On the Porch, Helplessness, and Jesus

Most nights I enjoy reading on the front porch of our house, especially when the cool night air sets in and my body rests easier after a long day among so many people. Today I read a woman's words that spoke to me through her experience among the marginalized in Latin America. Tonight her words hit me with the characteristic precision of a prophet and the earnest honesty of a poet. Though she wrote these words only a few months after I was born, they ring with the truth of so many gone before us. It was just what I needed to hear. I'll share an excerpt below, from Penny Lernoux:

I feel like I'm walking down a new path. It's not physical fear or fear of death, because the courageous poor of Latin America have taught me a theology of life that, through solidarity and our common struggle, transcends death. Rather, it is a sense of helplessness--that I who always wanted to be the champion of the poor and am just as helpless--that I, too, must hold out my begging bowl; that I must learn--am learning--the ultimate powerlessness of Christ. It is a cleansing experience. So many things seem less important, or not at all, especially the ambitions.

I ask for Jesus to show up in these quiet moments of reflection. My body responds to the worries of my day with tension and anxiety, and I wonder if I'm taking it all too seriously. I ask, "Where were you today?" as I replay the day's events in my head, but I also need to ask, "Where are you now?" Lernoux reminds me that these are not empty questions, but without eyes of faith, they will return empty. Indeed, I am not alone in these questions. Jesus wants to reveal himself to me. I only pray that I have eyes to see.

I sat on the porch, attempting to relax, these questions lingering with the fog coming quietly in from the sea. I feel the rhythm of my heart fill the silent space in the night, and I open my eyes. As I looked up at the whitewashed liquor store across the street, a homeless man walks by with his belongings packed into a cart and a large plastic tub. I recognized him as he paused to stretch in his simple brown coat. I had met him a few months before as I walked down the street. His name is Aaron. His last request for some spare cash came after a recent stint in the local jail.

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Thank you, Jesus, for showing up. Even in, no, especially in, these unexpected ways.