Archive for February, 2011

I wish I could have somehow bent time, so that I could reach into the past and comfort myself as I sat in the car Wednesday morning waiting for the shuttle that would take me to work.  If somehow I could go back to that moment from just hours ahead, tap myself on the shoulder, and whisper that everything would be all right, how much better that moment would have been.  But alas, I was not able to break the laws of time, and so I sat alone in my car, sleep deprived and sad and overwhelmed, and was struggling just to merely exist in a state of normalcy.  But inside I was boiling.

“There are lots of people praying for me right now.”  I told anyone who was listening in my car, which was still stuffed full of things like it had been for the last month.  All of my earthly possessions–from clothes to Legos–crammed still in my car from where they had been placed in Tennessee over five weeks earlier.  And still I was without a place.  ”Look, God, I’m not quite sure what you’re doing, but this really, really, really sucks, and it sucks bad.”  I raged.  I had been getting less than seven hours of sleep every day, each of it being spent on couches where it was impossible to get a restful night’s sleep. “As much as I’m a fan of these couch stories, I really want my own bed!”  I continued.  Even more so, there were so many places I had seen but never found the place where I felt it was where I needed to be.  There was always something holding me back.  Even when I saw the beautiful house on Monday afternoon and was told I could live there, it wasn’t final yet and even then I got no read on what God thought.  At that point I didn’t care.  Just anything would do.  I really wanted a bed.  ”Just a plain, simple thing, God.  I’m here living in this life where all I really have is You, and i’m living out each step in faithful obedience to your calling, even saying no to a 2 million dollar house just because I felt you saying no.  So please, can I at least get that?”

The heavens, as usual, were silent, I thought.  But perhaps if I had listened harder, I might have detected an undertone of change.  Something was moving.  And it was about to catch up with me at lunch.

I’m already at 3 Square Cafe, the email read.  Want to just meet me here at 12:30? –Ger
I picked up my iPhone and fired of a quick email.  ”Sounds great.  I’ll see you then.”  I wrote back.  I went back to work but my mind was racing with eager anticipation of the meeting for lunch.  A few days earlier, I had emailed the pastor of an amazing church my sister attends called Southlands.  Alan, the pastor, was from South Africa, and I really connected him when I visited my sister for the weekends.  But driving all the way out there to invest in a church community would be difficult each Sunday morning.  When I heard that Southlands was connected to a churchplant in Santa Monica, where I reside, I was blown away.  I had been asking God for a churchplant since before I came to California–which was a very dangerous prayer to pray.  The second I heard that Southlands–whose opinion I now highly regard–was in partnership with a churchplant, I knew that there was some possibilities that just might open up.  I emailed Alan and asked him about these rumors.  Was there really a churchplant in SM?  He replied with an excited yes, and got me in contact with Ger, a man from the UK (excellent accent!), who was heading up this church in Santa Monica called Vintage.  Before I could even blink, an email was fired off to Ger, and after introducing myself, I sat back and waited.

When considering divine appointments, it’s not surprising to know that some things flow together too easily to just be coincidence.  The fact that Ger, after reading my email, immediately wanted to have lunch with me and was willing to drive to the area where I work so we could talk, meant that something was happening.  As time neared for me to be released for break, my worries and troubles of hours ago in the parking lot started to fade away, replaced by excitement.   Something told me that this lunch was going to be important.  That something was right.

“Joel!  Good to meet you, I’m Ger.”  Said the man, a taller guy with darker hair and warm eyes, and the kind of accent that makes me wish I was English.  He invited me to his table out in the sun right there in beautiful Venice, and we began to talk.  He asked me about my story, and I told him very candidly where I was from, what I was doing, what I believed, and why I had sought him and his church out.  Having gone through two Vineyard churchplants myself, I was very aware of the requirements and struggles of churchplanting.  He reminded me that asking God for a churchplant was potentially a very dangerous prayer.  I nodded in agreement, knowing full well the kind of time, energy, and effort a small churchplant takes to get going, having experienced it firsthand not once but twice.  But I was resolute in this.  I wanted to be with a community of people struggling each Sunday to do what God told them in the wild frontier of the unsaved and overchurched culture.  People struggling against the odds of their own faith and the burden of setting up and tearing down, of tired attitudes and hopes for God to move without knowing where He’s leading–it all sounds like something out of an adventure novel, and it’s not surprising for you to guess that I’d want to be a part of something like that.  Even if it’s setting up chairs, I’d be okay with it.  Because this is where my heart was being drawn.  Ger did even more to confirm it.

The church, Vintage, was based off of Anglican groundings mixed in with the Holy Spirit and deep, real worship.  ”It’s easier to take a scripturally sound church and add the spirit to it than it is to take a spiritual church and ground it in scripture.”  Ger told me as we ate.  He described his vision for Vintage, and even how he had left a very successful pastorship of a church in Raleigh, NC, because he felt like God was drawing him out there.  Even more so how God was bringing leaders right to him.  It was then that I was struck with something more powerful than the feelings I’ve felt here in California since:  Purpose.

All of a sudden, life opened up beyond just work and finding a place.  The idea of being influential in a churchplant, that one of the reasons I was here is to help be a part of this small church, blew my mind as I sat there eating lunch.  Again I was reminded that God’s Divine Purpose was being enacted still, that even though I felt like I was floundering around like a guppy on a sidewalk, there was actually a steadily increasing series of events that were all pushing me toward something bigger than I had imagined.  And it was pushing still.  ”I’m worried about you and your situation.”  Ger told me after I admitted that I didn’t know where I would be sleeping that night.  ”Let me talk to the people I know.  I want to help find you a place to stay tonight.  I’ll write you an email if I find anything.”  He said.  ”I’m not going to hold onto my pride and say ‘no, don’t worry about it.’” I replied.  ”Cause at this point, I have nowhere else to turn!”  We later said our goodbyes, and I noticed that the hour lunch went by way too fast.  The next few hours were giddy joy for me, as I went back to work lighthearted and happy for the first time in a few weeks.  Sure enough, that afternoon, Ger told me that he had a place for me to stay.  With his good friend David, who was the worship pastor and in charge of the children’s ministry at Vintage.  ”He knows what it’s like living out of your car and sleeping on couches.  He’ll be glad to take you in.”  Ger told me in reference to Dave.  That night, I found a parking spot and walked into David’s hospitality, wondering if this was the beginning of something incredible.

“I built your bed while you were on your way here.”  David said as I walked into his beautiful apartment that he had moved into literally the day before.  ”Made an Ikea run and put it all together.”  There it was, a beautiful wide bed all nice and pretty, and an air mattress inflated next to it.  I went towards the air mattress, ready to climb in.  ”No way, man.”  He said, pointing me toward the bed.  ”That’s not the way we do things here in the Kingdom.”  He grinned.  ”You take the bed.  You’re my guest.  Me casa is su casa.”  I was floored.  He was giving me his best?  his brand new bed to stay in for a few days until I found a place to stay?

All of a sudden, things connected in my brain.  God…..was giving me a bed.  It wasn’t permanent, but he heard my prayer.  He not only provided a purpose and a new adventure and even a possible sense of belonging in a church team, but He literally gave me His best by bringing me to a young worship pastor of a small churchplant who was willing to give me his best.  Here I sit for the second night in this comfortable bed while David sleeps in the air mattress, blown away by the goodness of God.  I still have no idea where I’m going to live come the end of this weekend, but God is good and He will provide.  He gave me a bed, and some Divine Purpose to look forward to.

There’s not much else I need.

I’m sitting on the couch of some people that I’ve only met once before in my life, writing on my laptop before I got to sleep and awake on the same couch in the morning.  I didn’t think I’d be here a week ago, but then again, four weeks ago Los Angeles was only a dream.  How could we predict that weeks ahead we’d be sitting on couches telling stories?  I tell you, no one can.  For these couch stories only come when one expects the unexpected to be provided.  And here I am as a testament to that.

The last weeks have been a mixture of joyous hope and bitter sorrow, a string of fighting day-to-day to survive in an environment as alien and sometimes hostile as Los Angeles.  Nothing in Tennessee prepared me for this life.  And yet everything did.

For when you live an adventurous life trusting in God to provide for your needs on the fly, you don’t find yourself surprised when you’re sitting on the couch of a married couple after only meeting them once in a church you visited.  That they’d be willing to share their beautiful apartment in the middle of LA with some strange 20-year-old and watch TV shows on Netflix while eating pizza?  That after having to leave the place I’d been staying for a while, pack everything again into my car, and head out to the hospitality of other places?  it’s crazy and it’s strange and it’s incredible.

And yet I still have no place to call my own.  On Monday I drove to the top of a ridge and saw a two million dollar mansion with two older gentlemen who wanted to rent the place to me for $850 a month.  I found out today that they want me to be there.  Another woman is trying to get me to be a part of her lovely home in quiet Brentwood, LA, for $1050 a month.  I’ve got emails and emails from people all responding to my inquiries to a place.  But I’ve never felt like that’s the place where I should be.  That’s the place worth investing in.  Today I found out I could be living in a $2 million house with only a 40 minute commute to work every morning, but instead of going there, I find myself on a couch.  In a small apartment.  Telling a story.  Why?

Because I believe that God provides at the right time.  And sure, I could force something to happen because it would be convenient or nice or help me have more money or live in a place I couldn’t afford; all decisions I could make based on what I believe.  But there’s something that comes down to trusting.  To feeling a place out, and letting God speak to the heart.

And he’s saying Hold On.  If you hadn’t waited on my time, you wouldn’t be here with these people, getting to spend the morrow enjoying the company of those you could grow to love.  You wouldn’t have any couch stories.  So just wait.

You know what?  I’m okay with giving up the comfort of my own bed for a little while longer.  For curling up on a tiny couch in a small apartment in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world.

Because it sure does give me some cool stories.

The body reacts as the cold water makes contact with the skin.  Shock, at first, at the cold.  So different than before.  Before there was warmth, and safety, and dryness.  Now, out here in the water, it’s cold and dark. The sound of the waves crashing down around isn’t as loud as the panic from the heart.  ’This is it, now.  This is the time when I find out if I sink or swim,’ comes the curious side of the brain, not getting the memo that a struggle to survive is going on.  A cough, as the lungs reject the water that seeped in.  An adjustment, a quick evaluation of the situation.  A look around at the waters.  The waves seemed peaceful enough from the vantage point.  But here in the midst, there is nothing but the force of the sea.  Not so pretty any more.

Legs kicking, struggling to keep the body afloat.  They tire, the body conserves energy.  Rides the waves.  Arms stop splashing.  A dismal reality sets in.  All alone out here in the waves.  Can’t keep this up much longer.

Muscles expand and contract to a steady rhythm.  Swimming, but to where?  Nowhere, actually.  Anywhere.  What else is there to do?  This certainly isn’t fun–this struggle to survive.  No beach umbrellas and suntan lotion no matter how much anyone romanticized the sea.  Little bubbles floated upward where kicking legs stirred the waters.  The legs tell the brain they can’t last much longer.  The brain tells the legs they don’t have much else of a choice.

A twist to the back and buoyancy kicks in for a sweet few seconds before the sinking.  A gasp of breath, kicking and pushing, head’s back up above the waves.  Rinse and repeat.  Floating to rest, kicking to survive.  Moment after moment, because what else is there than these moments of decision?

Not much hope, says the left side of the brain.  Don’t much care, says the right.

Prayers of survival lifted to the heavens.  Just gotta make it, God.  Just gotta keep swimming.  Just gotta trust that this is all one big swim lesson.  Right?  Hello?  Anyone?

The brain remembers the swimming.  Slow, easy strokes.  Take your time.  No need to flounder.  The waves aren’t that bad.  You’re gonna make it.

Hell no!  I’m gonna die out here, I’m juts gonna keep swimming till I can’t swim anymore and I’m gonna die out here all by myself!

Then the splashing.  Other than the kicking and the pushing and the stroking.  A different splash.  Not from my body.  A look around.  The white and red ring is there.  Just gotta make it!  One tired stroke after the other, and then the ring.  Never before has white and red looked so good.  I could kiss it.  Salty water on the lips, but joy at the Rescue.

Clutching the ring.  Seeing beach ahead.  I’m gonna make it.