Blessed

It’s been a while since I posted and several of you have wondered how I’ve been doing so here’s the numbers as of today [insert drumroll sound here]:

Total in “Get Shorty” fun: $909.84

Total just from recycling since 1/23/12: $253.66

Awesome, right?

I’ve been so blessed by so many participating in the recycling and brainstorming looking for ways to help. Thank you isn’t enough. As you know, it isn’t just about the recycling, but those items are the “tangible” representation of your support of me.

Throughout the journey, I’ve been blessed in others ways. As I’ve spoken of before, some have given money to put in the fund along the way. One who keeps sending dollars here and there is my mom and mom is on board—can you tell? Look at her memo line in the check.

Another local friend’s husband took the recycling instead of giving it to me and then passed on the money. She sent a text to surprise me with the news. (Thanks MC!) 

[This is a great way for you far away to be involved]

Aside from the people who are intentionally supporting, there have been some encounters with others who have no idea of my story but have left me speechless, stunned, grateful, and teary-eyed with their actions and generosity. Many of you know how much my heart was broken for the Latino community when I moved to California from Mississippi and worked in Pasadena—the first time I met and served this population. Since being in Orange County, my heart breaks for the city of Santa Ana and for the hardships that the immigrant communities encounter. Well, I recycle in Santa Ana weekly. I’m constantly saying prayers of thanksgiving as I sort and fill up my huge yellow containers as I look around at the other patrons who recycle for income to feed their families. Times are hard. My eyes fill with tears just recalling images in my mind. Each week, I interface with some of the most beautiful people I’ve seen disguised by dirty clothes and wear and tear brought on by poverty. I don’t fit in, even if I go in my worst clothes. Because I go to work after, I’m usually in heels (but hey, I was in heels in my ATV safari in Africa too..that’s just me) and nice clothes. I’m the only White person. I’m the only middle class (or even close) person. On Friday mornings, we have a common ground. We sometimes exchange cheers for "large loads" in Spanglish. One man shared his story about recycling being his sole income at the moment, and I could barely attend because I was struck by the joy in his conversation, his mannerisms, his encouragement for me, and his enjoyment of sorting.

The first time I went, I felt awkward. I didn’t know what to do. Where do you get the containers? How did I take all 7-8 up there as a single person with no kids or husband to help? Will I even remember which ones are mine? How does it all work? I tend to get anxious in new places when I don't know the layout of the land. I was surrounded that day by people who could read my body language and helped. There were no words as Spanish was the only words spoken, but there were many gestures or people who just took over and helped push with me. 

Recently (2 trips ago), I had another encounter that literally sent me racing to my car, money in hand, to have a mini I’m-sad-but-I’m-happy breakdown.  I pulled up alongside a middle-aged Hispanic woman who was unloading her VERY FULL car (I was in awe of her loot). She had been there a while. She had tons of loose bottles filling her backseat and trunk. I, on the other hand, had OCD’ly organized my car for maximum time-efficiency unloading. Everything was presorted and bagged. I had filled up 7-8 containers in about 10 minutes flat. She still had a long way to go. I was in a hurry, dressed for work, and started to the weigh station with 2 of the containers. I could see one of “my boys” coming out to help me [the staff of young guys now know me by name]. When I turned around, I saw the woman with 2 of my containers. I don’t think I’ll ever forget her face. I looked at her with what I’m sure was utmost confusion.  She smiled and nodded with the most joyous look in her eyes to signify that she was helping me bring my containers. She stopped what she was doing to help me. She. stopped. to. help. ME?!?! When the guy took my containers from her, I heard her confirm with him in Spanish that he would help me get all my containers to the weigh station. She continued to help push them from my car toward the area where the guys could better assist me. When I left, she was still unloading. The simple act of cessation from her “work” to help me was overwhelming, but the joy in her face was too much for my heart to take before it burst. I want to be like this woman. I left humbled with big shoes to fill.

Then, it made me think about my first day there, not fitting in and being overcome with worry as I looked around, and with every glimpse, being reminded that I was the outcast. Then it hit: Are our eyes open? When we see someone in our midst that clearly doesn’t fit in, do we stop what we are doing to ensure that they find their way? Language cannot be a barrier. It wasn’t and never is on Friday mornings. I’m always reminded that love is the universal language, and we should all be fluent. 

So, chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It's your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it. 

--Colossians 3:12-14 (the Message)