Listing Photo, 2003

We moved into our home eight years ago this weekend.

During that time we’ve had a dozen people live with us and hundreds come through our doors for parties, play dates, counseling, Bible study, and whatnot.*

Guests have stayed with us from as close as Portland to as far away as Australia.

I’m thankful for God’s provision for our home. We afforded this house on one income, made it through a few layoffs, and fed a lot of people with our fishes and loaves.

If it were up to me and Bryan, I think we’d prefer to live at the end of a deserted mountain road or at the top of a secluded condo building. We’re introverted by nature, and some might even say Bryan is a hermit. But Jesus called us into community and hospitality, and His influence in the lives of the people around us is unmistakeable.

Hard conversations around the dinner table.

But instead of living in seclusion, our home is where people gather.

Neighbors drop in, friends swing by, and kids swarm. There’s always an extra plate or two at dinner, and I’ve taken to stocking up on snacks. God transformed my heart and my budget to live hospitably in this home.

One of many game nights.

As we consider moving sometime in the future, I wrestle. I feel it’s what we are to do, yet our roots seem too deep here to survive a replant. But I recognize that hospitality is a state of mind, a way of life. It’s not a house.

No matter where we are, God will bless our home.

—

*The “whatnot” may or may not include the time lightening struck as a handful of lusty housewives watched the Justin Timberlake HBO concert special on my giant HD tv.

For the last seven or eight years we’ve hosted a BBQ once a week at our home. You bring something to grill and a dish to share, we provide the deck, an awesome music mix, and s’mores for the fire pit.

Four or five years ago a little guy we love (who’s not so little anymore), referred to our home as The House of BBQ. The name stuck, and so we now host the annual summer House of BBQ (#HoBBQ on twitter).

Except.

We are more than half way through July, now, and we have yet to host a massive HoBBQ event. It seems we’re in a season of introversion, of selective scheduling, of wagon circling.

We’re busy this year. Not necessarily in schedule, as we often go through busy seasons on the calendar. But my brains cells feel taxed, my creative juices depleted, my ability to handle large crowds…fragile.

We used to schedule dates in advance and blast them out via twitter, but this summer it’s been more like this…

Me: “You wanna BBQ tomorrow?”

Bryan: “I don’t know. I can’t think that far ahead.”

[The next day]

Me: “You wanna BBQ today?”

Bryan: “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Me: “Should we invite anyone over?”

Bryan: “I don’t know. What do you think?”

Me: “I can’t think that far ahead.”

[A couple hours later]

Me: text to friend: “we’re BBQing, want to come over?”

Friend: “When?”

Me: “now.”

You get the idea.

At first I felt panicked, guilty, like a failure for not being able to handle it. Folks emailed or called us out on twitter this Spring, asking when our first HoBBQ would be scheduled, and I just couldn’t imagine it happening.

But I think I just need some space to refill my cup so I have more to pour out.

So I just wanted to let the locals know we’re still here, and we’re still BBQ’ing.

Mostly.

My house is full. All five rooms. Four adults, four kids, three family units.

A few weeks ago my friend, Lacey, moved in with her two kids, occupying our remaining two rental rooms, while a single guy rents the third. Her kids are the same age as mine, and they’ve been friends for about three years. Right now it mostly feels like one really long slumber party, but I’m confident it will all start to break down very soon.

I thought this many people in the house would feel overwhelming and crowded. I thought I’d be cooking and cleaning 24/7 to keep on top of it all. I thought I’d be breaking up fights between the kids every five minutes.

But it’s actually been going surprisingly well.

For those of you who mutter daily that you wish you had a wife… well I have one now. If I cook, she cleans up. And we do chores together and swap laundry days. It feels pretty spectacular to share the load.

Bryan even has all four kids playing a daily I Spy game in which they pick up clutter from the front door to the back door, earning quarters if they’re willing to bet on a job well done. I dare say the house is cleaner now than when it was just us.

The other day Lacey made a joke about being my sister-wife. I laughed, then I stopped laughing. She said, “Maybe that was inappropriate.” I said, “Well, only after I thought about it.” Then we laughed again and Bryan just shook his head at us.

Of course there are some kinks to be worked out, but we’re working them out as we go. That’s the important thing. If we waited until they were all worked out before pulling the trigger, she might have never moved in.

Because in my opinion, there are certain things in life one has to ponder carefully – like what shoes to wear when it rains from the sun, whether to get your salted caramel scoop in a cup or cone, or if you should go with short hair this summer or keep it long.

But when a friend says – Hey, I need help, and you have rooms for rent! Can me and the kids move in? – you say yes without thinking too much about it and trust all the details will work out.

And they always work out.

“Maybe we’re not meant to be together.”

“He said he never loved me.”

“He told me he wants a divorce.”

“I can’t keep letting him treat me that way.”

“I don’t see how reconciliation is possible.”

“It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“I can’t stop crying.”

These are soundbites from some of the conversations I’ve been having lately. It’s a bit agonizing to know that I can’t fix the complex web of other people’s problems, that I can’t solve it and make it better with more talking and little wine.

Some things will simply remain broken.

I love hearing stories of restored marriages, of recovery from addictions and healing from serious illness. What a great time to be on Team Jesus! He’s so awesome to mend our broken lives!

But then sometimes sin and selfishness corrupt a marriage so deeply that we reject the mending; the idols of our desires are so strong we are not open to being rescued; the tragedy of Adam so final that our bodies do not heal.

It’s more difficult to see Jesus working in these situations. Sometimes I don’t want his comfort because I’d rather he fix it. I don’t want to mourn a loss but rejoice in the miracle of restoration!

We sing a song in our church community called We Have Overcome, and recently – the day after I first heard one of these soundbites from a friend – this particular lyric stood out to me, and I burst into tears:

“…a savior who turns tragic endings into love stories, this is the God I know…”

Some of the endings to our stories are tragic. They crash and burn or slowly smolder; they sometimes catch us by surprise. But thankfully we are not in our own story – we are a part of God’s story, and his stories always end lovely even if brought through a tragic climax.

This is the God I know.

”

Image of invisible God
Stretched across a tree
And all to take my place
Oh, the divine mystery

A savior who turns tragic endings
into love stories
This is the God I know

Chorus:
You have overcome, You have overcome deathʼs sting
Celebrate the rising of a king
You have overcome, You have overcome, letʼs sing
The power of an everlasting king

Last night Bryan and I stepped into the bar of a fancy schmancy steak house to dine with the common people, but happy hour was in full force, and all the tables were taken.

Directly in front of the entrance was a large round table suitable for about eight people, and the server asked if we minded taking one side of the table while the couple behind us took the other side.

Sure. No problem. We’re community kinda people.

The table was huge and the room was loud, so there wasn’t really any awkwardness re the couple we ignored across the table. But they were only there for drinks and appetizers, and left after about an hour.

Almost immediately, another couple pounced on the vacated spot across the table. Well, a couple and her mother. I attempted to smile and make eye contact with our new table mates, but to no avail.

And then I heard the daughter say, “I’m just trying to spread out a bit,” as she placed her jacket on the chair between us.

I can’t explain why this alarmed me since she could very well have just wanted the chair to hold all her stuff, but my Spidey senses were alert as I sensed a hostile takeover on the horizon.

Sure enough, another couple arrived – the gal sat next to me and her husband sat next to Bryan. We were now a full table, and still no one acknowledged we were there.

I was beginning to think we were slipping into an episode of Portlandia.

And then the most glorious thing happened – more guests arrived, hovering around the table, and one of the young men introduced himself and shook our hand.

Him: “Hi, I’m so-and so, and you are?”

Me: “Uh, Jennifer?”

Him: “Great to meet you – how do you know the birthday boy?”

Me: “Ah, so this is a birthday party then!”

Him: *confused face*

Mother across the table: “Oh they’re not with us, we’re just sharing their table. But you’re probably more polite than we’ve been.”

Me: “True story.”

Mother across the table: “Well, we were just trying to give them their privacy.”

(notice how she’s still not talking to me?!)

Me (to Bryan): “I think that privacy wall was breached the moment they added ten more chairs to the table.”

Bryan (to me): “We should just start telling them about Jesus. That always clears a table.”

Me: *maniacal laugh*

So there we sat, eating steak and onion rings in the middle of a birthday party that crashed our table.

And then the second most glorious thing happened: Bryan struck up a conversation about mobile web development with the guy next to him, and they went on and on about shit I didn’t understand.

I did not mind this distraction, though, because by that point our dessert had arrived and I was able to eat three bites of Bananas Foster for every one of Bryan’s.

I don’t know who this Foster is, but I sure like his bananas.

As we were paying the bill, Bryan said he was going to hug the birthday boy and wish him a happy birthday as we left.

I dared him.

I readied my camera.

But in the end, he opted for a wave and a head nod.

Regardless, I think this goes down as one of our best dinner memories EVAR.

Every Thursday we host a small group of friends in our home. We eat dinner together and hash out the challenges of living a meaningful life.

Our friend Bob usually brings dessert because he shows up a little late, after he gets off work.

Bob is now Bob the Dessert Guy in the eyes of my children. Thomas actually believes that Bob’s home is lined with shelves of cakes and brownie bites.

He begs me all the time to take him to Bob’s house.

Last fall when we were in California, Grandma served up ice cream after dinner. There was discussion around the table re our favorite desserts, and Thomas said, “Do you know Bob?”

I had to dash into the kitchen, laughing uncontrollably as Thomas talked about Bob and his desserts as if everyone knew who Bob was. I mean, why wouldn’t you know who Bob was? Bob is the Dessert Guy!

But this is who Thomas is. He invites you into his experiences. He wants you to see what he’s seeing, to taste what he’s tasting. It’s never a complete experience until he can share it with you.

So Thomas knows Bob the Dessert Guy, and he thinks you should too. Wanna come over this Thursday?

The drama next door has proved to be excellent fodder for teaching my kids the benefits of discipline. I mean, nothing says “I do it because I love you” better than observing the neighboring teenagers swear all day long, come and go whenever they please, and threaten your dad.

“Do we let you get away with stuff like that?” I asked Ruthie the other day.

“No.”

“Do you understand why?”

*silence*

“Nobody loves that kid enough to correct him when he gets sassy,” I said. “Nobody bothers to tell him it’s wrong and disrespectful to treat people that way, and now he’s full of anger and tries to bully other people. We discipline you because we love you.”

People keep asking how I’m doing, knowing a stranger was in my house while we slept, six feet from my kids’ bedroom. Am I scared? Feeling unsafe? Angry? And the answer is (surprisingly): not really.

I’ve touched on all those emotions briefly, but for the most part I’ve seen God unfolding a bigger picture. He loves these kids, and he desires to discipline them so their hearts are turned toward wisdom and away from folly. As I see Bryan reaching out to these boys – talking to them like men, calling them to account, and telling them what is right – I see that God is using us to show them what it means to be loved through discipline.

And to clarify, I don’t think either of the neighbor kids or the 2-3 friends I see there daily actually DID the burglary, but their actions and activities invite a certain peripheral crowd into the neighborhood that they can’t really control.

Like the time their tires were slashed by a kid because they wouldn’t let him inside the house. They say that kid doesn’t come around anymore, but who knows. There are so many.

All this to say, we take precautions to protect our family, we keep a watchful eye, and we don’t  trust a word they tell us apart from their actions. But we love them, and we hold out hope, and we tell them the Truth as long as they’ll let us.

And so far, they let us.

Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while you shouldn’t have fucked with? That’s me. -Walt, Gran Torino.

Things are going awry in my neighborhood, and I don’t plan to be a passive bystander. I’ve been watching kids come and go from the house next door for a year now, during all hours of the day and night. One by one, in and out, coming from one direction, leaving in another.

I can’t say for sure what’s going on in there, but I have my suspicions. Actually, I think it’s pretty obvious what’s going on over there, even though all the grown-ups in that house think these are just kids being kids.

On June 8th we were burglarized while we slept, and my kids’ room was about six feet from the laptop they stole off the kitchen counter. The police tell us it’s the first owner-occupied burglary in five years, and it likely involves someone associated with the house next door.

This event was the tipping point re our tolerance of the shenanigans over there. I am no longer a casual observer, but a vigilant mama bear. Have you seen a mama bear around her cubs? She gets a little huffy when you look at her the wrong way.

The neighbors are obviously not excited about our sudden interest in their comings and goings. On Saturday one of the kids who’s over there a lot flashed his tattoos at Bryan, postured, and threatened him with some “you don’t know who you’re messing with” business.

(I’m shaking in my boots, kid. Your grandma dropped you off in the turquoise Astro van.)

Tomorrow I will be cleaning off my front porch and plunking a chair down next to a cooler full of beer, Gran Torino style. This is MY neighborhood, and you better believe I’m paying attention to it.

I think we were all stretched a little tight last week when Bryan was out every night at events, bookended by working both weekends. It was one of those occasions where it did no good for me to complain about it – whether out loud or in my heart – so I simply embraced the flow and made it work.

That alone was a miracle of Jesus-proportions.

It was Friday morning when I realized we both needed the car that day, because for some reason when he said “I have a video shoot,” it didn’t occur to me he can’t haul all his gear on the bus. I considered leaving the kids at home with our new house mate while I drove him into the city, then realized the commute would be a perfect stolen moment for the kids to see their dad.

I should have known they’d end up being roadies.

The kids made two trips with Bryan into the Maritime Events Center, hauling tripods and gear boxes while in their jammies. They felt important and useful, and I think it’s a memory they’ll store away for a long time.

Not bad, for a few stolen moments.

As for my own sanity, Bryan took me with him to an event on Wednesday. Friends kept the kids, I picked him up downtown, and we jetted across the lake to Mercer Island more than an hour before the event started – which was more than enough time to sit on the lazy veranda at Mercer Island’s Roanoke Inn, sipping cocktails and gazing into each others’ eyes.

I felt happy sitting there, relaxed despite the overwhelming week. Bryan had insisted I come with him, and I initially balked at the logistics of making this happen. But as I sat there, I realized it was his way of taking care of me, of loving me within the limitations of his schedule.

And I was glad I acquiesced.

Bryan with Kenji Onozawa and Adnan Mahmud.

And then we were off to our event, and I got to watch Bryan in action and meet the great folks at the Jolkona Foundation.

So now the question is, can we sustain this life pattern – these stolen moments – for the next few months as work and travel pick up? Can we make this work? Is an hour here and there enough?

We posed these questions to our faith community last night – friends from our church who love us, know us, and ask us the challenging questions. These are the folks to remind us of our vision as a family and as a lover of Jesus. They will celebrate our successes with us, and speak up when they see our priorities getting out of balance.

To us, Life is a group effort. Bryan can’t lead our family without the family’s support, and our family can’t thrive without our community’s support.

So as to the question of sustaining through the Stolen Moments? I have no idea how we’ll fare, or how long we can plug along at this rate, or even how long we’ll need to. But it’s fun being in this together, and it’s comforting to know we have Community to put things into perspective.

It was beginning to look like I couldn’t participate in the Run for Children’s race today. Bryan had to be at an all day video shoot, which left me and the kids alone, and they’re too big to push in a stroller.

I thought of getting a babysitter, but quickly realized our one car would not get us both where we needed to go anyway. And then came the humbling reality that the $35 entrance fee was a tipping point in our start-up budget.

Things did not look promising.

On a whim I twittered what you see above. I figured, what could it hurt? It was one part joke, two parts hope, with a dash of low expectations. I mean, the chances of the right people reading it AND caring AND being able to help were slim, right?

Multiple people responded.

So now I have one friend loaning me her car, another friend watching my kids, and a third friend sponsoring my entrance fee. And even though I stepped out and asked for these things as if I were confident, I suddenly feel humbled by these acts of generosity.

Thank you, my friends.

—

Even though the race is over you can still donate to the Children’s Hospital Uncompensated Care fund, which provides children who qualify – like my friend, Zoe – with free medical care.

Last year readers of this blog pulled through and funded a new laptop for this family to make hospital trips (and their life in general) easier. I know my readers can pull through again by donating here to keep this fund available for families in need.