[good news] Spring 2010: Part 1

Magdalena Esperanza: Her name means “Magnificent Tower of Hope,” and she is in every way a symbol to us of the redemptive change Jesus is bringing to our lives. Her Puerto Rican momma Maria, and her Mexican American daddy Jason, are a dating couple who have both given their lives to Jesus over the course of the last year. Jason and Maria and Baby Lena are all living in the Tracy House, learning along with all of us how to be loved by God, how to love Him back, and how to love each other.

Tracy (trae-cee): A name meaning 1) a road or path; 2) to harvest or to reap; 3) brave.

The Tracy House. 3900 Tracy Ave, Apt. B. When we first moved into the two-floor duplex in August, our home inherited its name rather by default from the street. We were quite thrilled however to later discover the meaning of “Tracy”, and sensed from our first days here that God Himself was giving us both a home and an intentional purpose in the Kansas City

hood. We have continued to experience divine protection, miraculous provision, and unbelievable missional opportunities.

I was all grins as both giant 6‘6” Laurence and tiny 6-pound Lena joined our home this last weekend! Laurence is affectionately known as “L’Boogie” because he’s an amazing hip-hop dancer :) We’ve now got 3 guys livi

ng upstairs and 3 girls living downstairs, counting the baby. 3 Hispanics, 1 Black, and 2 Whities. (I had such fun filling out the 2010 Census!) Most of my roommates have been spiritually & physically orphaned their whole lives, and are just now coming to understand a loving family. We share groceries, eat together, pray together, clean together, take care of guests together, & get in the Word together. It’s all day by day, live-in discipleship.

On any given weekend you can find our home packed with friends from the Boiler Room and neighborhood, visiting students, and other weary travelers. We love to feed people, and we’re forever marveling at how our kitchen always has enough food. Our roommate Scott counted that from August 1 when we moved in until the end of December we’d had 115 guests stay with us! I have no idea what the recent count is... I’m sure we’ve had another 40 or so since then.

Just a few days ago, our 15-year-old neighbor girl came seeking some love. She just found out that she is pregnant, and wanted someone to pray with her. I spent an hour sharing with her about Jesus. She agreed to start meeting with me weekly to read the stories of Jesus... and she asked me to be the baby’s godmother! We’ve been praying for Ashley and her family since we first moved in, and we’ve had several incredible God-encounters with them already.

Campus America: This is a photo of the map of the United States that hangs on the wall in our office. It’s a helpful visual as we pray for students across the nation. We’ve got pictures of our friends who are coordinating prayer on campuses attached to the map to help us pray too. Our team is currently participating in 40 days of prayer and fasting for God to raise up laborers for the harvest on the campuses of America. Add Campus America on Facebook & Twitter to stay informed! I personally update those statuses :)

I was struck this week by Jesus’ remark in Matthew 15: “I am unwilling to send them away hungry, lest they faint on the way.”

May the Spirit of Jesus FILL YOU UP, until you are OVERFLOWING. May He satisfy your hunger with revelation of His steadfast LOVE.

Lindsay

come, be with us.

I sit at my kitchen table today, staring out the window that overlooks the Metro Center on the corner of 39th and Troost. Brownies are baking in the oven, markers and glue are sprawled all over the tabletop. I’m in the middle of making a birthday package to send to my younger brother. He turned 19 years old on Saturday. I know its a few days late, but my brothers and I believe in stretching out birthdays as long as possible, so to us belated gifts just mean the party is still going. I’m proud of my brother and so excited about his life. He’s becoming such a strong, kind-hearted man.

My phone flashes. My friend Adam has just forwarded a notice to me about a gathering to be held this very night on the very corner I’m gazing upon. It’s supposed to be a memorial gathering of sorts, a prayerful time to take a stand against the violence that ravages the urban core.

Two weeks ago today, an 18-year-old black male was shot and killed in broad daylight. I remember the day clearly. It was the middle of the afternoon, and there was swarms of cops cars, loads of tape, the local news station. We could see most everything from our second story kitchen window.

It’s not that commotion is an uncommon sight. I mean, we certainly see our share of it. Last week we watched as police apprehended man outside our house. He was trying to escape after causing a car accident a few streets over, a hit-and-run situation. I don’t know if anyone was killed, but there was certainly a lot of ambulances. Before that there was a cab driver shot in front of our house. One of our roommates felt the vibrations from the gunshots in her bedroom and made the call to the police. Then there was the Christmas party we had, in which our departing guests literally had to walk through a line-up of officers who had a few troubled teenagers handcuffed on our sidewalk. We’ve had several full-blown manhunts occur on our block in the few months we’ve lived in this house. One night a house guest was not even allowed to return to our home, as an entire ten-block radius was barricaded for what turned out to be an all-night search for a guy who’d shot a cop.

And they say we live on a good street.

A good street for this side of town, that is.

Ahh. So there I am today, sitting at the table, writing my brother’s birthday card. I know as soon as I get the text from Adam that I will go tonight. My heart is heavy as I finish writing his card. Two weeks ago, my brother was an 18-year-old male. Today I celebrate his vibrant life, his bright future, and another year that he will live. He made it to 19. That’s more than Avion Williamson can say.

Evening comes, and I slip out of my house to walk soberly to the notorious corner. A huge stone church sets opposite the Metro Center, and it seems this is where the crowd is gathering. A lot of church folk, from various congregations. Avion’s family. Several policers officers. Quite a few young people - his friends maybe. Representatives from different community organizations. A guy with snapping pictures. A rickety old monitor and a microphone that cuts in and out. Mostly black folks have gathered, with just a handful of white folks sprinkled throughout the crowd.

A prayer is prayed before bishops, officers, and heads of this or that all offer their condolences and make a plea for the community to become unified in its crack down on violent crime. Tears keep flooding my eyes as the session progresses. If I gave way to my emotions I would just weep and weep. 16 people have been murdered in Kansas City since the turn of 2010. 13 of them have been black males. 5 of them have been teenagers. I guarantee that most, if not all, of those murders have occurred within a few miles of my home.

One of the speakers asks the crowd to raise their hand if they have ever had a family member murdered. Something like two-thirds of the crowd raises their hand. He then asked who had attended a funeral of someone who had been murdered in the last eighteen months. Again, much of the crowd had their hands raised. I feel like I cannot breathe.

There’s more jabbering about how if only all the organizations were more unified, the violence would never happen. All I want to do is get on my face in the asphalt church lot and start crying out for mercy. Some of what is said is good, but it seems to be mostly talk amongst people who cannot really change a thing. And barely anything at all is directed to the only One who can actually save us.

I’ve been thinking all day that I want to put words to the stirring in my heart. It’s these kinds of days that make me want to write words that provoke the human soul. It’s these kinds of days that leave me feeling raw and wanting to shake up the emotions of every heart that slumbers.

And its these same days that leave me feeling like there is nothing left to say. I want to be able to deliver some crazy powerful punch line at the end of this note. But my soul is strangely quieted. The somberness has seeped in and drowned out whatever rage was in me.

Perhaps, just perhaps, He wants this moment.

And in that case, You shall have it, Lord. Come, be present with us in our celebrating and grieving. Come, be present in our gaining and our losing. Come, when there is nothing left to say... Come, be with us.

03-08-10

the wretched whisper & somehow, someday

Alone.
You, Lindsay Leigh Ellyson, are all alone.
And it is all up to you to make your way in this world.
And that is the way it will always be.

Somewhere, someday this is whispered into my ear. Somehow, someway it drifts from out there somewhere, and it makes its way through my entirety, and settles in for a good long stay. Somewhere, someday is probably so long ago that I may never know it exactly. I may never know the somehow, someway either.

That whisper is an assault on my very design. My self is so tiny when that whisper first comes, and my reaction is not at all of the knee-jerking sort. Maybe at first I dodge the blows. But I quickly learn, as most humans do, the awkward ways to move along with this force to avoid being knocked off my feet. A side-step here, a hip-sway there. I bend over backwards, I twirl around, moving in rhythm with the assault until we are in a full-blown dance, complete with locked hands and an embrace. I cannot stop myself. The whisper never stops its movement forward, and if I halt my steps and the jerking of my body, it will hit me like steady blows. On and on I dance, led away by the whisper, moving in accordance with its thrusts toward me. I cannot stop, it has taken me over. Each passing year, my moves become smoother, my hand more firmly set in the hand of my assaulter.

Not much time goes by before I have forgotten the original whisper. The poison has mixed with my cellular make-up and I now have my own particular strand of sickness.

I am independent.
I might as well be, for I am alone.

I am responsible.
It is entirely up to me to make everything safe and secure.

I am sufficient for my own needs.
I have to be, for I am alone.

I’m fine. I’m tough. I can handle it.
I have to be, for I am alone.

I’m different than everyone else. My life is just not the same, and it will never be. And I don’t want it to.
I am alone. It’s pointless to want it to be any other way, because it never will be.

The unasked question throbbing is, “If I was never designed to be alone, how then do I survive this?” And thus my whole existence becomes the tragic dance of attempting survival in the face of aloneness.

For twenty-some years or something of the like. Until my no-longer tiny self is tuckered out. Until my smooth, well-practiced moves begin to slip as my strength wears thin.

I’m anxious. I panic. I’m frustrated. I’m so very overwhelmed. These are not the only emotions I ever experience, but sometimes they define my existence for weeks on end. I find myself looking around. Help me, please. I’m independent, but my chest feels like its going to cave in. I’m responsible, but I can’t keep it together. I’m tough, I’m fine, I can handle it, but I’m sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor weeping sorrowfully. My life is different, but I think I am going to die.

I rock independence.

And I die a little more with every passing season.

I strut my stuff, I motion to observers to admire my dance with this vengeful whisper. I’ve got this jazzy tune down pat and I look good swaying on the floor. I like this dance, its my dance. It’s who I am, it’s who I will always be.

Then why do I want to run away forever?

My roommates share feasts with me. My friends shower affection on me. My family shouts affirmation. My supporters lavish gifts. My mentors dump bucket loads of blessing. All the while, the my body pulses with “Alone. You’re alone. You will always be alone. Nothing will ever change.”

But it does change.

It changes because somewhere, someday I nodded my head yes when You asked me to love You. It changes because somehow, someway You are committed to keep me from falling and to sweep me up into Your arms in an unadulterated state. It changes because You are far more committed to me than I can ever dare to imagine. It changes because You heard my pitiful little cry for help.

You step onto the dance floor. I don’t know who I am dancing with, I don’t realize who I have embraced. It’s been so many years, and I was so very young when the dance began. I forget the poison’s name. I don’t even know it has tampered with my cellular make-up. But You point at the assault and tell me it’s name, loudly and so very clearly.

ALONE.

I’m so very glad You have come, and I’m so very glad that I finally know why I’ve been anxious all this time. I’m so very glad You have spoken, for at last my slow death has a visible cause. And now, every corner I turn I see how the whisper has forced me to move. Every week another survival technique gets unraveled.

Oh, I do this because I think I’m alone. Oh, I feel that way because I think I’m alone. Ohhhh, I burst into tears just now because I think I am alone. Oh. Ohh. It all makes sense now. Okay.

But I’m reeling, actually. Because the only steps I’ve taken all these years are the ones that wretched whisper forced me to take. I know its song, I know its dance, even though its embrace is awkward now. My hands are clammy, and I’m pulling further away with each new level of realization.

Except I don’t know Your dance yet. I don’t know how You are going to cut in and sweep me away from this straining partner. Back and forth I slide across this floor, with You for a brief moment, before I go twirling right back into the assault again. I can’t keep up with You just yet. Your moves are so new to me, and I am so unpracticed in Your ways.

You catch my eyes from across the floor. You are relentless, I think. You keep saying over and over that You are able to keep me from falling. The words might as well be in Italian, for I have no idea what they mean. All these years, I thought I had to keep myself from falling. I thought I was alone, and I didn’t even know I thought I was alone.

Yet, I am clutching to an ounce of belief that somewhere, someday You will have me entirely in Your dance. Somehow, someway a new whisper will course through my veins. Only it won’t be a whisper. It will be a robust song that syncs my whole body, soul, and spirit into Your rhythm.

I don’t know all the words to that song yet. I’m just beginning to hear the beat. But somewhere, someday, somehow, someway it will take me over.

02-07-10

Even the brainless tiny beasts make their home in YOU! [a Psam 84 re-take]

[inspired from Psalm 84:]

Your house, God... Your house is great! All I want to do is go there. All I want to do with my life is be with You in the place where You are. My heart starts beating faster and my feet just automatically starts dancing at just the rumor that You could be near. Mention being in Your home, and I just fall over! I feel like I’m going to die if I don’t get there!

The little birds, even as they make homes for themselves with little sticks and dryer lint - they make their homes in Your home. The little birds, even them! As they make safe places to raise their young, its always where You are. They don’t know anything, those brainless tiny beasts, but they choose Your home. Because everyone who lives with You is crazy happy. Everyone who lives IN You can’t stop grinning. The joy surges through them and pops right out of their mouths - and it always comes out as a passion-filled song!

Those people, those ones who find their inner strength in You - now THEY are the fortunate ones! Their hearts are highways to Zion. Their hearts are like the well-paved, well-worn, often-traversed path to the Presence of God. Their hearts are the road with no stoplights, no intersections, no stop-and-go traffic, no diversions. Their hearts are a straight shot to You! No messing around, no tricky turns. The highway is paved smooth, well-marked, and easy to speed on! It’s the fastest way to get to You!! Nobody could find a shorter, more reliable way to Your Presence than in the hearts of these guys.

Those people might walk weeping, but their tears turn the desert into an oasis. Their tears make springs of life appear in the driest places! They go from strength to strength, no turning back for them. Every last one of them appears before You in Your home. Not a single one is left behind, not one is rejected upon arrival. They all make it to You, safe and sound!

Oh God, lend me Your ear. Hear me out on this one! Listen to me here. Look, I bear Your mark... cast Your glance this way!! I WANT TO BE ONE OF THESE PEOPLE!

Because I know that a day with You is nothing like a day anywhere else. Name it - name any other place and it won’t even compare. The contrast would be so stark that I couldn’t even write their names on the same piece of paper. The best the world has to offer is like a sick joke compared to a day at Your house! Look, God, I would rather spend 24 hours sitting at the end of Your driveway than 24 lifetimes as the queen of the hippest party in Hollywood.

You are a sun and a shield, God. There is no night in You, not a smidgen of darkness ever. Not burning doesn’t even cross Your mind. The most epic events for millions of human beings is Your mere inhaling and exhaling. You are impenetrable, God. Nothing can get past You, nothing can ever weaken You. Favor and honor are Your favorite things - You give them more readily than the guy who has just scored the girl of his dreams buys drink for his buddies! You can’t even imagine holding back anything remotely good. You never hide the candy in the sock drawer, there’s no secret goodies that You keep from the ones who live in Your house. All the bounty of Your home is within an arm’s reach.

Oh man, oh man, oh man - those that trust You, their lives are crazy blessed.

02-03-10