The Poverty Experiment

Lately, I've developed a nagging concern that our children have little appreciation for how blessed we are. Don't get me wrong. They are amazing kids (thoughtful, generous, sensitive to the needs of others...) It's just that they show too many of the normal signs of American entitlement. We all do. So, my wife and I decided to do a little gratitude exercise and live below poverty level for seven days.

The boys got to choose three toys for the week, each of which had to value under $10. There were no computers (except for work), DVDs, gaming systems, etc. After doing some research and a little creative math, we came up with a weekly income (after rent and utilities) reflective of the national poverty level. We ate, fueled our vehicles, purchased incidentals, paid for school field trips (and the like) for just slightly under this magic number. We ate a lot of beans, rice, pasta, etc. and very little meat. We played board games, with playing cards, and sidewalk chalk. We read books available to us through the library.

We didn't widely publicize what we were doing. In fact, only three people knew about it outside of our family. Each family member did, however, keep a nightly journal and, at the request of a friend, I will share my entries for the week here.

Day One- Monday, May 18, 2009

I’ve actually been looking forward to the start of this little exercise for a few days. Shopping for the week was a fun challenge. But, now that the week has officially begun, I’m finding this a bit more of a challenge than I could have anticipated.

For two reasons: First, an unplanned turn in my dental health has made it so that I will be having my wisdom teeth out tomorrow morning. I am a bit nervous and not looking forward to the painful recovery. But, because of this week’s exercise, I’m not sure I will even be able to “shop” for my recovery like I would otherwise. Luckily, we had planned at least a few soft foods into our poverty budget menu. Still, this may prove to be a real challenge.

Fortunately, it seems the procedure is covered by our dental insurance. Yet, it occurs to me, if we really were living below the poverty level, we wouldn’t likely have such insurance. I’m not sure what I would have done if this were the case. My pain level, at present, is barely tolerable. I am extremely thankful for our dental insurance and my wife’s job with the school district.

Second, I have found myself, a surprising number of times today, thinking of things I need to go “pick up” from the store; things like hair conditioner or more plastic spoons for my office. Ordinarily, these thoughts are fleeting and pass without action— but only because I don’t have time or because it’s not worth a trip to the store for such few items. It is never because we just can’t afford these things. I’ve never thought of basic toiletries as luxuries. Sobering.

Day Two- Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Today I had all four of my wisdom teeth removed. They had become impacted and were causing swelling and discomfort. I was told that I would need someone to drive me home because I would be under a general anesthetic.

One of the most striking things I’ve learned about combating the struggles of poverty is the unmistakable importance of community. For those that “have,” independence is the rule of the day. For those who “have not,” interdependence is survival rule #1. My wife had to work today. In fact, most everyone in my “community” was at work today. We have built lives of individuality and semi-independence. Thankfully, a good friend was able to become available during the day (rearranged her obligations) in order to drive me to and from the appointment. Afterward, she was kind enough to purchase a chocolate milkshake for me and then, to purchase (insurance co-pay) and pick-up my post-surgery prescriptions. It is only Tuesday and after purchasing groceries for the week and gasoline for the truck, we are already through more than half of our money for the week. I offered to pay for the shake, the mashed potatoes (another purchase made by our friend on my behalf) and the prescriptions, but she wouldn’t accept. Later, another friend brought me a smoothie from “Juice it Up.” And yet another couple of other friends sent text messages asking if I needed anything. Now, more than ever (and for many reasons), I am thankful for friendships—for community.

Day Three- Wednesday, May 20, 2009

The eating part of this is proving to be more challenging than I imagined it would be. Tonight for dinner, we made tuna casserole. Ordinarily, this is a low budget family favorite. But, I found I couldn’t take more than two or three bites. Chewing is next to impossible. I put my portion back into the pot and proceeded to drink a shake again for dinner just before rushing out to take my oldest son to his all district band concert.

The concert was wonderful. I was duly impressed with the students’ performances at all levels. I was slightly less than impressed with the school board and administration representatives who spoke throughout the concert. I was more aware than ever before of the range of dress clothing worn by the students— everything from jeans and a T-shirt to slacks and black tennis shoes. There were some kids dressed to the nines, but very few who looked as though they had the appropriate attire in their wardrobe. We are so blessed to be able to afford dress slacks, socks, shoes, and shirt for our son.

By the way, this morning, since I was still under the 24 hour mark with the anesthetic and unable to drive, a friend came by and picked up the boys to take them to school. Another above-and-beyond moment in our relationship. And, yet another representation of the wealth and strength found in community.

Day Four- Thursday, May 21, 2009

This morning, I woke up more sore and swollen than yesterday. Not fun.

I read an article today about how it is more expensive to be poor than it is to be wealthy or middle-class. When you can’t afford to shop around for the best price (due to lack of transportation or the cost of time lost utilizing public transportation), you can end up paying quite a bit more for everyday items such as milk or bread. In addition, with limited assets or credit, you may end up having to finance purchases at a much higher interest rate. What a vicious catch 22.

I was getting a little frustrated this evening. I’m not sure, as a family, we are doing so well at the focusing through this exercise. My wife had to sit down and write out what we’ve spent so far to mentally get back on track. It seems she had been using a few items from the pantry that we hadn’t factored into our budget (chips and sunflower seed butter for the little guy’s lunch). My youngest son has been sneaking in play time with more than his three selected toys (under $10).

I think all of us have been challenged in keeping the experiment pure. If I had it to do over again, I think I would have done more physical prep— cleaning out the cupboards, putting away all the toys, etc. Also, I’m sure, at or below poverty level, we would not have a washer and dryer in our home. We probably wouldn’t have a dishwasher either. My oldest son asked today if we were supposed to be using our blender. I’ve had to use our food processor to puree my food (since I can’t chew, at present). I don’t feel like we are cheating, exactly. But, I do feel like we are getting less than the full experience for lack of thorough preparation.

So, it is Thursday night. We have spent nearly 80% of our budget for the week. Three more days to go. One of those days includes a picnic and another a baby shower. I’m on less than a quarter tank of gas. Heaven help us!

Day Five- Friday, May 22, 2009

I am completely over this whole eating mushy foods business. My mouth/face can’t get back to normal fast enough.

I was thinking earlier that it would be nice to just sit and watch a movie tonight. But, alas, no T.V. or D.V.D. in our below-poverty-level household. That’s okay. The truth is, I didn’t really want to watch anything. It’s just that the other, low cost entertainment alternatives all required more effort. Reading, playing a game, etc.—all required more thinking and/or energy.

I really want to adventure outside the house tomorrow (Saturday). The beach, or mountains, or something. I’ve been a little stir crazy stuck around the house the past few days (recovering). But, alas, no gas money and almost an empty tank. Guess more creativity is called for.

Day Six- Saturday, May 23, 2009

Today was a lazy day spent at home. At least for the most part, anyway. Lazy for me is relative. My wife had a baby shower to attend. One of her colleagues from school came by for an hour or so before the shower. My wife has been helping the woman with her professional writing skills.

Though my swelling has decreased over the past few hours, my pain level has only increased. My jaw is extremely sore and contributing to a dull, but constant headache.

While my wife was gone to the baby shower, the boys and I sorted and folded laundry. I made them lunch and introduced them to my wife’s rice pudding. It was a huge hit! Who would have thought the kids would make a new food discovery in all this?

We’ve been playing a lot of “Rummikub” and “Apples to Apples.” There are quite a few other things (fun, family things) I would love to have done today but gas prices are outrageous. Still, we’ve gotten a lot accomplished and have had fun in the process. We haven’t needed money to laugh, sing, dance, play, and make an adventure out of just about everything. It’s been good to see!

Day Seven- Sunday, May 24, 2009

I have mixed emotions about the success of our little experiment. On one hand, I feel like my family has at least a cosmetic understanding of how blessed we really are. By that I mean, we have been made more consciously aware of the “stuff” we take for granted every day. To a lesser degree, there have been moments of recognizing how blessed we are to have each other—to truly enjoy one another. There is a lot of love in our family. I feel it is too often overlooked because we are always running and working to make (or maybe keep) life “better.” Which begs the question, “better than what?” Is this the great “American Dream?” To ignore (or at least set aside) the things that should truly be most precious to us in exchange for the ongoing opportunity to prove in visible ways to the rest of the world that we can afford these all but neglected “precious things?”

Also, I feel that, in the end, the awareness that we’ve only been pretending has inoculated the whole experiment. There has been little real bite to this. Even now, I am thinking about the things I’ve been putting off until our little exercise is over (hair cut, lunch with a friend, replacing my broken guitar, etc.). But, I can honestly say I have a deeper appreciation for the circumstances that afford me the resource to be able to “indulge” in such things. Hopefully, for my family, even if in the smallest of ways, they too may be coming to recognize just how much of an “indulgence,” not an “entitlement,” these things are. For MOST people in the world, they are extravagances.

We still haven’t decided what we will do with the money we have not spent this week. I don’t mean the few dollars we have left from our allowance. I mean the money we would have spent if we hadn’t been on it. We haven’t really even discussed it. I think it should be a family decision. I can’t wait to see what we come up with.

Finally, I’m forced to wonder, “what is our cut-off?” Do we have one? What I mean is, it seems we had less trouble than anticipated living at or below poverty income for a week (though, I’m not sure my family would enjoy the idea that any of our sacrifices become permanent). But, what do we really need? What is the bare minimum required for us to survive as a family? What changes in the way we think about ourselves and our world would be required to go below that line? Would they be worth exploring? What would God have us do with what we’ve discovered and experienced? Where do we go from here?

All's well that ends well

Today I sit in a lush ravine, surrounded by thick underbrush, twisted and tangled. The trunks of fallen trees lean heavy on struggling neighbors, creaking with each gentle breeze. I can hear the gurgling of a small stream a few feet away. I hear it, but cannot make it out through the growth.

The wilderness trail I traveled to get here was longer than anticipated. Pleasantly so. I couldn’t help but smile as I passed a small post with the word “trail” carved into the side. The continuing path ahead was well worn, bare soil flanked by woodland trees and bright green foliage. “Hmmm. Now, where as that trail again? Thank God for the sign!”

A bit further down the path, another sign read “trail ahead dead ends.” I read it, but, never hesitated at my forward pace. The motion was instinctive.

Now, I know “objects in motion tend to stay in motion.” I recognize there must be countless psychological explanations for why people stay a course, resist a change in trajectory, or disregard warning signs. But, I found myself immediately considering the simple question, “if you know the trail dead ends, why continue?” “What real motivation does one have for forging ahead?”

My parents own a home that was built by my great-grandfather. I spent the majority of my growing up years on that acreage. The street dead ends into the South Canadian River. I have always loved hiking (though, as a younger man, allergies often kept me from it). When we were kids, my brother and I would spend hours exploring the river bed, tumbling down the sand dunes, and searching out hiding places.

There is a park at the end of the street. An old wagon wheel stands affixed to a large, stone monument at the entrance to the playground. The recreation area is dedicated to the pioneers who crossed the river there during the 1889 land run. Every year, hundreds of people travel from all over the country and, decked out in full prairie regalia, mount up on horseback or in covered wagons to reenact the crossing. I recall that our street would be covered in (and, consequently, reek of) horse feces for a week.

When I was in grade school, a sand and gravel company somehow managed to procure the rights to some of the area resources. Large dump-trucks passed up and down our street multiple times a day, damaging the pavement, creating traffic danger for local children, and becoming a general nuisance to residents. My mother, along with many of our neighbors, went on the war path. I will not go into the details of the ordeal, nor will I take time to elaborate on the dangers to anyone foolhardy enough to underestimate my mother. I will simply say that, in the end, the street was repaired and the trucks were rerouted.

There are quite a few amazing things that can happen and many fascinating discoveries to be made at a “dead end.” In fact, the trail I hiked to this spot is not a dead end at all—regardless of what the sign said. There is a long loop that returns you, surprisingly enough, to the back side of the same sign.

When I began to put down my thoughts, I fully intended to write about the divergence of paths and the process—the criteria one uses to make his/her choice of direction. I thought of writing about “destination” verses “journey.” I thought I would even introduce “adventure,” not as a companion to either, but rather as an alternative to both. But, instead, I couldn’t get passed the thought that the end of the trail can be the beginning of many worthwhile things. I am finding , in my life, that words like beginning and end can rob me of more clarity, understanding—discovery, than they provide. Beginning often merely describes the place where we have picked up the trail (or first acknowledged that we were on it). And, it is at the end of the trail that some of the best adventures in life begin.

No Victim, No Crime?

A few weeks ago, my wife picked up our boys from school and returned home to find our house had been burglarized. The place was ransacked. Every room, every drawer, every cabinet, every closet— financial information all over the floor. The intruders had emptied my sons’ backpacks and refilled them with our DVD collection (around 200 disks), gaming systems, other small electronics, and miscellaneous items. They then rode off on my bicycle and my son’s scooter.

The police CSI unit dusted for prints. They took photos, made a list of crime scene evidence, asked us a number of questions, interviewed our neighbors, gave us a case number, and went on their way as yet to be heard from again.

Slightly over a week later, I received a call from my boss asking me if I could come into the office. The police were there. Our offices had been broken into over the weekend, ransacked, and thoroughly cleaned out. Here we go again. Unbelievable! Granted, I live (by choice) in San Bernarghetto… er, I mean San Bernardino, California, but, come on. Really?

Certainly, I am not happy about these events. I am broken hearted about our losses. A deep and almost violent anger toward our unidentified assailants swelled inside me when I saw my ten year old weeping over stolen belongings. I am frustrated and wearied by the arduous task of rebuilding lost data and program templates at work. I feel abused and violated. But I am not writing to lament. In the end, it is just stuff. And, stuff can be replaced.

The lingering disconcertion, however, comes in the awareness that strangers have been in our home— that uninvited delinquents have infiltrated our offices. We know, because there is clear and irrefutable evidence. The police have fingerprints on file. Things are broken and missing and defaced.

But, in the middle of all the mess, a curious thought crossed my mind. What if people have been coming into my home for a long time and I simply haven’t been the wiser? What if I am not the only person who spends a good deal of time sitting behind my desk? I only know people have violated the sanctity of these places because there is evidence of their time there. That fateful Monday morning, my office looked much different than when I left it the Friday before. The physical and emotional atmosphere of my home is strikingly different than it was a few weeks ago.

I recently attended a conference on spiritual development. One of the speakers confessed that, until he was in his mid twenties, traveling overseas, the Church (and consequently, Christianity) had made no measurable/observable impact on his life or community at large. He had never met anyone who professed to be a Christian and actually demonstrated some significant evidence of such a claim (outside of the things they avoided and the language they spoke). Sadly, I wasn’t all that shocked. I continued listening to his story as if there must be more to the point. But, when given pause, there was more weight to this reality than just about any other statement that could have followed.

In his book, The Irresistible Revolution, Shane Claiborne writes of an exchange with a leper he met in India. While working in a makeshift health clinic, after dressing the man’s wounds, the patient thanked Shane with the word namaste.

We really don’t have a word like it in English (or even much of a Western conception of it). They explained to me that namaste means “I honor the Holy One who lives in you.” I knew I could see God in their eyes. Was it possible that I was becoming a Christian, that in my eyes they could catch a glimpse of the image of my Lover?[1]

God has ransacked my life. All the stuff I’ve stored away in closets and drawers, He works to systematically expose to His grace. I believe this is evident to anyone who knows me. I wish I could say it is a totally different feeling than when my home and office were burglarized. But, my initial reaction is still that of one violated; an uncomfortable, but, in this case, not unwelcomed reality.

What’s more, I consider the people in my life, the others in my community, and I wonder if there is any evidence in their lives—anything in their world that would serve as indication that God is present in me. Claiborne also writes:

One of the lepers explained to me that oftentimes lepers don’t even know the words thank you because they have never needed to say them. They had rarely experienced occasions when they used language of gratitude.[2]

When God shows up, it is obvious He has been around. “My old self has been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.[3]” So, shouldn’t it be obvious He’s been around when those near me survey their lives? There are far too few moments when someone had to learn a new word because they saw, in my life, a love beyond their experience. I’m anxious to do something about this.

Footnotes:

1. Shane Claiborne, The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical (The Simple Way, Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan, 2006).

2. ibid.

3. Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright 1996, 2004. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

"Holy weblog, Batman!"

The new banner for this blog is also currently my profile image on facebook. A friend made the following comment on the photo.

“powerful picture. your bare feet on the carpet where my tears have fallen: in the place where I've prayed, laughed, learned, grieved... My favorite time was when the only lights were Christmas twinkle lights, and I'd sit in the back on a pew: silent: alone.”

Last night, another friend had a bunch of guys over to watch the 2005 Ridley Scott film, “The Kingdom of Heaven.” The story takes place around 1180 AD (during the crusades) and chronicles the life of Balian of Ibelin (Orlando Bloom) and his heroic defense of Jerusalem against a powerful Muslim army.

Balian of Ibelin: [To the people of Jerusalem] It has fallen to us to defend Jerusalem, and we have made our preparations as well as they can be made. None of us took this city from Muslims. No Muslim of the great army now coming against us was born when this city was lost. We fight over an offence we did not give, against those who were not alive to be offended. What is Jerusalem? Your holy palaces lie over the Jewish temple that the Romans pulled down. The Muslim places of worship lie over yours. Which is more holy?

[pause]

Balian of Ibelin: The wall? The Mosque? The Sepulcher? Who has claim? No-one has claim.

[raises his voice]

Balian of Ibelin: All have claim!

Bishop, Patriarch of Jerusalem: Blasphemy!

Almaric: [to the Patriarch] Be quiet.

Balian of Ibelin: We defend this city, not to protect these stones, but the people living within these walls.

So, what makes a place holy? Is it what happened there? Who was born there, lived there, died there? In the Old Testament, altars were built, wells were established, temples were erected; because God did a miracle here, or met us there, or spoke in this place. And we call these places “holy.” We esteem them, hallow them— we visit them hoping for some mystical solace, or revelation, or encounter. Why?

There are places that inspire or return me to a once familiar, or significant, or otherwise precious emotion. There are fragrances, and sounds, and sights that conjure up past glories or, by classical conditioning, adjust my mental frame. But, does that make these places, or smells, or sounds, or textures “holy?”

Please don’t misunderstand. I can be a very nostalgic guy. There is nothing inherently wrong with remembering where God has been; revisiting tender places of the soul; examining the marks on the wall that help us measure our growth. In fact, in the right context, these can be very important exercises. Even so, that doesn’t necessarily make these places “holy.”

I have deep respect and affection for those who worship with ceremony and true piety. I believe, by what is often a lack of true reverence, much of western Evangelical Christendom has lost any genuine recognition of God’s sovereignty and power. But I would not necessarily call orthodox liturgies more “holy.”

When God gave instructions for constructing the Arc of the Covenant or building the Tabernacle/Temple, He didn’t ask people to build a “holy” object. He asked them to, “build a place for Me to meet with you.[1]” These things are “holy” because, and, consequently only when God is present.[2] The sanctity of our encounter with God in those places is held, not by the place itself, but in the presence of the person of God and the hearts of the people who encountered Him there.

Unlike a temple, God cannot be destroyed. Unlike a golden box full of artifacts, God cannot be stolen or hidden. Unlike a prayer, or text, or liturgical sacrament, Truth in the person of God cannot be altered. In fact, it seems to me that sometimes these forms must be broken down; torn away; stripped of all sanctity in their own right in order for the treasure— the holy presence of God to be exposed and experienced.[3]

I have discovered that I need more “holy” places in my life. But, that is not to say I need more buildings, or sacraments, or boxes. I simply need more places in my life where God and I meet. I need more true sanctuaries.

Footnotes:

1. “’I will meet with you there and talk to you from above the atonement cover between the gold cherubim that hover over the Ark of the Covenant. From there I will give you my commands for the people of Israel.’” – Exodus 25:22 (NLT)

2. “’These burnt offerings are to be made each day from generation to generation. Offer them in the Lord’s presence at the Tabernacle entrance; there I will meet with you and speak with you. I will meet the people of Israel there, in the place made holy by my glorious presence.’” – Exodus 29:42-43 (NLT)

3. We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves. – 2 Cor. 4:7 (NLT)

I'm no Superman

Recently, like many others, my wife and I have suffered some significant blows to the security we've too often taken for granted. You know, the “we went to college, pay our taxes, vote in general elections, give to charitable organizations, refrain from kicking small animals, reduce, reuse, recycle, buy American, etc. and are, therefore, entitled, on our own terms, to every good health and unencumbered opportunity imaginable” kind of security. After all, this IS America, right? Maybe such arrogance deserves a good take down now and then. At any rate, for endless reasons, it’s been a rough few months.

For the first thirty years or so of my life, my initial reaction to challenging news was usually one of heightened adrenaline and an overwhelming desire to leap into crisis “go” mode. What can I say? I’m a fixer. Lately, however, my first response has been far less intense. Lest you think this a mark of maturity (growth in trust) or the proverbial “softening with age,” I should also note that, since a rather serious bout with depression in the middle part of this decade, I have come to recognize the difference between peace and protective detachment. Peace is active— perennially animated and adaptive. Emotional lock down, if you will, is a more passive, defensive state— conditioned and mechanical. I fear I may yet fall into the latter category.

On one hand, my heart is pricked by a deep desire to be proactive. I imagine gracefully advancing like an intrepid superhero using flying debris from my enemy’s onslaught as the very weapon that will win me the victory. On the other hand, I am all too aware of how much of a “superhero” I am not and find myself torn between the ever extant, critical analysis of my mind and the noble, sanguine churnings tucked away in my soul. And, truth be told, I’m not convinced that one is altogether better than the other. I’m afraid I need both. Or neither. Or, maybe, I just need to be taken out of myself completely.

But, the humbling, shame of it all rests in the sobering realization that I am still so blessed. When I consider the worst case scenario for everything I currently face, I would still be better off than the overwhelming majority of people on this planet. The thought blinds me, albeit temporarily, to the things I must do to successfully navigate the rough road ahead. What defines success here is so superficial by comparison to what many others face. (e.g. For me, successfully navigating our current economic crisis might mean finding a way to keep my youngest son in private school. For billions of other fathers in the world, financial success means their sons will eat today.) So, how hard do I fight for these things? What makes them superficial? I live in an environment of great excess and abundance when measured against that which is fundamental to human life. And yet, certain aspects of this “abundance” are necessary for survival in an environment where excess is the rule of the day.

In the end, I hope I will do what needs to be done. I am open to divine guidance on this point. But, whatever the path ahead, I feel challenged to approach it with a deeper solemnity, requisite humility, and thankfulness. I am not “entitled” to certain securities. I am simply blessed to enjoy them from time to time. Maybe this attitude is a key to unlocking peace. I think I’ll grip it more tightly than I have in the past.