for many this is home

When I look out from where I am, on the 33rd floor of a skyscraper, in the lounge of my condo...I can see the skyline and hints of Manila Bay.  Sometimes I can even see little billows of smoke way off in the horizon's distance and I can't help but imagine the heaps of garbage being burned and sifted through by men who call themselves scavengers, many who live in the midst of it with their families in tin and plywood homes that they made with their hands.  I probably wonder everyday about the children I met there, the man who has lived their his entire 40 years, and his daughter who is now 20.  I wonder about the children and I still have hopes of being friends to the older girls... one texted me the other day, asking me to help her find a job.  I texted back, but I haven't heard a reply.

When I was there the last time, I went in my normal footwear of flip flops.  To cross through the garbage and mud was to cross through something deeper than I had realized.  I sunk into the soot like mud and could barely barely pull my foot out of the mud to make each step.  I could feel the torque on my flip flops threatening to rip them in the stretch.  I did make it through with many looking on for a moment here and there.  We walked towards the homes at the side of the garbage hills and found that a little new playground had been built.  We entered the playground and more children came...eventually the older girls came too...one carrying a little bag of cold, clear, and clean water and she bent with an enthusiastic smile and began to wash my feet as I just stood there, somewhat trapped in the language barrier, somewhat trapped in the need of what she was doing, and trapped in a good way to humbly accept what she did with happy vibrance and notable efficiency.  I would actually try much later to give her twenty pesos-- although I normally do not give money--I thought that perhaps the water did cost her something...she would actually walk back across the mud with me when I left, giving me more water to go home with and when I tried to give her the twenty pesos in return (fifty cents) ...she sincerely said no, still with happiness.  

I am left with a question--- what can I really do?  For those who pray, pray with me...really.  For many this is home.

      I had a chance last year to stay during winter months changing into Spring in a cozy place in NYC.  I felt the warmth of the place, sheltering me at times from the snowy outside-- when it did snow, I would safely watch from within---and yet the intense cold outside was a stunning exhilaration as well.  I became better friends with all that were staying together, and when the time to leave came, we joked and said that it was as if we were now leaving the nest.  Katchi birds. Katchi being the Korean word for together (and I had been with one of our hosts in Korea, though she is fluent in Korean, that was about the only word I learned.  Katchi.  Together. And I loved it.)  It was time for the birds to fly.  We had to leave the warmth, the rest, the security and do the proverbial flying away.  What was at stake?  Not flying.  Not knowing the feeling of the next new experience.  What is it about us, that believes somewhat deeply that we were created to fly-- why is that a common thread in our subconsciousness that seeps into some of our dreams when we sleep?  Perhaps there was a time when man and woman could fly.

      As, I start this blog-- on home, the nest is a part of something Christ is recorded as saying and when I first heard someone repeat it, it spoke of how my life would be for a time.  "Foxes have holes and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to sleep."  No home, house--- white picket fence to point to.  I was in college when I heard it, and I thought intuitively that will be me as well.  Christ was displaced, perhaps from Heaven, perhaps from eternity, but also quite literally traversing on foot under a middle eastern sun, catching the fish to eat, hoping to share bread and wine with friends.  Yet, there seems to be a three year period of his life when he had no where to rest, to call home.  Perhaps, he was prophetically experiencing solidarity with the world we live in.  A world where its quite normal to be in exile, a refugee, an orphan.  Displaced.  What does it mean to have 34 million refugees?  80 percent of whom are women and children.  Refugee is one seeking asylum or a sanctuary, perhaps a sacred space to be an eco-system to nurture survival, and beautiful life.  What does it mean for sub-saharan Africa by 2010 have 42 million orphans?

     Perhaps, home and hospitality are meant to be more than cooking.  Perhaps hospitality is simply bringing the stranger in.  Perhaps hospitality is helping the person outside of a home, come inside...outside of a conversation, be a part of the conversation, outside of friendship be a part of community, outside of nations--- have a place to call home.  Jesus tells a parable about a shepherd who sees a lamb that it his and that was lost; and he goes and leaves everything else to get the one--- the one person... but in this case, it is a lamb and he says, he takes the lamb and carries it on his shoulders and brings the lamb home.  I think we have a change to create home in small ways---in small transitions through out our days... welcoming the world around us.

       As for myself, I know of a woman who felt that Jesus told her that she would always have enough--- enough bread to feed children with, enough clothes for orphans, that she would have enough--- as she started with one, and another one, and another.  She now takes care of 7000 orphans in Mozambique.  But perhaps it started by creating a little nest in the world for children to call home.