"I SHALL CALL HER BESSIE!"

It was early June that her bright orange color and basket back seat caught my eye...

“Wow…this bike is beautiful.” I said, running my hand over the quirky frame. I immediately found myself wondering who would be the proud owner of this eccentric, old-timey bike. It had definitely seen its better days, but it was nothing that a little elbow grease and love couldn’t fix.

The leader of Bike Shop, Joe, walked over. “You like that bike, Amber? Have it. It has been in the shop awhile; we were just going to scrap it.” He looked at me to the bike to me again. “Actually, this is the perfect Amber bike.”

I didn’t know what an “Amber bike” was, but it didn’t matter at that point. All that mattered in that moment was the creeping feeling of attachment latching onto the 1950s style bike. It was going to be mine. I would be able to fix it up with the kids at Bike Shop, a group effort. Years down the road I would ride the bike and remember the summer at South Street and how the bike came to be mine. A smile slowly spread across my face. 

“I SHALL CALL HER BESSIE!” I announced to the kids and volunteers surrounding me.

 “You picked that bike?” the kids stared at me skeptically, gathered around the old, rusted bike.

“Look at this bike! LOOK AT HER! She’s a beaut!” I channeled my inner Vanna White as I attempted to persuade them of Bessie’s beauty. “See this rack thing on the back tire? I can carry books in here! Check it!”

I lifted the rack and lowered it, producing an “Oooo” from my 10 and under crowd. “That’s pretty cool,” one admitted.

“All she needs is a new seat, brakes, and she’ll be good to go!” I stated enthusiastically.

With the help of my little posse, we put Bessie back in the Bike Shop, her temporary home.

  *       *       *

Each Bike Shop I would check to see if Bessie was still there, waiting for the time when I finally had the chance to finish fixing her up. And indeed, every Bike Shop she was there, hanging up in the back corner, untouched by anyone.

You see, Bessie was mine in my mind but there was always the option that a kid would realize the gem that was Bessie and decide that she was the bike that they wanted. If this were to happen I would get over it (as Bike Shop is for the kids), but luckily this had yet to happen. Although there had been a few false alarms where Bessie had been pulled out of the shop, after tinkering around a bit with the brakes, the kids would decide that she wasn’t worth fixing and put her back in the shop.

It remained this way for two months.

Last Wednesday, however, this all changed.

I got out of my car and frolicked to Bike Shop like any other Wednesday evening. As the Shop came into my sight, I scanned to see the kids that were attending and stopped as my sight was quickly caught by a flash of orange. Bessie was out of the Shop in in the hands of a young boy, preteen age. Looking at him, I couldn’t tell the seriousness of his interactions with Bessie—had he chosen her as his bike? As I got closer, however, my heart dropped into my stomach.

There was duct tape with his name on it on Bessie’s frame.

In Bike Shop lingo, this meant that the bike was indeed his and he was committed to working his hours, fixing her up, and taking her home.

On the outside, it was no big deal (I knew that this might happen and I was okay with it), but on the inside, I was a mess of emotions.

My Summer Camp co-leader, Bobby, was standing next to me. “Bobby, I’m about to lose it. I’ve got to get out of here. Man. I am way more attached to that bike than I thought.”

I quickly ran up the stairs to find solitude in the Upper Room.

It was here that I allowed the tears and the cries to break free.

*        *        *

Grief is a very strange emotion. As I have found myself wrapping up these last few weeks at South Street Ministries, there has been a lot of grief. Grief over a summer that has sparked a lifetime of action. Grief over the incredible men and women that I have met this summer who have inspired me with their lives and stories. Grief over the state of the world and the slap of reality that this experience has given me. Grief over pain, and that there is pain. Grief over feeling like going back to school is not where my heart is, yet where I need to be. Grief. Grief. Grief.

As I’ve been navigating these emotions, I’m finding that grief surfaces in the strangest of places.

Grief in the form of an orange bike I randomly named Bessie, an orange bike that somehow became a representation of my summer somewhere deep in my subconscious. An orange bike that was with me at the beginning of this adventure, and didn’t make it with me to the end.

That young preteen boy taking Bessie as his is just one last thing I can’t control. I can’t control that time is passing. I can’t control that the summer is coming to a close. I can’t control that in less than a month I will be back at Bowling Green experiencing culture shock and grief once more, although it will look different than it has in Akron.

Transition is hard. Saying goodbye is hard. This I'm learning continually. 

*        *        * 

As I compose myself and depart from the Upper Room, I approach that preteen boy as he inspects Bessie’s handlebars. “Hey man,” I say, “Is that your bike?”

He looks up at me and nods, engrossed in his work.

“You picked a good one,” I paused, watching him take the bolt from the seat. “Can I tell you a secret? This is my favorite bike in the shop. Good choice, man.”

I walk away before the tears take over once again, leaving behind the orange bike Bessie and a summer of drastic, empowering change.

A Heart of Stone

 

I stand at the edge of the Urban Garden on Bachtel staring at the soil.

They are gone. 

All gone. 

Every single one of them.

Just yesterday the seven handmade stepping stones had graced the lining of the Garden and the rows between. Seven oasis lily pads sitting in the surrounding soil. Marbles danced in intricate designs in the concrete, plastic butterflies stuck in time in the slabs. They were stunning, works of art.

I want to scream, sob, lay on the ground in the fetal position—but I can’t do any of this. I just stare at the ground, thinking of what Gardens will be like tomorrow.

The kids all gathering, “Where’s the stepping stone I made?” Realization, anger, grief, “What happened?”  “I don’t know.” Heads tilted down, picking lettuce as their feet sink into the dirt. “This isn’t fair. Those were our stones.”  I’ll pause, “I know….I know.”

I walk over to the play set and see small pieces of concrete scattered across the deck. This must be where the stepping stones were broken, followed by tossing them into the bushes.

They were just stepping stones. They were just slabs of concrete put into a neighborhood garden. But from someone on the inside, they were so much more.

She helped him mix the concrete, adding water as she was told. He packed the molds with the concrete, giving one to each child. Marbles, pieces of colored glass, letters—the kids had access to them all.

She put her handprint in hers, telling me that this stone “would be part of the Gardens forever.” I smiled at her, thinking of how cool it was that the kids would get to come back and see their handprints in the ground until the weather would erode them.

The girl beside me made a flower, proud that the design she created was so accurate to what was in the stone. The smiley boy had red marbles covering every inch of his circular concrete slab.

And then they all got to put them in the garden some screaming, “I WANT MY STONE TO BE BY HERS.” There was hustle and bustle but finally all the stones were laid peacefully in place in the Garden.

Just stepping stones.

Full of emotion, I swallow my tears and walk back up to the Crabbs’ yard.   

Tonight's Menu at Urban Gardens: Fried Squash and Zucchini

“Can I come in?” comes a small voice from the door frame. The beads in her hair frame her big brown eyes that gaze at me with the innocent intensity that only small children can muster.

She is four. Four years old. Day after day her three-year-old sister and her swing on the swings in the Crabbs’ yard. Day after day right at 2:15pm we call the kids in for summer camp, and these two follow the crowd. Day after day I look into their beautiful brown eyes and say, “You are too young to go to summer camp, sweet ones. Head home, okay?”

But this particular evening is a little different.

It is the night of Urban Gardens, and kids and adults alike are gathered around tables to make fresh fried zucchini and squash. Instead of our usual number, we are lower than usual with kids—a mere five children and nearly that many adults. My mind quickly processes the sanity ratio for the five adult volunteers if a young one is added into the mix.

I walk over and share my thoughts with the leader of Urban Gardens. “Miss Anne? Lovely Delilah* here would like to come participate. Would it be okay to add one more? She’s young, but…” I trail off as my thoughts become apparent to us both.

There is a pause, followed by, “Yeah; let her in! We can do that.”

With a smile I kneel down to talk to Delilah. “Hey! Guess what? You can come in today.” Her face lit up immediately. “Know that this is a special occasion though, as there aren’t many kids. You understand that this may not happen again, right? Four is still too young for program, but we have enough help today that you can come in!”

She says that she understands, and shyly steps into the activities. Shortly after her sister came as well, and so did another young one that tags along with the both of them. Saying yes to one is a yes to all, so three young ones were added to eclectic mix at Gardens this night.

·      *  *  *

Yes, the time this evening consisted of many hand washings, a lot of guidance, and the shortest attention spans I have ever seen from these three young ones, yet there was so much joy in their faces knowing that they got to participate in something they have never had the opportunity to this summer. Delilah wanted to help crack eggs, wanted to help with this and that, showing more zeal for helping than in many I have met. Her sister looked up at me at snack time and said, “Can I have moor Rwanch please?,” perfectly melting my heart with every honest word. For this one evening, I had the privilege of assuring them that they are valued and valuable through spending quality time together, instead of sending them home daily, which in my opinion has the potential to enforce a “you’re not good enough” mentality.

This evening at Urban Gardens with the three girls was such a beautiful representation of the beauty of gifts. The young ones received the gift of time at Urban Gardens with such joy. They gave gifts through smiles, innocent words, and pure motives. There were gifts in reading books together and gifts in eating a snack with “the big kids.” There were gifts in their big brown eyes and their demeanor of peace. Others in their situation may have felt entitled to be able to come to every program, yet these young ones showed me humility, what it is to live moment by moment, and the peace that comes with taking life in stride. Needless to say, by the end of the time all of the volunteers' hearts were sufficiently melted.

These little ones taught me a lot tonight.

And for that, I am incredibly grateful.  

*Name has been changed

The Only Insect That People Don't Want to Squash Dead

Ever since I can remember, I have had a love for butterflies—those majestic, graceful ballerinas of the sky. If I were to be an animal, I would want be a butterfly. I could fly with ease, spend my days among the flowers, dance through the sky; it would be grand.

Every time I am in company with the creatures I am filled with awe. Their little tongues dipping into a flower for a late afternoon snack, the wings batting lusciously in the sun (soaking up every drop of Vitamin D), the striking patterns on every centimeter of wing—every part a fascinating melody of a species. 

I remember when I was eight and we went to a butterfly emporium near Niagara Falls. The air was humid with the creatures, the place filled to the max. Lush green jungle enveloped me on either side and mist clung to my shirt with every step. Butterflies danced to and fro, leaping from plant to person to paradise. It was nothing short of a wonder.   

And then there was last year when I got to raise a butterfly of my own, watching him grow from a half-inch long worm to a mystic monarch. Every day I would wake up and stare at Baby Alfred (his name) munching on milkweed and pooping simultaneously, getting bigger and bigger by the day. I watched him crawl up to the top of the pretzel jar that was his home, latch his behind to the top and begin to make a chrysalis. Then, he was absolutely still. Ten days later, I woke up to a see-through chrysalis, and a few hours after that, a stunning, GIRL butterfly (thereby named Alberta).   

I thought a lot about what was going on in that chrysalis in those ten days between caterpillar and butterfly-dom. Was Baby Alfred conscious the whole time? Could he breathe? Did he need to breathe? Did he disintegrate and reassemble as an entirely new being that never knew caterpillar-dom? What did he think of his wings? Did he always know that he was going to get wings? Was he bored? Did it hurt during metamorphosis?

See, there’s a lot of questions!

During times of drastic change in my life, the butterfly always comes up. This period of my life has been no different. Today, I was in my room looking at a butterfly guide that was given to me and broke down sobbing after flipping through only five pages of photographs. “OH MY GOSH THEY’RE SO BEAUTIFULLLLL,” I explained to no one in particular, tears streaming down my face. “LOOK AT THEIR LITTLE WINGS.” There were colors and wing shapes and names and so many beautiful creatures that it was just too much to handle.

Uncertainty is a prime time for change and a reorientation of one’s priorities, lifestyle, and agenda. Through all of this uncertainty, it’s easy for me to fall back into old patterns of behavior and begin to question the path I’m on. 

Yet today a pearl ring on my finger reminded me of the path I’ve chosen. “The kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it (Matthew 13:45-46).” Knowing that I am unconditionally Loved by my Creator, and loving others are the constants that holds me through times of change and uncertainty.

And much like the caterpillar in the midst of its metamorphosis, soon I will dance in the freedom of my new wings.    

The Best Way to Spend Your Dinner Break

The four middle-school-aged girls piled into my tiny Chevy, squealing with excitement over the upcoming adventure. The week before we had planned it—a trip to Highland Square between Summer Camp and Gardens. Any chance that they would forget the promise flew out the window as they proceeded to remind me multiple times about the upcoming adventure. And now here we were, blasting Disney songs and riding down one-way roads to the local ice cream shop, Mary Coyle’s. 

To any outsider, including myself, this time didn’t seem like much—ice cream and exploring Highland Square. But to these young women, it has seemed to be so much more as they have relayed their adventure to many in the two days following our time together.

They talk about Mary Coyle’s and the old décor, from the neon signs to the vintage stuffed animals, the metal serving dishes and the diner-esque tables. One insists that she is going there for her birthday, as she is in love with the entire atmosphere—and the ice cream. Another relays the ice cream flavors everyone got, from the chocolate chip cookies and cream to the double chocolate to the whitehouse to the coffee.

For myself, I keep quiet my favorite parts. Her excited face as she walked towards us and said, “The bathroom is SO COOL!” and they all followed her to check it out. When we all hunched over the bill, talking about the expense of our ice cream and knowing how much to give as a tip. Where she insisted on taking her napkin outside to the trash can because she didn’t think it was right for someone else to clean up after her, even as I insisted that that was the waitress’ job.  

They talk about window-shopping at Urban Revival, about the style at n.e.x.t and how much they loved the clothes and how much I didn’t that they don’t understand why. They relay the adventure at the record store, where I took a picture of all of them holding records to their faces, making is seem as if the records were a part of their body. 

But what they all relay is the time spent at The Market Path, a fair trade store in the Square where we learned about fair trade and saw products that had been worked for and sold at a fair price and by just means. “There’s a journal made of ELEPHANT POOP,” she told the story listeners, talking about the abundance of recycled goods in the store from other countries, like beads made from paper and instruments from tin cans. 

Another girl comments on how sad she was to hear about child slavery from other countries, and yet another talks about the fair trade chocolate we got to eat, assured that we were eating candy that was just in its means of production. They all light up as they talk about the jewelry that had a picture and story of the artist attached—beautiful people who’s stories seemed to be etched in the bracelets and earrings. They loved knowing who made the product, as it made it a personal experience.

As I sit next to them, hearing them relay the stories to other volunteers and their peers, I am nearly moved to tears as I recognize the power of relationship. I was surprised at the impact that this small amount of quality time had on them. Surprised that this time awakened in them a desire to learn about injustices even further.

Relationships are a powerful bond that is formed when love is shown through action.

Through the joys of eating ice cream and exploring with these incredible young women, this is what I'm learning. 

The Most Interesting Critique I've Ever Been Given

“You’re too…compassionate.” The 12-year-old spit the words out at me as she sat on the plastic chair.

Reclining on the adjacent porch swing, I pondered her statement. “What do you mean?”

“You’re always so happy and smiling and it’s annoying.” Her words had finality to them, as if there was no arguing her statements.

I tried to trace back the events of that day to think of what had inspired such acidic words from the regular camper. A minute before her statement, I had commented on something—a helicopter, a dog, a tree—something that had piqued my interest. Maybe that was it.

I found myself looking at her, just staring, trying to figure out what she was really saying. She was looking to the right, nostrils flaring, eyes too hardened and angry for her age. I began to sort through my thoughts, tossing out the ones that wanted to get defensive at her comments, the ones that wanted to be hurt by her words, and finally got to the ones that really mattered.

“I want to ask you something.” She turned back to look at me. “Why do you think I’m here this summer?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “...Because you care.”

I nodded my head in affirmative surprise. “Hmmm…yeah, that’s right. What do you think would happen if I didn’t care…do you think I’d be here this summer?”

“No.” She sounded like she was stating the obvious.

“Yeah…I’d probably leave.” I paused and leaned forward towards her. “Do you want me to leave?”

Seeing where I was going, a slight smile appeared on her face. “No.”

“Well…then I’m not going to change. Compassion it is.”

Sitting back once again on the swing, we sat in content silence, listening to the birds and smacking the mosquitos that dove near us. 

Safety and Bravery

Choosing safety is so much easier than choosing to be brave and live out my convictions. 

Safety is known; bravery is the unknown. I can navigate through safety even though my soul longs for the lifestyle of bravery. Safety is exactly how it sounds--safe. Emotionally safe, everything safe. 

Bravery requires a vulnerability and transparency that I'm not sure I have the courage to choose. Bravery allows people other than myself to view and live in the midst of my pain. 

The only way bravery will be chosen is with the truth and reality of Christ at the forefront. Answering to none on earth gives me the freedom to follow Him and have Him align my lifestyle to love. Living in this freedom allows me to choose bravery, knowing that I am already unconditionally loved and will not be rejected or misunderstood in the change. 

"Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect."

Romans 12:2