life or something more like it
The memorable moment came when I was sitting on a scratchy bale of hale, surrounded mostly by strangers. I had been stomach-growling hungry since about 6:00 pm, and it was now close to 9:00. I was cold; my canvas coat was not enough warmth in the winter night, and I had forgotten both hat and gloves, though my brother had kindly lent me a pair of his biking gloves. I and about twenty other people had climbed up onto a long trailer bed and seated ourselves close together on hay bales. My brother sat across from me. My friend Ben drove the truck. Erin and Sydney (I just met her that afternoon on the drive up) were somewhere in the mix. A guy whose jet black hair and subtle use of eye-liner unfortunately reminded me of Adam Lambert struck up a brief conversation with me. Then the trailer began to move, making a loud scraping/clanking sound from a chain dragging on asphalt. We began to sing Christmas carols, our voices rising above that of the annoying chain. I found that Sydney and I have voices that match well together.
We drove to a pre-decided street, then clambered out of the trailer. We got together in groups of six or so and went door to door, knocking, singing, talking to people, giving out Christmas gifts and praying with them. At first we had only a vague idea of what we were doing, then we fell into something of a routine. Sometimes we would knock and sing and no one would come to the door. But mostly the doors were opened, and we would inquire as to the number and ages of kids in the home, if any, and while half our group would stay and talk, half would run back down the dark street to the trailer, where we would pull out gifts and candy or even a bicycle or two.
Handing the kids their gifts was wonderful, but I think that talking to people was my favorite. We spoke with a man who was just getting home and wanted to sing along with us. We spoke with a older black gentleman whose kids were all grown but who was pleased to hear a song and asked to pray for us before we went on our way. We spoke to a Hispanic mom who said her baby wouldn't have had any Christmas this year if it weren't for us. We went to house after house and street after street until nearly all our toys and candy were gone. It was then when we were driving back, almost three hours later, that the moment came. I was sitting on the rough hay, my right side pressed against a girl I didn't know, some guy sitting on the floor leaning against my left leg. It should have been uncomfortable. But for some reason, it wasn't. In fact, I felt incredibly alive. Although I knew that when we got back there would be warm food waiting for us, I didn't care about that as much as I cared about staying in that moment. The cold and hunger had subsided and was only a faint whisper in the back of my mind. I was pressed between strangers, my throat was slightly raw from so much singing in the cold air, but it didn't matter. I felt strangely, indescribably alive.
Recently I went to hear a lecture by Rob Bell entitled "Drops Like Stars". In it, Bell speaks on how pain is necessary in life. Every great turning point and awakening moment in life involves some kind of pain. Every instance of hurt and failure leads to something beautiful in the end. It makes me wonder if that is one reason why - in what was admittedly something of an uncomfortable situation in various ways - I felt like that moment, that night, was part of something so much bigger. It wasn't just a time of doing something good; spending a couple of days helping a ministry and bestowing carols and presents on a few down-on-their-luck strangers. It wasn't just "an experience". It was something that I don't think I can describe because I don't fully understand. All I know is that that is what I want; a life that goes outside of myself, outside of my comfort zone, outside of what I can see. Searching for a greater good. A beauty from bits and pieces. Those are the moments I've always felt the most alive. Shouldn't that be what living is all about?
We drove to a pre-decided street, then clambered out of the trailer. We got together in groups of six or so and went door to door, knocking, singing, talking to people, giving out Christmas gifts and praying with them. At first we had only a vague idea of what we were doing, then we fell into something of a routine. Sometimes we would knock and sing and no one would come to the door. But mostly the doors were opened, and we would inquire as to the number and ages of kids in the home, if any, and while half our group would stay and talk, half would run back down the dark street to the trailer, where we would pull out gifts and candy or even a bicycle or two.
Handing the kids their gifts was wonderful, but I think that talking to people was my favorite. We spoke with a man who was just getting home and wanted to sing along with us. We spoke with a older black gentleman whose kids were all grown but who was pleased to hear a song and asked to pray for us before we went on our way. We spoke to a Hispanic mom who said her baby wouldn't have had any Christmas this year if it weren't for us. We went to house after house and street after street until nearly all our toys and candy were gone. It was then when we were driving back, almost three hours later, that the moment came. I was sitting on the rough hay, my right side pressed against a girl I didn't know, some guy sitting on the floor leaning against my left leg. It should have been uncomfortable. But for some reason, it wasn't. In fact, I felt incredibly alive. Although I knew that when we got back there would be warm food waiting for us, I didn't care about that as much as I cared about staying in that moment. The cold and hunger had subsided and was only a faint whisper in the back of my mind. I was pressed between strangers, my throat was slightly raw from so much singing in the cold air, but it didn't matter. I felt strangely, indescribably alive.
Recently I went to hear a lecture by Rob Bell entitled "Drops Like Stars". In it, Bell speaks on how pain is necessary in life. Every great turning point and awakening moment in life involves some kind of pain. Every instance of hurt and failure leads to something beautiful in the end. It makes me wonder if that is one reason why - in what was admittedly something of an uncomfortable situation in various ways - I felt like that moment, that night, was part of something so much bigger. It wasn't just a time of doing something good; spending a couple of days helping a ministry and bestowing carols and presents on a few down-on-their-luck strangers. It wasn't just "an experience". It was something that I don't think I can describe because I don't fully understand. All I know is that that is what I want; a life that goes outside of myself, outside of my comfort zone, outside of what I can see. Searching for a greater good. A beauty from bits and pieces. Those are the moments I've always felt the most alive. Shouldn't that be what living is all about?
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