The Enyarts

It took two of us to situate “Traci” (not her real name) into the back seat, the sweetness of her demeanor masked by the smell of urine emanating from her damp clothes. As we headed east on the 52 I said I had a song to play for them and I turned up the volume. The remake of “All You Need Is Love” by Playing for Change started to electrify the mood. By the time the chorus arrived all eight of us were belting out:

All you need is love

Love is all you need

We had a party to get ready for and the excitement was mounting the closer we got. Messy Sunday, as we affectionately refer to ourselves, was hosting the Ecclesia Collective for a holiday open house. But before that officially began, my wife’s grandmother, 92-years-old and currently living with us, had prepared a feast for all of us. As we drove up the driveway my 3-year-old son was excitedly waiting for us on the front porch, basked in the light of flickering Christmas lights. We piled out of the vehicle easier than we got in, unpacking is always faster and easier than packing. “Fidel” (not his real name either) had a quick reminder before this eclectic bunch descended into the living room, “Remember the rule!” It wasn’t until breakfast the next morning over a cup of coffee at La Jolla Shores that I learned that Fidel had threatened to “kick anyone’s a$s” that got out of line while at our house. He is sort of the self-appointed and unchallenged authority, preoccupying himself with keeping the others on their best behavior.

Once inside, they pealed off two-by-two into the bathrooms to take showers while the others surrounded the dining room table ordained with grandma’s lovingly prepared Chinese dinner extravaganza. In Mandarin she instructed my wife to have us assemble so we could pray for the meal. As we held hands around the table listening to grandma pray I watched tears fall from “Larry’s” eyes as he squeezed her hand. After she finished her eloquent Mandarin prayer he glanced at her and said, “Thank you Mama.” Between cigarette breaks on the patio, the revolving doors into the bathrooms for showers, and dining around the table, other guests began to arrive. The conversation was rich, genuine, and heartfelt. Some gathered around the fireplace, others the dining room table. Every 30 minutes or so “Mark” exclaimed, “Your friends are alright.” He told me later on the patio that everyone he talked to made him feel normal, and special, and treated him like a regular person. For an evening their dignity was validated and they felt normal. Something I think most of us take for granted. When the majority of your time interacting with people you don’t know is spent holding a sign on a median and reaching out for a stray dollar or two at every red light, being made to feel “normal” must feel pretty good indeed. For an evening they were shaking hands with strangers rather than accepting token gestures through a slightly lowered driver’s side window.

Two of my friends apologized for being antisocial by remaining outside on the patio cuddled under a blanket enjoying the view of the lights below. “We never get to do this,” he explained, “just sit somewhere and enjoy such a beautiful view.” I said it was fine, no need to apologize. Toward the end of the evening, as we were getting ready to leave, I woke them up. They’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms. “Can we stay a little while longer?” he asked.

___

To be continued, prayerfully, as all of us wrestle with Jesus’ words, “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’”

Also seen here