but also for others. About eight years ago as a young teenager I heard about the Karen people (pronounced Ka-REN) of Southeast Asia,from the country of Myanmar (Burma). Many of them were Christians and had been oppressed by their government. I got many Karen items like a traditional skirt, shirt and bag through an organization who supports these persecuted Christians. I became divinely obsessed with this people group and I gave a presentation on their plight and culture in my ninth grade world cultures class. I’ve always wanted to go to the area of the world where they live and visit them.

I heard several years ago that Karen people were moving to the Twin Cities. When I moved to Saint Paul this fall, I had some random connections that led me to begin tutoring two Karen women my age in English. I was so excited to finally get to know some of these people God had put on my heart! These two had just arrived to America this summer. One of them had lived in a refugee camp for 10 years. The other is here in a new land without father (passed away) or mother (still in Asia). I have befriended them and helped them with things from trying to understand insurance to learning how to bake muffins. Through the generous donation of food from YouthWorks staff, my Urban Homeworks house was able to put on a Thanksgiving dinner for my students and a bunch of their relatives. The sixteen guests enjoyed the night and loved playing jenga and spoons.

So this is what I mean by having my dreams fulfilled in a backwards sort of way. Instead of going to visit the Karen people in Asia, God has brought them to me and enabled me to bless them here. I still dream to go to Asia to see them and perhaps I will. But it’s not just about me and my dreams, is it? God knew they would be coming and so he put them on my heart so that I would have joy to minister to them here. God is so good, isn’t he? He gives us passions for a purpose beyond ourselves. He gives us dreams to give us joy through giving joy to others.
There are about 3,000 Karen in the Twin Cities and there will be many more coming. They need furniture and clothes when they arrive. If you would like to donate I have contact information. They also need friends and English help. Many of them are our brothers and sisters in Christ. “Therefore as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the family of believers” (Galatians 6:10 NIV).
To see a short video about the Karen people:
Here is a blog concerning the Karen story from the Karen Community of Minnesota:
Want to assist the Karen?
Contact me at
Or, here is contact information for social service to the Karen:
Wilfred D. Tun Baw
Project Manager
Karen Support Project
C/O Vietnamese Social Services of Minnesota
1159 University Avenue, Suite # 100
Saint Paul, MN 55104
Tel: (651) 645-5940 (W)/ (651) 789-0168 (W)
Fax: (651) 641-8908

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

"14" [Leah E., Urban Neighbor]

I am doing homework across the table from a 14 year old.
She is a freshmen in high school. The school she attends doesn't have the best reputation in South Minneapolis. A few of us at the Oakland house have known her since she was in 4th grade. She is making a powerpoint for her Geography class.
She had to write about the 5 best places in her neighborhood. One of the places she chose to write about was our house! A few of her cousins were over last week and they said "Being at your house is like a retreat from our lives..."
It broke my heart to hear them say that. Yet, I hope as these girls continue to grow up they will know our house is a safe place to eat, laugh, and talk to each other in.
They are prayed for in this home.
As inadequate as we may feel at times, I pray that they will know that they are not defined by their surroundings, and instead they will recognize how beautiful and talented they are.
[to read more from Leah's blog, go to]

Thursday, November 13, 2008

To be seen and known [Sarah W., Urban Neighbor alum]

If there’s one thing I learned through my time as an Urban Neighbor, it’s that people want to be seen and known for who they really are. It’s easy to shove people in the city into boxes: the poor, welfare moms, gang-bangers, addicts, the homeless. During my years with Urban Homeworks I have learned to see people more like how Christ sees them: kids with hopes and dreams, women with huge hearts, men who’ve made mistakes. When you enter into a relationship with someone, you get to really see them and know them. The relationships I have built with my neighbors have blessed me in so many ways. I wish I had hours to tell you every single story: the neighborhood pizza nights, the ice cream parties, the cook-outs, Thanksgiving banquets, the tutoring. I have been filled with lots of love for my neighbors, and my heart breaks to see them struggling through life. There is one story I will share with you all.

Terri is a middle aged mom who lives with her family downstairs from me. I am amazed at this woman. Despite living in poverty, dealing with diabetes, renal failure, and heart disease, she gives and gives and gives. She has taken in two children who are not her own and I know she would take in more if she could. I love Terri, and I love getting to hang out with her family. We’ve had some incredible times together: pow-wows, cook-outs, birthday parties. Words cannot express how much this relationship means to me, or the ways that Christ has shown himself to me through it. For a woman to be dealing with so much and to still have the heart to remember things like my birthday . . . it just blesses me. Last year she bought me a pair of Native American earrings and had her whole family sign the card. It is humbling and inspiring to know such a person. Often, people think it’s the Urban Neighbors’ job to change or impact neighbors, but Terri has changed my life by being an example of love, dedication, and perseverance.

All that to say we’re not just neighbors anymore, it feels more like family. I know Terri, and she knows me. I know her favorite color is red and that she likes to dress babies in old-fashioned clothes. She can tell when I’ve had a bad day at work or if I’ve got a new crush. There are not many secrets between us. So when I get a call at 11:30 at night and Terri is wanting to come up for a cup of tea, I know there is more to it. So I get out of bed, put on the kettle, and hug Terri as she tells me how her oldest daughter is dealing drugs again, her son is back in jail, she can’t afford her heat, and she doesn’t know how she’s going to make it. Now I want more than anything to fix things for her, to make her pain go away. But I can’t. Being an Urban Neighbor is great, but it doesn’t give me superhuman powers to fix the world. So I do what I can, what God asks me to, and share in her troubles by listening, praying, and feeling the hurt with her. And we both go back to bed. It breaks my heart that I get to wake up the next morning to a cup of good coffee and my job, but Terri wakes up just to go through it all again. But I thank God that she does make that midnight phone call. Or when my neighbor Amanda calls crying because she thinks she got an STD, or when Frank, my friend’s son, calls because he and his mother got put out of another shelter. Because even though they are hurting, they know they are not alone. And for me, that’s what being an Urban Neighbor is all about. In my attempts to live like Christ, I get to see people: the welfare moms, gang-bangers, addicts, and homeless, beyond the circumstances that got them those taglines. I get to journey through life with them, sharing in their burdens when the load gets heavy, celebrating with them in the times in between.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Letter from an Inner City Kid [from the Burnside Writers Collective]

[From the Burnside Writers Collective, Note: This piece contains csome contextual profanity].

To the caring and capable adult who wants to help me, but sometimes does not want to see me;
To the one who plays with me, and who shows me lots of fun, but then like a grandparent, sends me home again when I get too tiring;
To the one who faithfully comes into the neighborhood twice a week and never misses an appointment;
To the one who really does love me with all their heart, but who still recoils when I get too close because of my smell, or my runny nose, or my ringworm;
To the one who buys me stuff, even though I ain’t their kid;
To the one who reads books with me, and helps me with my homework, and mentors me, and comes to my court review.
This letter is for you.
Thank you.
I don’t say that very often, do I? At least, not in ways you hear. Even though I may not show outward signs of appreciation, you must realize how important you are to me. You take time out of your busy life to come and visit me. I am a kid you don’t know too well, and one you don’t fully trust, but you come see me anyway. You are not my mamma or her baby daddy, and the courts didn’t make you come here. So when you spend time with me, I know it is because you want to. I’m too tough to tell you, but I need that kind of care. I crave it. I love you for doing it.

But you got to remember that you and me are different, okay? You got to remember that there are some things that I know better than you.
You drive into my neighborhood to work, but I live here all the time.
That’s not a bad thing, I am glad you come to see me. But you got to remember that you’re the guest here. You are not in charge all the time. You don’t always set the agenda.
Long after you leave, I will still be here.
When you are waking up for work and drinking your morning coffee, I am dragging my younger siblings out of bed and dressing them and making sure they eat something so we can get to the bus stop on time. And I don’t wake mamma.
When you are sleeping in your bed at night, I am curled up in a trembling mass in the corner of a shadowy den hoping and praying that my new daddy don’t come home drunk again.
I know you want to help, but you got to remember you don’t make the rules.
I need to drive sometimes. I know I am a little kid, but there are some things that I know better than you.You forget that sometimes, but hey, nobody’s perfect.
I know you like to visit me, but I also know that I scare you. You come from somewhere different than me and you can’t figure out why I act like I do.

For example, when you give popcorn to the kid on my left, I want some too. Do I simply ask for some, or patiently wait my turn? You wish I would.
“Hey! No fair! Why does he get popcorn? Where’s mine? Gimme some!”
This is my default.
There is a whining sound in my voice that annoys you, or I sound angry and aggressive.
What I want to say is this: “The popcorn looks delicious. I would like to have some, please.”
But I don’t know how to say that.
You tell me I have poor manners. You tell me I am rude. Well, I don’t know much about that, but I do know that you are trying to rip me off.
At home, and everywhere else I go, the assumption is that I am going to get screwed. See, I live with my mom and her boyfriend, and he has kids of his own that he brought with him when he moved in with us. And my brother has a different dad too.
At my house, there are favorite kids. At my house, I don’t get a new toy just because my brother did. At my house, I get left out.
But my mamma doesn’t say anything because it might make Joey mad. So, at my house, I am on my own.
Then you come along, and you seem nice enough. But how do I know that there is enough popcorn for me? How do I know that you are going to serve me just like you served that other kid? How do I know that you won’t ignore me?
I don’t.
I don’t know until I can trust you. Because, even though I am here in a church or school or kids club, I forget that I don’t have to fight. I forget that you try to be fair.
So, I will demand popcorn if I have to.

I say “fuck” a lot. And “bitch” and “shit” and “pussy.” You tell me I am bad, but really I am just talking like everybody else.
You got stuff you say, and I got stuff I say. It’s not because I am dumber than you, it is just my language.
I need you to fight against something. You will be tempted to judge me based on my speech patterns. My informal register will cause you to feel intellectually superior, and my use of profanity will cause you to feel morally superior.
Battle those urges with everything you’ve got.
I need you to talk to me without lecturing. I need you to include me in discussions. I don’t need condescension, I need conversation. I know you’re convinced that your language is the “correct” one and mine is somehow broken. But Jesus speaks Ebonics too.

By the way, it is okay for you to talk your talk. I don’t mind. But don’t try to mimic me, because I don’t know how to respond to that.
I don’t need someone who looks like me and sounds like me. I don’t need someone more ghetto or someone who fits into the neighborhood.
I need someone who truly cares. I need the love that turns things upside down. That will be enough.

I like to laugh, just like you do. I want to have a good time. But I laugh at different things than you.
You laugh at clever remarks and ironic situations and cunning satire.
I laugh when I tease the boy next to me until he cries. He walks funny and his clothes are too big. (My clothes are too big too, but I crucify him for it.)
Then I flip open my cousin’s cell phone and show everybody an animation I downloaded for $1.99.
It is Scooby Doo having sex with Daphne.
I laugh loud and long so everyone around me hears. I pass it around because there is great value in being the entertainer.
You tell me I am mean and inappropriate, but I don’t know how else I am supposed to laugh. The only things funny to me are people and sex. And when I showed it to my uncle, he laughed too.

That animation on my phone is the best way for you to understand me. That animation shows the clash of two worlds.
Scooby and Daphne: icons of silliness and youth.
Graphic depiction of sex: a mysterious siren song beckoning me to the big people world.
I clash with myself every day.
I am a kid, a normal kid, just like in your family. I go through all the same phases and want all the same things. I am just as likely as your kid to beg for a toy or have a scary dream or cry when I don’t get my way. I am just as likely to bite my Tootsie Pop or enjoy Dr. Seuss or forget to tie my shoe laces. And sometimes I just need a nap.
But I am also an adult, a small adult, who sees the real world every day. I go through all the same phases and want all the same things. I may not understand it, but I am likely to be intrigued by sex and marvel over money and watch while my brother gets high. I look up to Scarface and I’m wary of police and I see through your lies about school. And sometimes I just need a drink.
I’m kind of schizophrenic. A half-kid half-adult hybrid. That’s why I can be vulgar and innocent at the same time. That’s why I will tell you of my sexual exploits in graphic detail and then ask you to blow bubbles with me. That’s why I will quote the movies “How High” and “Alvin and the Chipmunks” over dinner and laugh just as loud over both of them.

You might think I have no impulse control. You might think that I am overly emotional, or terribly dramatic, or blatantly offensive. You can’t figure out why I act like I do.
You feel like you can’t get close to me because I fly off the handle every now and then, or I am cold or hostile toward your sappy Christian advances. I’m totally inconsistent and you think I may be mentally imbalanced.

You know nothing stays the same? Ask me my phone number. I probably won’t know it.
Ask for my address. I might be able to give you the street name we just moved to.
Ask me who my parent or legal guardian is, or which of those kids is really my cousin. I’m not being rude when I don’t answer. I just can’t keep up.
And I don’t know if my mom will bring home groceries, and I don’t know if I will make it to middle school. I don’t know if I am safe in my bed, and I don’t know where my daddy went. The things I don’t know far outweigh the things I do know.
I can’t control what happens to any extent, and I have trouble predicting outcomes.
Things happen to me.
I don’t wake up and plan for my day. I wake up and brace myself.

That’s why I cry at the drop of a hat, and that is why I launch into manic fits. That is why, when my brother asks for help on his homework, he may start fuming and kick the hell out of something.
We’re wearing roller skates on a merry-go-round. We can’t catch our balance and no one is helping us up.
We are trying to climb the wrong way up an icy sliding board while the bully at the top keeps throwing snow balls.
We’re in a cage match with reality, and there is no way to tap out.

And so we do things.

Maybe you’ve seen those scars on my arms. No, not the cigarette burns. Those came from something else.
I mean the cuts. Those straight and narrow cuts that criss-cross all over my skin and make patterns like a railroad track.
They look suspiciously like I put them there myself. You wonder about it when you catch a glimpse, but it takes you a couple of weeks to ask.
Let me tell you about my day. Let me tell you about my day that is the same day every day, and how boring and tedious it becomes to climb out of bed. Everything seems broken sometimes, and I don’t believe it can be fixed. There is nowhere to go from here, nothing to do.
I am bored.
Boredom leads to apathy, apathy leads to numbness, and numbness is the enemy of hope. I am the walking dead and it doesn’t take long for me to yearn to feel something. I want to feel that little sting, that rush of endorphins, that cleansing release as I purge my body of pent up self-worthlessness. I feel something. And I am in control. I am causing the sensation and no one is doing it to me. I am causing the sensation and I can make it stop.

Leave me alone. Just leave me alone. Don’t talk to me! I hate you! I hate you!

I’ll run away and hide from you because you’re getting too close. I will say things just to make you hurt inside, and sometimes I get satisfaction in knowing you cried over me. I’ll cuss at you sometimes. I will jump out of your car and refuse to get back in, telling you the whole time that you are a liar who doesn’t care about me at all. Then I will walk home by myself in the rain, tossing the gift you gave me on the ground.
And I will watch over my shoulder to see you driving slowly behind me until I arrive safely at my destination.

I’m mad at you. I am not speaking to you. We both know that it’s not your fault, but I want to be mad at someone. I fume and vent, and you shrink and listen. You will try really hard in this situation, but I don’t want you to win. I want you to come back, but I don’t want you to win. I’m pissed.

I need you to be patient. Most people stick around until I lose my temper, or steal from them, or resist their love. They get tired, or hurt, or bored, or mad and I never see them again. When you wipe my spit from your face and search me out in the streets, I get it. Then I start to believe you. I’ll be baffled by your mercy and puzzled by your grace, and the yearning of my heart will be satisfied by your faithfulness. I’ll probably still act mad for a while, and I may teach you some new choice phrases. But I will also end the conversation with, “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
So, thanks for reading my letter. I don’t know if you’ll understand what I am saying, I am really not that articulate. I don’t know how to express these things. Sometimes I have to wrestle with my tongue to make the words come out. But I still wanted someone to hear me out, to engage my opinions, to recognize my voice.

And I cherish you for doing that.

From the kid you want to work with, but keep at arm’s length;
From the child you pick up for church on Sunday and play basketball with on Monday;
From the one who loves your reading voice and wishes he had a dad like you;
From the boy who needs to learn to shave and the girl who needs a chick flick night;
From the 1 in 4 who is living in poverty;
From the one who is close enough to touch.
I’ll see you tomorrow.

Bring candy.

An Unlikely Gift [Dan Hunt, Urban Homeworks staff]

On a daily basis I have the opportunity to measure my effectiveness and my capacity to serve our families in rental housing. I have stumbled onto a golden egg-a tool to measure whether or not I will be good at my job each day. This tool is in a form that you might not expect. It occurred to me one day as I was driving from one end of town to the other. I pulled up to a red light on Washington and Broadway in North Minneapolis and as I sat there waiting for the light to turn green, and as I looked just over to my left, there on the median was a gift from God. This gift was bearded and there were deep creases on his cheeks and forehead. His clothes were adequate, but not quite sufficient to keep out the chill. Behind the man was his bike and he was pulling a burley outfitted to carry pieces of discarded aluminum, steel, and copper. In his weathered hands he held a hand-made sign and although I don’t remember exactly what it said, to me it read, “Will you love me today?”

It was in that moment that I made a connection between my feelings for this man who I don’t know, and the families I am called to serve in this ministry. I have come to learn that if my first reaction to this man and his plea for help is one of compassion and love, then my heart is prepared for showing that same love and compassion to our families in rental housing. If my heart instead is filled with judgments, then I know I not prepared to give our families my best.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Seeing blessings through broken windshields - [Stacy, north Minneapolis Urban Neighbor]

I moved onto my block in north Minneapolis about a year ago, and am ashamed that I am just now becoming part of my neighborhood. First, I want to thank everyone who reached out when someone on my block shot out both of my windshields. Definitely not something I wanted to wake up to, but I am so thankful that it happened. Why? I experienced what it means to be part of community - to be prayed for, loved, and taken care of. It melted my heart when Nunu, a six year old boy on my block said, "I wish I could fix it for you." It humbled my heart when another young child asked me, "Do you cuss?" "I have," I said, "But I try not to."

Cecilia Wiliams spoke of the beauty that IS in North Minneapolis - Sometimes we have to look for it harder than other times, but it is there. Saturday night I was on a mission to bring my neighbors to Urban Jerusalem. I went down the street and was discouraged that the kids I had invited were no where to be found. In my frustration, God said - "Why do you try to 'do' things for me? Why do you follow your own agenda? Why do you become frustrated when things don't fit your schedule? This is not about you, it is about Me. Following me will not always be convenient. Following me means building relationships, it means 'putting in the time'. You can not expect to change your neighborhood if you are not in it. Praying is action, not wishful thinking" Ouch, I know.

I tried to keep that near my heart as I set out to go to the gym on Monday night. I opened my front door to find a gentlemen drinking with two of my neighbors. As I took off for the gym, God stopped me and said, "This, this is what I was trying to tell you. Stop!" I talked to the man who told me a lot of 'lies' including that he dated 50's Mom. And just as I was going to take off thinking I was just talking to the alcohol, he said, "I'm dying of liver failure." And that was it - the need, the message behind empty words. "Keep me in your prayers," He said. And I prayed for him right there. Broad daylight, people passing by, an 'uncoordinated' prayer, but it spoke to what community is. It was a testimony that people need Jesus. Bottom line, people need Jesus, and we find Jesus in community. If this man had sat on my steps a few months, even a few weeks ago, I probably would have passed by. But it is because of community and the prayers of those in my life, that I was able to see a need and respond.

I work for a company whose motto is, "Blessed to be a blessing." I pray that I and others would realize we are blessed not for ourselves, but blessed to be a blessing. Be encouraged that gunshots are not the only thing that is heard on the block - prayers and praise are coming forth and we will continue to refuse for things to stay as they are.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

Lessons From a Homeless Man [Tanden and Erin, north Minneapolis]

[Tanden and Erin bought a house in north Minneapolis from Urban Homeworks several years ago. This blog entry is an excerpt from their own blog Check out more of their journey there!]

Three nights ago I was standing by my front window, when I heard a familiar voice. I looked out the window and there was Charles making his way up our front steps. Before he got a chance to knock, I opened the door and invited him in.
We first meet Charles when we moved in two years ago, back then he was living in his van in the alley. Today Charles is trying to recover form a surgery that he had on his knee a few months ago. Charles is a Vietnam vet, and the injury is one that we got in the war. The surgery was going to help him with the movement in that knee, but in reality the opposite has happened. Today he is having a very hard time getting around. He can not longer work on cars, a love of his and a source of money. He can no longer go on long walks around the neighborhood, his freedom and movement are slowing leaving him now, which it seems to me are slowly but surely leading to his death. When he left the other night it I had to help him out of his chair, and then it took him several minutes before he could take a step.
I often wonder what kind of health care we are giving to one of the men that fought in one of our wars. I wonder if Charles is not just another one of those men we asked to go to war and to be a good citizen, but know that he is old and is in need of us, I wonder if we are really there or not.
Every time I see Charles now I encourage him to take care of himself, because I tell him that the neighborhood needs him. I know that because I know that I need Charles. Over the 2 years Charles has taught me a lot about life and the struggle of the poor.
My white culture taught me that Charles was lazy, did not want to work, was a drain on us, had nothing to offer, and was an object of our charity. In my relationship with Charles I found that not to be true.
What I have found is a friend that I have been able to share my life with. A friend that I was able to help by giving him rides, letting him use our car, sharing meals with, listening to, and giving him a garage to do his work in. But more importantly Charles has been a friend that has given to me, examples of what it really means to give to others, what life is really like when you don’t have a place to call home, he has called the police when he thought that someone was breaking into our house (he was the best security system that you can get), finding our house and car keys on the front sidewalk and returning them to us, and being a voice that tells the stories of the neighborhood and welcomed us when we the newcomers.
After I talked to Charles the other night I realized that there may only be a few more conversations like that with him so I better cherish each one. As Erin and I went to sleep that night we both talked about how we missed Charles and we will ever be grateful for God visiting us through Charles, so that we might see and know truth that is so often intentionally hidden from us.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

"I ain't no criminal no more!" [Dan, UHW staff]

It was about 5 years ago when I first met Amanda. We were just finishing the renovation on the house next door to where her mother lived. Her mother was taking care of Amanda’s children and we were seeing lots of them because they were curious about what was happening at the ‘crackhouse’ next door.

As we were finishing up this lower-unit apartment the kids were encouraging Amanda to see about renting it. She was in need of housing because she was finishing up a residential treatment program for using crack cocaine. Her addiction led her to prostitution and assault with a deadly weapon in order to support her habit. The treatment program she was leaving was the courts recommendation since she was a first-time offender. It was intended to ‘get her attention’ and keep her away from jail time.

The treatment program did, in fact, get her attention and she came out with renewed hope about a life with her children. Urban Homeworks did rent her the apartment, though many of the details of her history were not fully known at that time. It appeared to be a workable setup- having Amanda’s mother next door to help with the kids made it possible for Amanda to pursue work as a residential house cleaner.

Before long, however, the company that Amanda was working with hit financial trouble and had to close their doors. Amanda was now an unemployed, single mother with a criminal record. Despite having a good work history and a letter of recommendation from her supervisor, Amanda could not get a job. Each time she was apply and things would seem favorable, but quickly turned into disappointment with the employer ran a background check. Cleaning companies were not going to hire someone with a drug history and an assault charge to clean homes for elderly or disabled people.

Amanda lost hope. She was falling into financial trouble and she felt powerless
to do anything about her circumstances. Although it would seem that having the
support of her mother next door would be a help-that too was a heaping on of disappointment and hopelessness. Much of Amanda’s drug history was rooted in her mother’s house and when she fell into despair, her mother offered her an ‘escape’ to ease the pain.

Amanda’s started using again. She found herself back in drug court and back in front of the same judge explaining what had happened to her in the last two years. I went with her and asked the judge if he would consider another residential treatment program if we agreed to help her maintain her housing while she was away. The judge agreed, Amanda went away and came back a new woman. She had renewed her vows of recovery and starting attending Narcotics Anonymous support a couple times each week.

It was about a year after this that she told me she was moving. She discovered that the temptation to use drugs was tied, in part, to her location in the neighborhood. Too many people that she had used drugs with were still attempting to draw her into the old habits.

Amanda did move and called me her ‘advocate.’ She said that as her advocate I would need to “call her every once in a while and ask how I’m doin.’” If I let too much time pass between calls, she would call me and tell me how she was
doing and scold me for not calling enough. Another responsibility of mine as
Amanda’s advocate was to write her letters of support to show to employers.
She continued to apply for jobs in cleaning or cooking but was running into the same old challenges.

On February 14, 2008, I got a call from Amanda and a request for a letter of support. She was going back to court, but this time she was attempting to have her criminal history expunged. According to an information page on criminal expungement, “While it is easier to expunge a dismissed case than a conviction case, no one can accurately predict how a judge will decide your request for expungement.” Amanda charges were not dismissed and she had a second
appearance in drug court that did not look favorable for her. Despite my
doubts about her success at having her criminal record expunged, I knew that she was maintaining her recovery and was a good mom, so I performed my duties as her advocate.

I received a phone call from Amanda on February 26, 2008. In fact I received about 10 calls, but was unable to answer them since I was working with volunteers that morning. On my way back to the office I called her. She must have seen my number on the caller ID because she didn’t even say ‘hello’ when
she answered. She began reading something. Between her excitement and the
fact that she was talking incredibly loud I couldn’t make out everything that she said, but I heard, “February 25…courtroom 319…presided over by judge Herron…commenced hereof…criminal record hereby…EXPUNGED!!!

She laughed and wailed on the other end of the phone and yelled, “I ain’t a criminal no more, Dan!” I told her how proud of her I was and that although I wasn’t sure how that court appointment would turn out, I was overjoyed for her.
She told me that she felt sure that she could get a job now and that she wouldn’t have to feel so bad when she turned in her application. She didn’t say this, but I got a picture of her and the weight of past being lifted. Her identity had been shaped by the presence of one word- criminal. When she received that letter, every other word on that page erased that criminal identity she had assumed. Every word on that court document served to strip the lie that she was a criminal who could not be trusted. Details like the courtroom number, presiding judge and even the court reporters name was cause for celebration because Amanda felt reborn.

She celebrated that afternoon by having a BBQ. She cooked everything she knew how on that little backyard grill and as the aroma of her celebration wafted through doors and windows, down streets and alleys, everyone would know that Amanda was free.

Monday, January 21, 2008


Jesus looked at them intently and said,

"Humanly speaking,
it is impossible.
But with God
everything is possible."

(Matthew 19:26)

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Kicking Up Dust [Urban Neighbor alum]

[This posting is excerpted from an e-mail sent to me a by former Urban Neighbor who has been in the process of discerning the next steps in his journey: stay in Minneapolis, or return home to the Portland, Oregon area? It is a profound and wonderful reflection on how our lives and "God's will" intersect." The photo is his, too.]

"Most people want to wake up in the morning with a general at the foot of their bed saying 'Go do this.' The problem is there's somebody at the foot of their bed saying, 'Once upon a time. . .' " -N.T. Wright

I've spent the last four and a half months in Minneapolis waiting for the general to give orders. Unfortunately, my general happens to be the strong, silent type. In my mind, the general is a Type-A god with a blueprint and checklist for my life, waiting for me to put tab A into slot B correctly. This picture is entirely unhelpful.

Much of my personal development has taken place in a context of Christian culture where "God's individual plan for my life" was the only approved decision making model and ministry/career path. Whether or not this model is accurate, my experience has shown it to be like attempting to navigate through Yosemite National Park peering through a pinhole. Not only is it extremely difficult to see where I am and where I'm going, but I miss the beauty and grandeur of it along the way. I admit, there are definite bounds for my wandering, basic Biblical guidelines, to be sure. But within this frame of a bigger picture, I've been finding tremendous freedom to explore my place in God's story - perhaps writing a new chapter of my own.

I realize now that the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, is probably more like a novelist than a civil engineer. He cares less about where we go and what we do as long as the characters develop and the story hangs together as a coherent whole. The only way to ruin this kind of story is to forget who the author is. I used to read the Bible as a scripted play with people simply filling predetermined roles, but now I know it didn't go down like that when they were kicking up dust on the earth. They simply did what they had to do, and often just what they wanted to do. There was a famine, and people had to go where the food was. Someone got kicked out of the house and had to run away to a new land. Men went in search of a wife, and found one (or two). And sometimes, God spoke directly to a person and told him or her what to do. I've decided to experiment with artistic license in this story (giving credit to the author, of course). I'm going to kick up some dust - rather, mud, because I'm moving to Portland, Oregon.