A Hot Mess

... or "the day I decided I should take up motorcycling"

Friends.

You should know something about me.

Me and coordination are not exactly synonymous. As in, if you look up the word coordination in the dictionary, a picture with my smiling face is not exactly going to be staring back at you. Turn a few pages back to clumsy, and there is a good chance you might get a glimpse at yours truly.

I would like to think that logic and I have a pretty tight relationship. For the most part, we do. He's never missed a birthday party (except for maybe the one when I drank from the toilet bowl) and I've been to dinner with him a good many times. On top of that, we're friends from school. Solid. But sometimes we take a break from hanging out.

You see, I knew today was going to be hot. Was the sun bright? Did the thermometer indicate this to me? Well, yes, those too. But mainly I knew because I spent an hour at 10:00 this morning dancing around in a banana suit doing "the freeze", the chicken dance, and occasionally stopping to do the "half moon" yoga pose in order to actually be shaped like a banana. All of this for the sake of the job (except for it was totally voluntary).

But since I was already sweaty from "work", when I got off I decided to run home and get my bike to go ride down by the river. We have this really cool ($13 million) bridge across the Arkansas river, known lovingly as "the Big Dam Bridge." No I did not just typo a curse word, this bridge doubles as a dam. Score. Being a newly taxpaying citizen (I had to fill out a WD-40 or whatever upon starting at Tropical Smoothie), and seeing as how this bridge cost a good amount of taxpayers dollars, I felt it my duty to go give this puppy some use.

Not to mention, the Smiths have gotten into a new bike kick. Or should I say cycling kick (because we are official like that). And what began as my mother's desire to get more exercise and my dad's questioning if she could even ride a bike anymore has resulted in the purchase of two shiny new wheels (well, four). Without further ado, I give you Link (of course, my bike has a name. What possession of mine doesn't?)

He's been cooped up in the garage for a whole week, so I needed to stretch his (and my) legs. Despite the fact that I knew it was hot, I decided, instead, to trust Chief Meteorologist Ed Buckner who told me that there would be a high of 80 with a 40% chance of rain. Because when has he not been right, other than all of those times he said there would be snow and instead I ended up at school impatiently waiting for that coveted final bell?

I got home today, wheeled Link out of the garage and placed him (what I believed to be) securely on the bike rack on the back of our highlander. I then pulled out of the driveway only to hear a loud *thud*. No, the bike had not fallen off, I am not that clumsy. But the handlebars were going all Mike Tyson on the trunk and I did not trust myself on the rack job (TWSS?). So I took Link off thinking "no problem I'll just put him in the car." Wrong. The bike rack, which I have no idea how to take off of the car, keeps you from opening the trunk. So it was in through a side door he went. 20 seconds later, I was off to the river. It took more than 20 seconds to get him out. uhh hummmm. It took more than 20 minutes to get him out. Pedals were lodged up under everywhere and handlebars were getting stuck and then gears were slipping off track and leather was in danger of getting punctured and grease was going every which way. So on and so forth. I really almost called somebody to let them know that I was just going to chill there until someone could come help me get the bike back in the car. I had a Kris Allen CD, a bottle of water, a People magazine-- I was set to just wait for help.

Get the bike back in the car? Sadie, wasn't the problem that you couldn't get it out? To tell you the truth, I would have settled for either-- all the way back in the car or all the way out of the car. But since I've told you not to confuse me with a coordinated person any time soon, you should just go ahead and assume that I could not maneuver this puzzle of space so successfully. No, no. The bike was stuck halfway out of the car door and going NOWHERE fast. On what I deemed to be my last try before I was going to start blasting the best version of "heartless" known to man and sip on my water, Link budged and I set out to begin my journey (by then, could it really be considered the beginning?).

But wait! The tires wont move. I looked and looked and could not figure out why this was happening. And I was this close to just loading the bike back up after all of the trouble. Matter of a fact it was when I turned the handle bars to face the direction of the car that I realized the issue-- the bars had been rotated so much in all of the manhandling that brake chords were wrapped up as tight as they could go. Much tighter than me and logic.

So I was off. With a small little Vera Bradley wallet to hold my phone and my keys. Ask me how many times I dropped that. 4. Four times I dropped it and had to turn the bike around to retrieve it. The rest of the ride to the bridge was dandy. Even up the slope was okay because once I was at the top, there was a breeze and a God-sent cloud. I sat and stretched at what I've named Tutu's Peak for about 10 minutes, then headed back the way I came.

At the end of this bridge there are a few concrete posts for God only knows why. Actually, it's probably to keep a car from heading up the walking bridge, but whatever. No, I did not run into them, I'm not that clumsy. But I almost fell off my bike laughing (or holding in my laughter) when a small child did. Not with a bike, on foot. I'm not that mean. The kid looked behind him to say something like "mommy, look a bird", but was still driven by the momentum of the declining hill and ran smack into the center concrete post. I was behind them, coming full speed ahead down the bridge, pretending like I was doing the ski jump on Wii Fit. At first I was really concerned. But the boy turned around, thought about crying, and then just cackled in his mom's arms. I mean, he thought it was the funniest thing. So, of course, did I. But I casually rode past them and back towards the car.

By this point in time I was about ready to call Ed Buckner and yell "LIA" into the phone, because the breeze from riding the decline and the cloud were gone. And I was left baking. But then I called Noelle instead. I left her about the craziest message I have ever dealt out which ended in "I'll call you back... if I don't die." And friends. It. was. no. joke. It's hard to talk and ride. You don't really realize it until you've finished your sentence, and since my messages are basically like one big 'ole long sentence, I didn't really feel like was going to faint until I was hanging up. Ashamedly, I had to get off of my bike on a completely flat piece of concrete and walk the last 100 feet or so. I was, so very literally, a hot mess. And I had to get the bike back in the car.

Did they have bikes back in Isaiah's day?

"Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God,

the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary,

and his understanding no one can fathom.

He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.

Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall;

but those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.

The will soar high on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary they will walk and not faint."

-Isaiah 40:28-31

Apparently not. Because homegirl here was faint.

It's okay, though because on my way to Tropical Smoothie Kris Allen told me he loves me just the way I look tonight. Day. Whatever.

Now I'm home and looking back at the forecast. Want to hear something whack? It says 82 degrees, feels like 87 and mostly cloudy. More like barely cloudy and feels like the surface of the sun.

I think Chief Meteorologist Ed Buckner needs to be demoted. To like Sergeant Metereologist.

I also think I need a nap.

And a motorcycle.

Dulce et Decorum Est

Well, it's Memorial Day, and I couldn't wait to put together an american flag-ridden post. Because that is just how I roll.

Case in point: today I drew American flags on at least 50 smoothie cups and wrote "Happy Memorial Day!" When I cheerfully offered that greeting to customers at the pickup counter, a few acted pretty surprised. At first I figured it's just because they hadn't heard it yet. Well, not from someone-- more like from an annoying mattress commercial using the holiday as an excuse to lure in customers with a sale.

For a lot of people, I figure the fact that it's memorial day hadn't registered. Because, let's be honest, for lot of people (including me) it becomes just a holiday.

A day for hot dogs and burgers.

And parks.

And pools (opening day, no less).

And smoothies (Oh my, I just realized I did not fit in the traditional bomb pop... shame).

All good things. And not inappropriate things since it is a holiday. A day to partake in leisure activities and all things American. Still, this is the one holiday where we are supposed to simultaneously enjoy ourselves and acknowledge the price of that ability to enjoy ourselves. Acknowledge the price.

The more I handed out smoothies with a smile and patriotic "happy memorial day!," the more I thought about what I was saying and who I was saying it to. Sure, some had come from the pool and perhaps hadn't considered the meaning of the holiday. Maybe some had pondered and were surprised that someone else was sincerely recognizing the point of this day off. Those were the scenarios that made me out to look good. You know, the high and mighty one who thought deep and hard and was out to make sure others did, too.

But maybe, just maybe, someone else had considered the day much more seriously than me. Children coming in with babysitters-- maybe their parents are in the military. Maybe the 40 year old man had served in his twenties. Maybe the mom with 3 kids under the age of 5--one on her hip, one wrapped snuggly around her leg, the other with a red ribbon tied in her curly blond hair dancing to the table--just saw her husband off on another tour of duty. Maybe she expects him home in a few days with no idea what to expect. Maybe one of my co-workers is headed off to the Air Force in a few months... well, that one is confirmed. Maybe my roommate is already thinking ahead to a future as a military wife. Maybe my brother has a friend who just died training to serve. The grandfather walking with a cane? Did he serve? The odds say he did. The odds also say a good many of his buddies didn't return with him.

Oh, Sadie, wise one. Probably more people than you know know a lot more about military service than you-- know a lot more about paying tribute, a lot more about paying price. So quit you bellyaching about the people not observing the holiday correctly and worry about honoring those people who know much more than you ever will about the cost.

I stopped addressing people like they were guilty of irreverence and started pretending like each and every one knew something about losing a relative to war-- either physically or mentally. Not happy peppy like I was celebrating better; sincerely, like I meant it.

Because the truth is that I do. I'd like to think I'm not a naive waiver of the American flag. It's not just for kicks. Not because I just feel like it or because I collect them. I don't hold it up out of arrogance or disrespect of anyone else's home country. Matter of a fact, wherever you're from whatever your cause, wave your flag and honor your soldiers. Yes, even you citizens of the enemy state. If it's my right, it should be yours, too. But as long as it is my right, I'm taking the time to thank those who made it their duty to protect that right.

Some not by choice or conviction. A lot by draft and circumstance. Some living, a lot dead. Some believing wholeheartedly in the cause of the American government, a lot strongly opposed. Some following orders, some defying them whenever given the chance. Some truly moved on, a lot forever haunted. Some receptive to recognition, a lot who'd rather soon forget. I recognize that not all believe in war, some don't believe in supporting the troops. Many feel it's a waste of lives and that the U.S. is just prideful. Perhaps I am naive in saying I don't care.

I don't raise the flag because America is perfect or even the best. I don't raise it thinking that some horrible stuff has not gone down on this soil. I don't do it thinking that each soldier was happy to lay down his or her life. I don't raise it as a white woman, a republican or a Christian, or at least not because of those things. I raise it to acknowledge the price. Because I do not want to be the ungrateful spoken of in this common Vietnam veterans' creed:

"We the unwilling, led by the unknowing; doing the impossible, for the ungrateful."

English poet Wilfred Owen wrote the following poem in 1918 about his own experience in WWI. He died on November 4 of that year in the Battle of the Sambre, one week before wars end.

Dolce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

The last line of the poem is latin for "it is sweet and right to die for your country." A lie, according to Owen and, I'm sure, a lot of his comrades. If I'd seen how some of the men and women I'm supposed to be honoring today died, maybe I wouldn't declare with such zest "happy memorial day!" Many don't find war and death sweet and right-- go figure. But this I know: dulce et decorum est quod vox honoro muneris-- it is sweet and right to honor service.

This City

Well, for fear of having to write yet another "this is what I've done with my life in the last two weeks" post, I'm sitting myself down to write something. Because if I wait until next wednesday that might just become the title. Not okay.

My life becomes much less interesting when I'm home. Let me rephrase that. Not less interesting. I just have less to report. This is weird to me because when I'm at school, I can't stop looking forward to home. I guess I don't write because time flies when you're having fun. No, that can't be it, because I have a blast at school, too. I can't even know. Maybe God wasn't kidding when He told me He had some things to teach me in Virginia. I think the real problem is that I get lazy at home. But I can't really imagine that He doesn't have some stuff for me to learn here.

Let me introduce you to here.

If you know me, you probably already know a lot about my immediate surroundings-- the friends, the family and the usual. Of course I love them. But I have to say that I have a deepening pride in Little Rock.

This might be best evidenced by the fact that I chose the Little Rock Nine as my mini-thesis topic. I learned a lot about my city in that research. A lot of stuff that is hard to be proud of. But goodness is highlighted in absolute times of hatred. I didn't get to focus on that good in my paper, you see, because that wasn't really the direction my professor was necessarily headed. Good and bad are just too relative to write a paper on. But a blog post? Perfect.

In the fallout of the crisis, some people spoke up against segregation because they felt it was morally wrong. Some pointed to the fact that the spectacle, which was Little Rock in the years following the Central High Crisis, made the city extremely unattractive for business-- and it's true, the economy at the time plummeted. Which was not a cool thing given that in the years following WWII, Arkansas' income was only half of the national average. A good many people couldn't afford shoes, thus the stereotype that we southerners don't ever wear shoes. All of this is to say that it was a big deal that Little Rock circa 1957 was climbing the economic ladder and beginning to compete with other major southern cities. It was an even bigger deal that after the national guard had to come to escort nine schoolkids into their classrooms, this city fell off that ladder. So a lot of people were motivated by money. Others were sick of the attention. A good many just wanted to go back to school-- hard to do since Governor Faubas shut down all public schools for the 58-59 term. Great.

The crisis ended not in terms of good and bad, but of profitable verses non-profitable.

Schools reopened because segregation was bad for business, not because people all of the sudden learned how to love people. Clearly, all of the issues weren't dealt with then. And racism is still a problem, I believe, because we think everyone got on the same page with the whole "racism=bad" thing. Certainly the "segregation=bad" thing got covered. But racism is a heart issue that can't be measured by profit and spreadsheets. Each and every person deals with it differently in different places and at different times. Most agree it's bad, but go on to observe racism or exercise it to some extent. We've come a long way to get to this point of defining racism as bad. Truly. Kuddos to us. But recognizing it as such and fixing it are two different things.

Little Rock became famous because it was among the first cities to acknowledge segregation as wrong (or to take the Supreme Court's word on it) and move to fix it in a generally unsupportive environment. It is a physical, historic example of that progression. But that was segregation ended at a state level and motivated by profit. The more applicable issue is racism ended at the personal level, motivated by good-- by what is right.

Why does the Central High Crisis and the Little Rock Nine still hit a nerve?

For some, like those who graduated from Central, it doesn't. Been there, done that. Been there again, done that again. Burnt out. There are just so many songs you can come up with and sing before it gets a little old and redundant. But for others, the event still applies because it puts faces to and mirrors an internal struggle to truly love and accept others.

I said the crisis ended on an economic note. And that is what my thesis focused on. The funny thing about God, though, is that it never ends where it ends. Believe that I took a highlighter to this bit of information:

Sept. 13, 1959: Faubus is in attendance as evangelist Billy Graham preaches to an audience of 30,000 in the second of two revival meetings in War Memorial Stadium.

Graham refers to the desegregation crisis, declaring that "only Christ can heal these scars and wounds." About 600 people come forward in response to Graham's call for public witness. He challenges the news media "to carry this story of hundreds of people of both races standing at the foot of the cross to receive Christ."

I'm not an expert on Little Rock after 1959. I have lived here for 19 years since 1989, though, and I have to say, it's a cool place. Sometimes I act like it's not because compared to a lot of places people up north are coming from it is small, it is boring, it's not as historic, it's not as pretty, and it basically fulfills the stereotypes. I don't like that it is known only for Bill Clinton, farmers, the razorbacks, and bare feet.

But there is a new person Little Rock (okay, Conway, but what's 30 miles?) is known for, and that absolutely thrills me! You may have heard of him? His name go Kris Allen.

On top of this, not all of the stereotypes are that bad.

Hospitality? Little Rock will take that as a compliment, thank you.

Sweet tea? Is there any other way?

Bare feet? What's it to you? Less hassle leaving the house, more comfortable inside.

Farmers? The best, most essential workers.

The accent? I may have one to you, but you have one to me. So go with it.

The drawl? Okay, so some take a little longer to get their words out there. It means we listen longer, too.

What's more, Little Rock has cheese dip, so go book your flights. If you live here, I'll meet you at Izzy's.

Above all else, though, greater things have yet to come and greater things are still to be done in this city. I love and am getting to know a God who wasn't through with me in 1989 or Little Rock in 1959. I trust that to learn about loving Him and others is the best way to progress as a city and grow as a person. I am confident that He has a unique plan to bring progress about in my city, as He does for yours. The thing is, it starts with me and you and willingness to let Him.

Look With Your Eyes

Brace yourself for an extremely random post. Random and a good bit self-indulgent. Once again, I just feel indulged. I feel like school could start back up next week and I would have had summer enough. That is how much I've done, and not done, since school let out. I just feel flat out blessed. Blessed to be here at home. Blessed to be here on Earth. Blessed to be His.

... burdened, still, to find a purpose for it all. Yes, I'm back in that cycle of feeling so incredibly fortunate and not having a clue of what to do with it. I've enjoyed just about every second of the past two weeks, but I'm at the point where I'm realizing it will have all been in vain if I don't do some for real reflecting on what it is God would really have me do with my o-so-blessed life. The only thing that has been missing from this break thus far has been that time with Him. That, friend, is a big only-- it's a big gap that is rapidly growing larger. If I'm not careful, I'll be back here in three months saying the only thing that was missing was reverent time of prayer, bible study and service. That is not okay with me. Fortunately, school is not starting back up next week and I do still have three months. This is me deciding to do something with it.

So what have I been doing?

First of all, the friday before finals, I went to the Senior Roast. Where we cooked our departing friends medium well and served them with a side of memories to savor one last time. It was the (almost) perfect occasion for a sister picture... (I say almost, because Modes was too busy doing something else... like maybe being a good friend, or something ridiculous like that.)

On Saturday night, we trespassed. But 'cept for we only sort of were breaking the law because we broke into the house with a key. You're thinking "how is that illegal?" This was exactly my point. Still, Noelle kept cautious for the evening. You see, she was given the key to the chiclets' house (from here on out to be referred to as "La petite maison blanche"-- "the little white house") that weekend, but hadn't yet signed the lease. So technically, she wasn't supposed to waltz up in there like she owned the place. But we've never been ones to let technicalities keep us from a little fun :)

and, I mean, we had to eat our chinese food somewhere!

Co-inhabitants unite! ... Dina, where are you?! oh right... friggin' Spain

Next thing I knew, I was finished with the final from hades (the one with three (3) essay questions... you remember) and only had to write 9 papers. Delirious is the word I would use to describe us all by this point. But boy, we were having a good time. Wednesday night we headed over en mass to the CCM where we had a delightful breakfast for dinner-- courtesy, one last time, of Big D.

Have I introduced you to my next roommate, Katie Jones. Go ahead and be jealous that she holds the same initials as King James. I know I am. While you're at it, be jealous that I get the honor of sharing a room-- and a big bed-- with her next year. I know I would be.

Told you, delirious. Except for Jen, with that grin, who was high on the whole "I'm done with senior year, aren't I so cool" feeling. I am not, for the record, jealous of her in the least.

... potentially a little bit.

This is quite possible my favorite picture of the year. The perfect last night with Rooms. Typing up some great papers, a half-packed room, up in the big bed, music playing, with a surprising amount of laughter coming from two people pondering the social issues of race, sexuality, and religion surrounding African American literature.

Noelle took a break for a little while to make mischief with Big D. And once again be somewhat illegal. Next year the ladies will have to pay for their own toilet paper. Having said that, the supply closet, which contains the toilet paper supplied to Willard residents for free, was just conveniently unlocked...

The next day, we were outta there. As glad as I was to be done, and as exhausted as we all were from all the moving, this picture still sort of hurts my heart.

This one, though, just makes me happy. We may be done being roommates, only God knows about that one. But Lord knows, Noelle will always be Rooms and we are not done.

So then it was off to Baltimore with Dad. I shared some of my heavier thoughts, but did I mention what an awesome, prolonged daddy-daughter date we had? I was spoiled. I fought that for a little bit, but ultimately decided to be so incredibly grateful to have a dad who wants to shower me with treats on a rockin' vacation. Speaking of shower, it did. Sunday-Wednesday it poured. Which was beautiful and all, but made it hard to get good pictures outside. Instead, we just went to movies. 3 of them. Including Wolverine. For the record, I'm still in fake love with Hugh Jackman.

On Saturday Dad and I ate lunch at P.F. Chang's. One of the topics of discussion was 24 and whether or not Tony was really bad. Deep stuff, you know. Dad was working up all sorts of scenarios that would allow for Tony to still be a good guy. On Sunday I slept in while Dad went to conferences. Upon returning, Dad muttered a quick "hey Sadie" and proceeded to sit in a chair by the bed. A few seconds of silence passed before he sighed. "You really think Tony is bad?" Out of the blue. First thing he says to me. Needless to say, we were hooked to the tv on Monday night. On vacation in Baltimore, we stayed up in our hotel room with Cheesecake Factory ordered in, to see how Jack Bauer would save the world this hour. And also to find out the question obviously burning in my dad's mind, could Tony still be good? Peterso and I texted extensively on the subject, which was a blast. *spoiler alert* The answer is no. You should have seen my pitiful father when he came to this realization. Crazy, crazy man. Fun, fun dad.

From there I came home. Ah, home. It was a wednesday night, which means, for the rest of the Smith family, Financial Peace University. I went along for the ride, and it was exactly as I've always pictured it. Old Smiths and Young Smiths off to school for the night :)

The next day I went to interview for a couple of jobs and then met up with Katie and Emily (D- Ark.) while they took some beautiful senior pictures.

Friday was my personal favorite, though. I got up early to go pick up Hudson and Addie so Steph, Katie and I could watch them for the day. On the way back to my house, we stopped for Krispy Kreme and to play for a good little bit.

hmm, umm. Then, we were off to the Kris Allen concert. What? The American Idol Kris Allen. Yes! He hails from Arkansas and made it to the top 3 on the show last week, so we went down to the River Market, babies and all, to hear him sing. In some major humid heat.

It was worth it, though, because I got to hang out with my sister-in-law, semi-niece and nephew, all of Little Rock,

oh! and a Bestie.

Then we ate pizza on Steph and I snapped a few pictures that prove once and for all that Huddy is turning into a little boy.

I'll add this next one because I love this friend and because those dogs are a hoot. Tally is at left, Brown's on the right.

Then on Saturday I got up to go to Addie's baby dedication... respect the bow.

Also on Saturday, Luke bought me the Sims 2 at game exchange. That is where I've been since :) I'm only kidding. But only kind of. Because really I am re-addicted. Which is stupid because that is just not real life.

What is real life is that I now work at Tropical Smoothie and LOVE IT! I have such fun and helpful co-workers and I truly enjoy the work. Smoothies are fun! Tomorrow will only be my third day, so I hope I'm not speaking too soon. All I'm saying is that each and every one of my worries has been tended to and I mean it when I say that life couldn't get much better than it is right now.

Except of course, if these dang mosquitoes would let up! I swear (except I usually don't) that I have been bitten (or stung, or sucked or whatever) in my armpit, on my heel, on my big toe, on my EYELID, on the knuckle of my pinky finger and 23 other places. Yes, I am really keeping count.

And, then, of course, life could get a lot better if I were actively offering it up-- offering myself in prayer so that it wouldn't just be great for me, but that it would be helpful in making life better for other people. Yes, life would be better if I were being used. So my next move is to find a place to serve. And, more importantly, to find places to love.

Our current sermon series at Rock Creek is entitled "The Greatest of These" and is all about love. This past week, Greg spoke about love paying attention. He made the point that love means looking at the other person. Looking and seeing.

The story he used to illustrate this point was of Jesus and the blind beggar on the way to Jericho. The man yelled at Jesus "Son of David, have mercy on me!" While everyone yelled at him to be quiet, Jesus stopped and asked simply, "what do you want me to do for you?" And then he listened, because Jesus loved.

The third point was that love means lifting up another person. Greg used Zacchaeus as the example this time. I had always assumed Zach was up in the tree because he was short (a wee little man was he, you know?) and wanted to see. I also knew he was a tax collector, but never put 2 and 2 together. He wasn't in the tree because he couldn't see, he was in the tree because he was hated. People were taught to dislike him. Kids were told to spit on tax collectors and as they grew up it was okay and encouraged to curse at them. That's just how things were. They were liars and cheaters. But the Jesus, Zaccheaus was a wounded men who just needed to be loved. So he had dinner with him. Jesus payed attention. He wasn't judging like all the rest because he saw Zaccheaus. Greg said, "when we judge someone, we've ceased paying attention to them." We've made ourselves believe we're better and only "see" that person as less.

Love means letting go of those prejudices. It means paying attention. "Pay" as in it may cost you something-- pride, money, time, popularity. Pick your poison. I couldn't help but think of the man in Baltimore. I saw him hurting and chose to look away. I chose to not show him love. So now when I say I'm looking for ways to love, I do so not only knowing it's going to cost something-- but hoping it will. Because to understand a fraction of what I cost Christ, love is going to have to start costing me something. And if I really did start to understand the price payed for me, I would be more than okay with the cost of loving others.

Gay, straight. Black, white. Mexican, Middle-Eastern. Male, female. Rich, poor. Others. Period.

I've got to stop judging people based on those labels if I'm ever going to really see them. Dad said one time when I was little I kept saying "look, Daddy, look." And he said "I am, baby." But he was busy doing something else and not really paying attention-- not even really looking in my direction. I was, understandably, frustrated. "No," I said. "Look with your eyes."

People are, understandably, frustrated with the Christian church. Because a lot of the time we aren't looking with our eyes. We're heckling the people Jesus would walk up to, help out of a tree and invite to dinner. I'm out to start looking with my eyes this summer. It means seeing myself a little more critically and seeing others a little more mercifully. Not because I'm wrong and they're right but because Jesus said to.

And that's enough for me. Because he paid attention to me first.