We were asked to write about how we were called to this
mission trip, but before I share my story I’d like to tell you a little about
what I am being called out of.
I am sitting at Jeanine’s, the trendiest
cafe and bakery in Santa Barbara. It’s 11:30 on a March morning, and the
weather is beautiful. My sister was whining about her 30 degree, sleet
covered days in New Jersey. I text her, “Hey Kath! It’s 74
degrees and there’s not a cloud in sight. Hope you’re not
freezing!” I snap my phone shut with a smile. That was mean,
I think to myself, fun though!
The cafe is crowded for a Wednesday
morning, but that is nothing unusual. Across the street, Denny’s is empty,
and no customers pass through the heavy doors, but here there is a steady
stream. Retirees are the most abundant. Sweet, wrinkled women
wearing running shoes and wrapped in pink, puffy vests laugh over lattes.
One gentleman orders an omelet
brunch. He’s wearing a canary yellow, La Coste cardigan and brown shoes
with those little tassels. He has a newspaper in his back pocket, and
chats, smiling, with the spunky cashier. All the cashiers and wait staff
are friendly here, all but the silent Hispanic bussers who stay invisible
except to bring out my iced coffee and to collect dirty dishes.
The spunky cashier offers the mailman a
drink after he delivers a thin stack of envelopes.
“Oh… uh… no. No thanks…” he stutters.
“You sure I can’t get you something?” she says.
“Yeah, thanks though.”
“Ok, see ya later.” He smiles shyly and waves
as he leaves.
A thin, blonde woman in tight sweats and
a t-shirt orders a half sandwich and salad. She pulls her wallet out from
her Louis Vuitton bag to pay. Her long, blonde hair is tangled in the
back, most likely from her workout. As she sets her things down at a table
nearby, I get a view her face. I can’t tell if she’s 17 or 37.
A Chinese man in his forties and wearing
a white Abercrombie NY zip-up hoodie over his red and white striped button down
shirt comes in.
“One… coffee,” he says,
jerkily in his accented English. His demure… wife? mother? (I can’t
tell) follows him in and waits as he adds cream and sugar at the bar.
Two business men come in, both casually
dressed. One wears black jeans, but has shiny black wingtips with silver
buckles. He has a big black and silver Rolex watch. The other wears
cargo pants with light leather loafers. On their belts are clipped
Blackberries.
That’s Santa Barbara for you, or at least
this side of Santa Barbara. Blackberries and polos for the
men. Running shoes (or Uggs) and Louis Vuitton bags for the women.
I sip my iced coffee and sigh. I can
barely see the mountains around the cafe’s maroon awning and over the palm and
pine trees. My bedroom window looks out at those limestone spotted
mountains, but I rarely glance at them anymore. After seeing them for 23
years, they are like my culture, taken for granted, almost invisible.
I could stay in this town forever. I
could build a business selling financial services to the plethora of retirees
escaping to Santa Barbara like my father. Eventually I could purchase an
absurdly expensive home in Montecito or Hope Ranch for my family. I would
wear a Rolex and my wife would carry Louis Vuitton bags to the gym. We
would only drive Mercedes. I would grow old and die a happy, comfortable
man.
I take a last sip of coffee and get up to
go. Burger King is selling 2 Whoppers for $3.50 just down the street, and
I have to grab a bite before my lunch hour is over. I can afford Jeanines’
$3 iced coffees, but not their sandwich and salad combo.
If I chose this life, someday I wouldn’t
blink an eye at their prices. I could eat here every day, reading the
paper or chatting with clients and business partners. I could be happy,
comfortable.
But would I be able to see the
hills? Would I notice them around the maroon awning and over the palm
trees?
Or would they be invisible to me?
Still invisible… still taken for
granted.
I do not condemn this life, the
Blackberries, the designer bags. Someday it could be my life. But
right now, I have been called. I am being called. I am being called
even now, even as I walk to Burger King, even as I breathe in this Santa
Barbara air. God is planting seeds of hope, and joy, and life, and love,
deep in the soil of my body, and they will rise with a reply to His call.
And the harvest is this–it whispers
through the hearts of men and women like waves sliding on the beach, pulled by
the power of the moon–a reply: “Father, glorify your name.”
Then a voice came in my chest, or from
heaven, or through the breeze… from somewhere. But a voice, “I have
glorified it, and will glorify it again.”
