"How was your Summer?"

Much like Jesus had his disciples feel the holes in his flesh, from where he hung on the cross, to make them believe, I too want you to touch my heart and say, "Look, feel, believe what I am telling you!" 

This summer has left crater sized holes in my heart.

It has also filled in a lot of cracks I've been born with, or acquired after being handled without proper care. 

This is a feeling no one could understand without physically poking around in my soul long enough to realize, wow, she wasn't lying, this place is messed up. 

But alas, I will just have to use my half ass words and poor typing skills to convey just how messy it really is...

how beautiful. 

After about a dozen attempts, I gave up writing about what I was seeing, feeling, smelling, doing, experiencing, learning, here. 

Nothing worked. 

Everything felt forced. 

It was as if people were waiting with binoculars at the very idea I had a story to share about being the little white girl who went to California to love on homeless people.

I hated that feeling. 

I hate that I didn't want that title.

I hate that I hated being white. I hate that I wanted to be seen as more than a little girl. I really hated the idea that I needed to give people positive stories about homeless people finding homes, or how miraculously they were no longer addicted to drugs, or how I even bring one to Jesus! 

I hated that I felt the need to shelter anyone from the daily reality of the people I see day in and day out, the true suffering our country is going through right under our phone screens or turned up noses, distance, or just plain ignorance that keeps us from seeing it. The life of the person living on the street. The one hiding behind a title or mask in the church or corporate world. The person who is addicted to numb the pain of their situation. The Refugee from the Middle East. The Immigrant from Mexico. The single mom. The rich white kid who has never had to worry about money, food, or housing. The man whose past is so vividly displayed across his body, even if his heart and eyes look different now. How more often than not I felt like I wasn't good enough for this.

News flash. That's a lot of "I hate's" coming from a girl who preaches Love & Peace. So you can see where some inner turmoil comes into play here. And a lot of resolution has happened, and still seeking to be found. 

Don't hold it against me. 

I don't NEED to give anybody, any particular story.

I don't personally NEED to be anything other than a little white girl, to do what it is I do, just as long as I go about it in a respectful, fruitful, God honoring way. 

So here I am. 15 days away from another seemingly impossible transition. 

Still wondering what it is I am supposed to say about the last 3 months.

Hoping my elevator answer to, "How was your summer?" doesn't sound like a horrible mix of vacation meets activist.

My heart will miss...

Sundays, surrounded by people who look more like the Kingdom will in the end than most churches looks now.

Listening to all the youth group kids laughing outside my window on Tuesday nights & yelling at me from across the yard.

Serving food and praying with the residents at the Plaza every Wednesday with my favorite human beings from the San Diego Rescue Mission.

The few Thursday nights I was able to make it to our college/young adult group and just surrounded myself with some extremely woke young people on fire for the Lord. I owe a lot to those friendships. Y'all did a piece on my heart about what it means to be transformed and adopted by Jesus after a life less than perfect. 

Being able to say "Happy Food Distribution Day!" every Friday to a group of volunteers that are THE MOST ridiculous, but I wouldn't want them to be any other way. 300-500 people coming through our line every week, whether I was the one handing them the food, cleaning up, gleaning for other ministries, or just trying to keep the spirits up as I walked around, that has left a mark for sure. 

All the afternoons spent sorting through fruits and veggies at Feeding America, getting to know the future business owners, lawyers, doctors, politicians, etc. informing them what it feels like to be that 1 in 5 kid going hungry in San Diego.

Every day I went out on the street.

I've never felt the way I do about East Village for any other neighborhood. 

Let that sink in.

There are places on this earth I call home. And then there is East Village. 17th down by Imperial and the bypass might as well be Hell on earth. Take away the drugs, rapes, alcohol, mental illness, physical disabilities, burnings, stabbings, cool. The fact that people are only living with what is on their back, in filth, in their own little village blows my mind. 

I've met people with joy out on the street, there is no joy there.

The strongest street team leaders do not choose to go there most days because it is that rowdy, and yet, I somehow find myself drawn to the darkest depths of that block. 

When others are fleeing, people like me go running toward it. 

Not for a gold medal, not for praise, but out of fear that those people will never see light if I don't go.

I could list off names, experiences, days that left the most impact on me. Days I sobbed driving up, or pulling out of the driveway because I just couldn't hold it in anymore. I could tell you of the dozens of times I made a group of kids turn around in their tracks, or how I still can't breathe around cops. How I took shanks away from drunk ladies, or hugged weeping men because they will never be the father they needed to be to their children. Have you imagine what it's like talking to a group of kids over top 4 choppers looking for a man that killed 3 people in their sleep. I could relive the ongoing jokes I have with Sweet Willy, Heather, Charles, Ms. Streetz, Freckles, Tim, etc. about how a little white girl can earn respect out on the street if she works hard enough for it. 

I could tell you how I fell in love with being called his Mija. Became part of a family that represents everything hot mess and redeemed by the Lord. How five guys in the mission taught me more about what it means to be treated by a man respectfully, than any other dude in Bible college ever has. I could tell you how living in 400 square feet with 5 people is crazy but so doable. How I swore I would never get used to sirens, and the day finally came where it was just background news. I could tell you that some days the most exciting thing about my summer was counting granola bars or zip lock bags. I've learned to appreciate the other side of ministry. The behind the scenes, the numbers, the phone calls and e-mails. I do not love them. And I'll be honest, I never will. But I do appreciate them. 

There are things I won't share.

Things that got zipped up and put away just like the bodies in those bags.

Anger, hurt, sadness, joy, celebration, all things that I need to hold onto or leave behind here in this city so I can be fully present once I return to the south.

Much like I needed to be fully present here in SoCal. 

I ask for respect in that decision. That some parts of my heart will just be fleshy craters, and no one else besides my family here, and my sweet Father in Heaven need to be concerned with. 

So when the question is asked, "How was your summer?" I'll smile big, maybe even hold back a few tears early on, share a memory here and there and say "I learned a lot, it was messy, and it was beautiful." And I'll revisit a place in my heart that is still aching to understand what it all meant.