LIFE IN A BUBBLE
I LIVE IN A BUBBLE. I don't think about it. I don't realize it. It never crosses my mind. In fact, I don't even think it's true. But, it is. I have a family that is from time-to-time relatively functional. I have a great wife. I have a great job. I have a house in the suburbs with more room than we need. I have two cars that sit on the driveway because I have too much stuff in my garage to fit them in. I eat out sometimes, go to movies, buy clothes (well, my wife does) and take vacations. It's just a normal life...at least, that's what I assume.
Then, it happens. Someone, pin in hand, comes along and "POP", the bubble is exposed. That was the case last night. It all seemed to innocent. My Community Group Leader said, "Let's go to Street Church together!". So, we agreed to go last night. The night came, and of course, it was inconvenient. Susan had work to do that made us late. And I'm supposed to be on sabbatical, whatever that means. We had to go through the Chik-fil-A drive through, and it was the slowest ever. Then, of course, the question rises, "Why exactly did we pick the coldest night of the year?"
I dressed as warmly as possible, arrived and took my assignment as the clothing hander-outer. My clothing handing-out duties would come at the end of the evening, so, for now, all I could do was stand back and observe. And I did. And as I did, I felt my bubble being exposed more and more and more...until, ultimately, it popped.
I became less and less concerned about how my new NorthFace jacket was going to function, and more concerned about the ones I saw in shorts and flip-flops. Then, the realization that my worries about staying warm for a few hours paled in significance as I realized these people weren't in this for a few hours only to return home. These streets were their home.
I've heard it before, and even said it myself...so many of these people are here because they choose to be. But, then there were the children. I'm pretty sure they didn't choose to be there. They had no voice in this. Raising children in the bubble is hard enough. How in the world do you raise children on the streets?
I'm back in my bubble now. Warm and safe and wondering what's for breakfast. But, the bubble has taken a direct hit. It's been exposed. I know it's there. There's no denying it. There's a much bigger world than my bubble. I may only remember it for a few hours, or at best, a few days...but, that's better than total denial.
I LIVE IN A BUBBLE. Lord, thank you for letting me realize it. Please poke it and pop it and let me recognize there is more to life than my neat little bubble. Let my neat little life get messy every now and then...if for no other reason than to teach me gratitude.
Then, it happens. Someone, pin in hand, comes along and "POP", the bubble is exposed. That was the case last night. It all seemed to innocent. My Community Group Leader said, "Let's go to Street Church together!". So, we agreed to go last night. The night came, and of course, it was inconvenient. Susan had work to do that made us late. And I'm supposed to be on sabbatical, whatever that means. We had to go through the Chik-fil-A drive through, and it was the slowest ever. Then, of course, the question rises, "Why exactly did we pick the coldest night of the year?"
I dressed as warmly as possible, arrived and took my assignment as the clothing hander-outer. My clothing handing-out duties would come at the end of the evening, so, for now, all I could do was stand back and observe. And I did. And as I did, I felt my bubble being exposed more and more and more...until, ultimately, it popped.
I became less and less concerned about how my new NorthFace jacket was going to function, and more concerned about the ones I saw in shorts and flip-flops. Then, the realization that my worries about staying warm for a few hours paled in significance as I realized these people weren't in this for a few hours only to return home. These streets were their home.
I've heard it before, and even said it myself...so many of these people are here because they choose to be. But, then there were the children. I'm pretty sure they didn't choose to be there. They had no voice in this. Raising children in the bubble is hard enough. How in the world do you raise children on the streets?
I'm back in my bubble now. Warm and safe and wondering what's for breakfast. But, the bubble has taken a direct hit. It's been exposed. I know it's there. There's no denying it. There's a much bigger world than my bubble. I may only remember it for a few hours, or at best, a few days...but, that's better than total denial.
I LIVE IN A BUBBLE. Lord, thank you for letting me realize it. Please poke it and pop it and let me recognize there is more to life than my neat little bubble. Let my neat little life get messy every now and then...if for no other reason than to teach me gratitude.
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