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The Unlikely Gift I Found in a Lancaster City Alley

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Sammy, two or three years old, taking a pitch from my dad at my parents’ old house.

On a cool August day, on that particular stretch of Market Street (which is more like an alley than a street), just north of James, you might see the young woman with the empty eyes sitting on the stoop, smoking a cigarette. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t – I’ve seen her there many times, staring at the cracks in the sidewalk. The top half of the storm door behind her is missing the glass.

If she’s sitting there and it’s in the afternoon or on a weekend you’ll probably also see her daughter playing with the dust and the pebbles that have been pushed into the gutter, her own private sandbox. She’s tiny and blonde and has dirt smudges on her face. Her clothes are covered in dust. She makes lines with a discarded straw.

If you walk past them and keep going north on Market, you’ll realize there aren’t any houses on that particular stretch, not between James and Frederick streets – there’s only chain link and tall, brick warehouses and a few long lines of storage units that some people use as a garage for their car and other people use as porches, sitting in front of the open doors, the grill on, their kids riding old trikes around in circles.

But some days, if the sun is out and you listen, you’ll hear a rhythmic !thwop! followed by a small shout, a particular time of silence, and then another !thwop!. If you follow that sound down the alley off of Market Street, you’ll see a narrow swathe of grass beside a brick warehouse that’s being renovated into “high-end apartments.” The grassy stretch is bumpy and littered with bricks from the building and old stones no one has touched for years. Overgrown bushes separate that grassy alley from the backyards of the houses on Prince Street. Cats weave in and out of the shadows.

!thwop!

There it is again. Look closer. It’s a long-haired boy wearing a baseball cap and cleats that are a touch too small. He’s six years old and he throws the ball to his dad (me). His dad throws the ball back. The red seams spin in the air like the rings of a planet and the ball smacks into the leather gloves. When I reach my own arm back and throw there is muscle memory there that goes back thirty years, goes all the way back to a small boy on a farm throwing ball with his dad in 1985, back to a large, lush, green yard shaded by two tall oak trees. Beyond that yard, fields stretching out. A small brick church across the thread-thin back road. A cemetery with its broken-teeth stones. A bending creek with fairy tales on the far bank.

* * * * *

I never would have imagined, in 1985, that thirty years later I’d be throwing baseball with my son on a too-narrow strip of grass just off an alley in the middle of a small city. I never would have imagined having neighbors like Eric or Paul or Jenny. I never would have imagined living across the street from a barber shop and a tattoo parlor.

!thwop!

But life has its own beautiful rhythm, it’s own poignant meanderings, and we resist our life’s natural course at our own peril. When we cling to our present situations, we do so at the risk of an unimaginably beautiful future.

Let go of comfort. Take a right on Market Street. Stop and talk to the empty-eyed woman. Give a smile and a kind word to the small child playing in the gutter. You might just find an unexpected rhythm, or, even more unlikely, a green strip of grass in the middle of a city perfect for playing catch.

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Do Not Despise Small Beginnings

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This world isn’t really one for small beginnings. Publishers want new books to skyrocket up bestseller lists in the first few weeks, banks want to see businesses turning a profit immediately, and the music industry wants a ready-made idol, one with adoring fans from coast to coast.

And they want it all today.

So do we. We want to throw everything together without mixing, without letting the flavors converge. We want to toss our effort in the microwave. One minute. Start. Ding! Finished.

That’s not reality. Do not despise small beginnings, slow starts, unheralded openings. Do not let your strong desire to be known quench the tiny flame before it can gather heat.

* * * * *

We showed up for the first day of soccer practice, and our college coach told us not to worry about bringing soccer balls. Just wear your running shoes. Meet him at the track.

We arrived, and the goal on that first day before we even had our first practice was to run a five-minute mile. Four laps around the track, each lap in 1:15.

“Start steady,” our coach said. “Don’t wear yourself out in the beginning. Finish strong.”

But during my freshman and sophomore year, I disregarded his advice. I sprinted out of the blocks, trying to get ahead while I had strength, trying to grab a few extra seconds in the beginning. I was looking for that quick start, and it always hurt me in the end. By the third and fourth lap, I was spent.

My junior year I decided to listen. I started off at an easier pace. My first lap was 1:20. My second lap was 1:20. I was ten seconds behind the pace, way behind everyone who had sprinted away from the starting line, but I had a strength in my legs I didn’t have the previous years. I charged forward in the third lap, and I finished strong in the fourth, passing almost everyone. I ran that mile in 4:52.

* * * * *

There is something to be said for an even start. There is something to be said for not wearing yourself out on the first day.

Rest in the small beginning. Find your pace in a steady start. There will come a time to push ahead.

“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin…” Zechariah 4:10

I decided to close down my Facebook and Twitter accounts in June (you can read more about that HERE), so this little space of mine depends entirely on you to spread the word. If you read something you enjoy, please share it.

Also, if you’d like to receive my twice-monthly newsletter (basically a few bonus blog posts every month plus information on upcoming books) you can sign up for that HERE.

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What We Found in the Church’s Basement

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We walked into the basement of the church, all seven of us, and I couldn’t help but think that there’s something about the basement fellowship halls of churches that all smell the same. It’s not a bad smell. It’s just that as soon as we walked into that basement I was nine years old again going to Wednesday night church in Chester County, Pennsylvania.

It was our first night at Circles, and we stood on the edge of the crowd.

Circles exists to “address poverty by increasing the capacity of communities…to inspire and equip families and communities to thrive and resolve poverty.” It’s a system of circle leaders (participants) being surrounded by allies who help them to set and attain simple goals. Being there felt, in some ways, like an AA meeting. Acceptance and support dripped off the walls. The allies didn’t feel superior to the circle leaders. We were all there in our shared poverty, everyone offering support and love.

Last night was both the graduation of a handful of circle leaders as well as a time for new allies (my wife Maile was one of them) to begin the process of matching up with circle leaders for the coming year.

A young man there told his story. He had been in a rough spot, but this fall he’s starting college. A single mom talked about how she always made time for the Circles meetings even though she had to squeeze it in between raising her daughter and working two jobs. “Without Circles,” she said, “I have trouble sticking to the goals I set for myself. But now I have a better job, with benefits, and a nice apartment.”

I have to admit – it was an emotional experience, listening to the circle leaders as they described the progress they had made during the previous 20 weeks. I could tell it had been difficult. A long hard road to the top. But I could also see the pride in their eyes, and a determination to keep going, the kind of determination you only see in people who have recently experienced crucial victories.

They inspired me.

* * * * *

My friend Erika Morrison, in her book Bandersnatch, shares an experience where a homeless drug addict spontaneously joins her family for her son’s birthday party.

Is befriending a homeless, child-abandoning druggie and showing love to her without insisting she change first a radical notion?

Shouldn’t you be putting your own children’s safety first?

Aren’t you just enabling her lifestyle?

She’s made her own bed; you should have left her to lie in it.

People like her are a waste of good, honest taxpayers’ money.

Make her get her act together and then be her friend.

These are some of the voices I have heard from a society that bolsters the assumption that people like Diamond are a boil on the butt of the general public, that she drags the rest of us down.

But what if we really believed that Diamond isn’t a deficit, but a necessary and vital link to the interlocking circle of contribution – not when she finally gets her act together (which might be never), but just as she is? Diamond didn’t need to be anyone or anything else than what she was in order to touch my actual soul and bring change to my heart.

Recently I’ve been challenged, both by Erika’s writing and then by going to Circles last night, to recognize my own poverty first. It’s too easy to see people who are obviously struggling and let barriers grow between me and them. But when I recognize my own poverty, it allows me to say, “Me, too” when I see poverty in someone else. and then we can move forward together.

Over and over I find myself praying the Jesus Prayer, not as a practice in self-deprecation, but as a reminder of my connectedness to everyone around me.

Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

I decided to close down my Facebook and Twitter accounts in June (you can read more about that HERE), so this little space of mine depends entirely on you to spread the word. If you read something you enjoy, please share it.

Also, if you’d like to receive my twice-monthly newsletter (basically a few bonus blog posts every month plus information on upcoming books) you can sign up for that HERE.

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The Long, Slow Road to the Top

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Sam, taking in the Grand Tetons, standing on the edge of Yellowstone National Park.

It was just over three years ago that my family and I took a four-month trip around the United States in a big, blue bus named Willie. We left in February, and it was in the early spring days of May that we arrived at the base of the Tetons and began the long, slow trek to the top. I’m not sure that I would recommend driving a 20,000-pound vehicle up a 10% grade on a winding, two-lane road.

That diesel engine chugged along so slowly that at some points it felt like we might start coasting backwards. My hands were white-knuckle grasping the wheel, not because of the speed at which we traveled, but precisely because of how SLOW our progress was. We followed hairpin turns and chugged along narrow stretches without guard rails, sections where we could look down on either side and see rubble and evergreens and wilderness.

The journey to the top of that mountain range was tedious and heart-burn inducing. It was much slower than we would have liked. The road up was perilous and beautiful.

But the view at the top was breathtaking.

(Yes, I know, we did lose our brakes on the way down, but let’s put that to the side for a moment.)

* * * * *

My point is this: you have a long, difficult road ahead.

Encouraging, eh?

I think it’s important to realize this and settle in for the long haul. Our culture has sort of arrived at this point where the prevalent message is IMMEDIATE SUCCESS and SHOOTING STAR and UNEXPECTED RISE TO THE TOP. Businesses should be immediately successful, musicians should be selling tens of thousands of albums tomorrow, writers should be on the best-seller list within a few months of the release of their first book.

The top is right there, within your grasp! WHAT IS TAKING YOU SO LONG?

When the trajectory of our rise is not as fast or as famous, it’s easy to get discouraged.

Don’t get discouraged. Keep plugging away. Keep your foot on the accelerator. Keep moving forward.

* * * * *

This morning Maile and I sat at the table at 4:45am drinking coffee and having a delicious, quiet morning before the kids descended. We don’t always wake up so early. I happened upon a list of the books I’ve written in the last six years, since the beginning of this crazy adventure of ours in which I decided to try to write for a living. There are nineteen books on that list, some traditionally published, some self-published, some not yet published.

That means I’ve written around a million words worth of books.

I’m closing in on my 1,000th blog post. That’s approximately 500,000 words of blog posts.

And you know what? I don’t have any best sellers to my name. I haven’t made millions of dollars. Very few people have ever heard of me and my writing. In fact, I only had my first serious conversation with a literary agent earlier this week. After six years of writing. After 1.5 million words.

It’s been a long, slow, precipitous road.

* * * * *

Let’s keep going, you and I. Let’s keep our foot on the accelerator. Let’s not worry about the select few who shoot past us on their motorcycles, racing to the peak. The top will still be there when we arrive, whatever that might look like. It will still be there. I promise.

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The Real Reason I’m Leaving Facebook and Twitter

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There is this incredible scene in the movie version of The Lord of the Rings where Frodo offers Lady Galadriel the One Ring. His offer surprises her, and she imagines what she could accomplish with that kind of power:

In the place of a Dark Lord you would have a Queen! Not dark but beautiful and terrible as the Morn! Treacherous as the Seas! Stronger than the foundations of the Earth! All shall love me and despair!

As she speaks she seems to grow in size and her voice becomes terrible and massive. But then, somehow, she refuses the Ring. Somehow, she turns away from all of that “potential.” She suddenly seems older, almost frail. But also relieved:

I have passed the test. I will diminish, and go into the West, and remain Galadriel.

Choosing to diminish is perhaps one of the most counter-cultural things we might choose these days. Choosing to become less (or perhaps to remain who we truly are instead of seeking to be something greater) is the hard way of downward mobility Henri Nouwen talks about.

Why not put the things you know are important, things like your family or your community or your true calling, on the back burner while you take some time to make money, to grow your following, to build a career?

This is the question we are confronted with every day, and how we answer will determine the course of our lives.

* * * * *

We are, all of us, offered Rings of Power. We are all, from time to time, presented with things that, if we take them, promise to increase our platform, our influence, our own little kingdoms. But there is always a price.

Always a price.

Recently I’ve realized that, for me, one of those little tiny Rings of Power is Facebook. That might sound kind of funny to you. Innocent little Facebook? Maybe for you, Facebook is not a problem, but for me? Facebook whispers many promises, the kind that appeal to me and my own deep-seated issues.

“Look at how much they like you,” FB whispers.

“You’re a good writer – the likes are evidence of this.”

“Look how popular you are – so many friends and fans and followers.”

“I’ll help you sell books,” Facebook reasons. “How will you tell anyone your new book is out if I’m not around to help?”

“Publishers won’t be interested in your work if you’re not on Facebook,” Facebook says.

Facebook knows how to speak my language (as each of our own Rings of Power know how to do), and the reasons pile up on one side of the scale, daunting and beautiful and so weighty, so important.

On the other side of the scale, measured up against all of those appealing, valuable, rational reasons for staying on Facebook, are the weightless, powerless, plain-vanilla-kind-of-reasons. These reasons comes to me in a still, small voice, the kind of voice that is not overpowering in the least, the kind of voice I have found easy to ignore in the past. The voice whispers, “Your life is too noisy, your mind is too cluttered. You need to trust that I will make you everything you need to be, that I will give you good gifts. You need to trust that I will not forget about you.”

They sit on the other side of the scale, the weightless reasons, full of silence, simplicity, and trust.

* * * * *

One of the things I heard loud and clear during my 48 hours of silence a few weeks ago was this: “Withdraw from social media. Look for truth and love in the silence. Spend less time caring how many likes you get and more time breathing, more time listening.” I came back determined to do exactly that, but I am learning something about myself: I do not have the strength, right now, to turn away. (Even this moment, as I write, I am checking for likes on something I posted a few minutes ago.) I am not like my wife, who has a FB account she rarely checks. I’m addicted to what Facebook has to offer, and the only freedom for me is the freedom that comes in giving it up completely.

This voice, what it is asking me to do, it doesn’t make any sense. By all accounts, a writer such as me should be building a platform, not dismantling a section of it. I should be posting multiple times a day, using Facebook to grow my reach and my readership. I should use it to become friends with influential individuals. I should be targeting likes and shares and using Facebook to make my voice louder.

But I’ve learned something these last five or six years – when that still small voice speaks, even if what it says doesn’t seem to make any sense, listen. When it tells you to sell and move, do it. When it tells you to go on a cross-country adventure, listen. When it suggests you go on that overseas trip even though you’re in the middle of a tough time financially, go.

The problem with Facebook and social media is that, for most of us, it becomes the noise that blocks out the still, small voice. We forget how to listen. We become battered, driven by the noise around us, the noise that at first has so much to offer, the noise that speaks to the wounded parts of us. So we join in, we shout a little louder. We lose sight of the fact that suddenly all we’re doing is screaming to the world…about ourselves.

“Look at me! Look at me!” we plead, trying harder and harder to project our voice above the chaos. But the louder we shout, the smaller we become.

I’ve become so small. So silly. I’m sorry I haven’t been a better listener. I’m sorry I’ve added to the noise in your life.

* * * * *

I have to be honest: in my heart, I’m still not okay with diminishing. I still want to be famous and popular. Like Galadriel, I want my own little kingdom to be “stronger than the foundations of the earth.”

But I also know the relief that will come at the end of the week when I deactivate my FB and Twitter accounts. When I click those buttons and no longer have access to those particular addictions. In that moment, I will have passed a test. A small test, perhaps, but I will have chosen to diminish. I will have chosen to remain me.

Can it be that the meaning in my life has less to do with having thousands of “followers” than it does knowing the people who live in this small part of my own city? Can I somehow believe that the new creature I am destined to become might not be bigger or fancier or more popular, but smaller and kinder and simpler?

Simply me. Only me.

I’m starting to believe “me” might just be good enough.

* * * * *

Farewell, Facebook and Twitter. I say that with a little disappointment, a little sadness, a tinge of anxiety, and a huge sense of relief.

Farewell.

* * * * *

I’ll share this post through the weekend and then close my accounts. After that I’ll still be blogging about once a week and sending out an email newsletter a few times a month (you can subscribe to that in the upper right corner of this page). I’ve met so many wonderful friends through Facebook and Twitter over the last few years, and I hope we stay in touch. You can always contact me through the blog or email me at shawnsmucker(at)yahoo(dot)com.

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The Problem With Being Born Again

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It seems to me that if we are going to go around calling ourselves Christians, we have to wrestle a bit more with this whole idea of being born again. While I do not remember my own birth, I’ve seen at least five babies enter the world, and let me tell you: being born is not something I’d like to have to go through again, ever. No one seemed to be entirely happy with the situation: not the one being born, and not the one giving birth (which makes me wonder how much pain we put God through while undertaking this whole process, but that’s a different post for a different day).

When I was little, I equated being “born again” with going up front and giving my heart to Jesus, because that’s what good little boys did in our pentecostal evangelical church. I felt pretty good on the way home from those revivals. Something felt cleaner, like I had gotten a new start.

The thing is, I went up to “get saved” way more than once. Again and again, in fact. And in the past I’ve credited that continued visitation to the front of the church as a reflection of my fear of going to hell. Maybe I got saved so many times because I wanted to make sure it stuck. Now? I’m not so sure that was the reason.

In fact, I think childhood Shawn went up front so many times, not because of a fear of damnation, but because I couldn’t quite believe that was it. I couldn’t quite believe that all Jesus wanted of me was a short walk to the front of the church. And as I’ve grown older, that conviction has strengthened. I’m not talking about getting into heaven anymore; I’m talking about the answer to the question, “How now shall we live?”

Because I think when Jesus spoke of being born again, he was talking about a journey that included much more than walking from the back of the church to the front. I think he was talking about much more than saying a simple prayer. I’ve seen births. I’d imagine Jesus saw one or two during his day. There’s nothing easy, nothing painless, about being born the first time – why would a second birth be any less challenging?

If you’re a Christian and you feel like there’s more to this life, that’s because there is. God doesn’t want us to only say a prayer or walk through meaningless rites of passage. No, he wants to introduce us to a new life, a kind of life we can’t even imagine right now. Can a baby envision the world as we now know it while it’s still swimming in amniotic fluid? Can it imagine the colors, the sensations, the smells?

The passage will be difficult. The new life terrifying. The separation from our old ways will be alarming. But it’s not called being born again for nothing. It all reminds me of the question my son asked me right before he went up to be baptized.

“How long will they hold me under, Dad?”

Sometimes it feels like that. Sometimes it feels like God is holding me under. The main question is, what kind of a creature will I be when I emerge? What kind of life waits for me on the other side of the birth canal?