They're more scared of you...

Before we left San Diego, our host (Laurel the Pastor) wanted to show us the view over El Cajon. We all trudged up the dusty hill, past his pool, past the pepper tree, past the family's pet cemetery. Dust coated our feet and prickly flowers bit our ankles, but it was worth it. "Turn around," Laurel said, pride straighten his spine. We looked behind us at the El Cajon valley, with planes and the tops of palm trees beneath us. I breathed in sun-dried air and reflected on God and wildflowers and--wait, what's that noise. A savage vibration rose to my right. I looked towards the girls. They were too far away to feel it. I slowly turned my head and saw the bush. I had anticipated a bee. I had not anticipated a bush alive with them. Every branch, every blossom was inhabited. I considered bolting, then saw myself tumbling down the steep incline yelling "beware, beware" to my perplexed friends. I decided to stand still. I thought of what my--and all--parents say in such situations. "Move slowly. They're more afraid of you than you are of them."

OK, I have to admit that I wasn't thinking of spiritual things at this moment. I thought of many things--ugly welts doubling the size of my body, how they'd explain this in my obituary, whether they'd bury me in the Laurel's pet cemetery--but nothing spiritual. Later, far far away from menacing insects, I considered that maybe those weren't really bees after all. They didn't look quite right, and none of them chased me irately down the hill. It was only then, moving 80MPH away from the scary buzzing whatever-they-weres, that I thought about the trip & the people & the metaphor.

It's scary to talk to all these people. It's not easy to walk up to an artist or homeless girl or banker and talk to them about such things. But you'd be surprised how many people are more scared of us than we are of them. Some are afraid of the camera, like the Goth girls in Las Vegas or Jerry in Arizona. Some are afraid even before then, like one burly mountain of a man who shrank like a little boy when Angela approached him. Some are only scared after they know the topic, having been so badly burned by the church that they wince away from its God. Tammy's mouth laughs but her eyes don't: "My ex-mother-in-law calls me heathen because I don't go to church." Doug runs from his calling because his uncle's experience as a pastor hurt too much. Pat's wary with us in the house because too many Christians have judged her. Randy wants to know how a church can charge people money to look at its architecture. Werner looks defensive as he explains why he hasn't gone to church lately. George sobers up by telling the story of leaving the church. Laurel's defenses were up, wondering if our different theologies would cause the usual rift.

With some of these people, we get to stay long enough to show them love, to demonstrate that we're really not interested in judging or lecturing them. Some people come and leave too quickly, and we pray that they have felt freedom as we listen. We're learning that not every scary thing will sting you, and our new friends are learning that too. We're gathering this motley collection of friends, even more scared of us than we are of them, and--as it turns out--none of them bees.

Monday-Monday

good morning from a very hot las vegas;
well, i've been on the road for 6 days. this is day 7. there has been an excitement that i can't describe but i have to tell you that i've not wanted to share the dark side of this journey. let's just say that with flesh bouncing on wide screen advertisements and lights spend-flashing over a mile of roadway - it's a bit much.
so much more to tell.
i've been journaling my mental, spiritual, and emotional responses to my experiences. not wanting to offend - because i will offend. so a friend of mine, patrick, speaks to me over the phone, 'your voice needs to be heard', and another friend, ed, says 'blogs are meant to be offensive'.
men and women, girls and boys, there's a story to be told. people need a voice and those who think they speak for all of us - don't.
so, as we rush to meet the checkout deadline at this wonderful gift from God through Emi, know that when you read my words there will be humor and sadness and anger and a journey through my eyes.