I had a conversation with my teammates tonight about living in luxury and the way it contrasts with the way the majority of the world lives. We discussed St. Francis, the area for which we are living right now, the beautiful vacation homes surrounding us, the gorgeous houses each with their own dock, the sweetly serene tea-time laid out for us after the church service. Then, my mind goes to the shanty squatter shacks built of plywood and grooved metal sheets in Sea Vista where we’re doing our work. I’ve seen God moving in both places.
I’ve cried my eyes out at the St. Francis community church, while the minister spoke words from God over my weary, anxious soul. I’ve kissed the heads of many little African children in Sea Vista, scrambling for love and attention, and listened while they taught me songs of Jesus. Fishing with Jesus, fishing with Jesus, I’ve got my pole in my hand and my Jesus in the sand, fishing with Jesus!
Tonight we talked about how we grew up in that lovely world of affluence. We enjoyed many luxuries that the rest of the world will never even have the opportunity to experience, that those children from the shanties of Sea Vista may never even see with their own eyes.
This summer, I went back to live with my parents after two years of teaching in Atlanta. The children in Atlanta were poor. They lived in projects and wore torn jackets and only owned a few clothing items and rarely ever got fresh fruit. They didn’t know what an avocado was or had ever seen cream cheese and couldn’t find the silverware at a restaurant because it was hidden in a fabric napkin. By my standard, they were poor, and I was not even living like the mildly affluent of our country. I was on a public school teacher’s salary, and though it was good, I never found my money in excess.
Coming home this summer, I was so appreciative of the comforts of my parents’ life, a life I had grown up in. My first weekend back, we went to Snowbird for a Father’s Day buffet. We sat in the ski resort, listening to James Taylor being played on acoustic guitar, sipping mimosas, watching skiers outside, and I remember feeling so spoiled. Doing something I had done all my life, something I wouldn’t have thought twice about, was now a very notable event.
I noted the money we had to pay for the meal. I noted the beautifully manicured setting. I noted my parents allowance for me to order as much as I desired. I noted how my parents lived, and I missed it. It was so notably different from the poverty of my students. I’ve come to appreciate the comfort and security that money provides.
So why did I come on The World Race? I remember saying on the phone light-heartedly to Danielle one day in Atlanta, “When this whole Teach for America thing is over, I’m going to forget all my dreamer ways and just go be happy.” I think at the time I meant The Race, but now being on The Race, I don’t know what I meant. I mean, I’m not living the life I had this summer. I’m poor again, living off the charity of others, doing idealistic heart-changer things. So, what is it that I’m looking for?
God called me here. And that is all. I don’t really understand it. I want a comfortable life, but I know it’s a dream world, and at times, even excessive. It’s not the way the rest of the world lives. I saw that in Atlanta. I saw it in the Philippines. I’m seeing it now in Africa. The Race is only growing that knowledge, but to what end? Will I go home hoping for a comfortable life of success and excess, or will I learn to be content with living simply? Is it wrong to want a nice life, the kind of life people dream about? If it’s possible and God blesses me to have it, shouldn’t I take it? Should this “year of abandonment” color even my life in the states?
My parents work extremely hard for their money, nothing was ever handed to them. They don’t have fancy college degrees, and God blesses them daily for their hard work and diligence. They are good stewards of their money, and not for a second, do they forget the poverty of the world because of their own income. They raised me to appreciate what I have and give freely as much and as often as I can. Would you call me wrong for taking up a life I’ve known, a life many people have in the states? Would one dare tell me that I’ve discarded the poor by living comfortably, no matter the amount of appreciation I have for it?
I know retrospect, even now, is making a mockery of my questions. Please retrospective, don’t laugh at me. I wish I could know what I’ll know looking back, but for now, I’m overwhelmed and wrestling with this concept. I like that life. I can’t imagine feeling differently. I can’t imagine what kind of abandonment will eventually penetrate me all the way to my core. For now, my thoughts are simply quieting and unsettling.
*Note about the blog title*
In Atlanta, Bankhead is the poor community that rappers talk about, and Buckhead is the rich and rollin’.
