what will be

My children were born into community.

They were born into love. 

They were born into chaos- beautiful chaos.

We lived in a community house: Chris + Leigh, Micah, Scott (+ Kristen), Nate, Karla (Kaivon and Kameron). 

We were part of inner city ministry in Detroit, Michigan. First the Van Dyke Place. Later, the corner of Mack and Burns. We had a triple lot with vegetable gardens, chickens, rabbits. A swing set, sand box, and grass abounded. We ran sprinklers, played in the snow, took walks in the rain. Everyday a group of women and I gathered together at the public library, the splash pad, the Science Center, the zoo, backyards, basements, third floors, kitchens, alleys, car trips to Costco, didn't matter- we were together. We changed diapers while sitting on couches, walked on the streets so we could fit all the strollers, traded babysitting, watched the little eyes of our people glow with wonder. 

We talked about theology, sang praises to the King, wrestled with what it all meant. We saw houses get shot up, were next door as homes were robbed, walked to find the house fires and watch the glow. We made friends, had community bbq's, we learned the culture, the history, and the beauty of Detroit. We shared clothes for events, passed books around, toasted over wine, went to birthday parties, found ways to encourage one another- lived a glorious life together. We tried recipes- we cooked vegan, vegetarian, beef, chicken, gluten free- you name the need- we'd find the perfect recipe. 

Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving- always together. Warm homes, beautiful lights, candles, fires, late nights, new beers, here, try this recipe. 

I had no idea that what we had was so unique. One of the core recently moved away and she is struggling to adjust. Will it get easier, she asks. Easier? You mean will you replace it? Probably not. Easier, perhaps.

We moved into a new home last year. We bought a house with a pool and a big backyard. Other than the obvious move for Bentley it was also in part to invite people in. 

Compared to the life we had in Detroit, few have come. 

Over rice and vegetables at a local restaurant we discussed my perceived loneliness with friends. "Well you've invited us to swim, but I don't want to take advantage of you." 

The words stung heart. "Take advantage of me?"

"Adrienne, you're inviting people to use your stuff, you're not inviting them to be your friend." 

Like The Giving Tree I am begging, "Come friends, come swing from my branches and eat my apples". Come enjoy the gifts that God has given us. And like the boy who wants more- it seems that those I have invited were not looking for a pool or a house or some food- 

I am offering the wrong thing. I am offering things. I am not offering friendship. 

But friendship is what I long for.  I long for for more than a monthly gathering or a weekly meeting. I long for the daily interactions- the texts, the meet ups, the assumptions we will find ways to be together. In part I long to be the center. Not the center like I need the attention- the center like you're welcome here- you're safe in this home.

If you come and need to cry I'll put on a movie for the kids even if they've already watched. 

If you come and you're hungry I'll start naming all the things I have to make you food. 

If you come and you're angry I'll let you rage. 

Come unannounced. 

Come because you're in the neighborhood- come because you aren't. 

Perhaps such a blog sounds like a desperate plea to get friends. 

It's no such thing. 

It's recognition that what we had in Detroit was unique. 

It's a confession that I've offered it all wrong.

It's understanding that as we get older it's harder to develop and maintain friendships. 

It's a fire to ignite us to work harder to find community in between the sundays. 

It's a longing- a truth- that what I want is more and a realization that what we have is enough. 

Sometimes all we need is to put words to our emotions- and see the stories behind it and simply realize that we may never have what we had in Detroit; but also realizing that what we have is something else- its clay remolded. It's a new creation- a new chapter in this book, authored by a God who dearly loves us, knows us, and wants good things for us. 

When we compare what was with what is we miss the opportunities of something new.

The great thief of joy is comparison.

I have been comparing a community past to a community present.

And so today I repent of the desire to create what was

and hold my hands wide open to receive

what will be. 



Amen.