Community

What is “community”?  Or rather, where’s the line between “our community” and “the community”?  And when are we really involved?

I don’t quite know when it happened, but I realized that when I visit or learn about a new church, the first thing I look for is if they’re involved in their community.  Maybe it’s the Peace Corps in me; maybe it’s because my current church is so good at it.

Nearly every church I’ve come across claims to be community-involved.  Yet, most of them seem to do “community” without ever having to come into contact with people beyond the church community, existing or potential.

A couple weeks ago, I read through pamphlets for a church a friend had visited.  The pamphlets talked heavily about community work.  All the examples listed were intra-church programs, singles group events, married couples bible study, youth group, etc. 

I visited a church out-of-town this past weekend.   The focus of the whole service was community work (related to Jesus’ “I’ll make you a fisher of men” phrase).   The pastor mentioned a lot of programs, both within his own congregation and as part of the greater Methodist Church: support for missionaries, a school supply drive to help UMCOR’s efforts in Oklahoma, a knitting group that met after service once a month  to make blankets for those in need.

Other things I’ve seen touted as community work include having Bible study or small group meetings at pubs and coffee shops.  The idea is that these locations make religion more accessible to people who are scared of the “church” part.

But all these things, valuable as they are, none of them strike me as community involvement.  They focus on those already part of or interested in being part of the church community.  They insulate church members from anyone on the receiving end of the church’s work.  There’s community, but there’s no involvement.

The church I currently attend does these types of programs - women’s group, food drives, public small group meetings – but it’s also involved in community beyond.  Not just beyond the church walls, but beyond the “potentially interested in church.” 

There’s a community garden in Richmond where members help out sometimes.  Groups from the church regularly serve lunch and dinner at a local homeless shelter/soup kitchen.  And of course there’s my favorite, knitting every week.  Sitting next to someone, knitting together, becoming friends is so, so different than knitting a sweater or a blanket elsewhere and sending it to the shelter. 

There may even be more programs that aren’t on my radar.  What I like most about these activities is that they aren’t fishing for new members.  They aren’t asking people to come to church or talk about God, but they’re still feeding people’s souls.  They’re real and authentic.  People.  People simply going out there and showing God’s love through simple, everyday things.  And that’s powerful.

My Tattoo

It’s pretty much always completely out in the open.  Even in the middle of a Wisconsin winter, it’s on one of those patches of skin that very likely may peek through all the layers of outer gear.  Yet, it’s very rarely noticed.  A young boy in Nigeria noticed.  My mother eventually noticed, although she thought I’d just drawn on myself with marker.  A few other people here and there have said something, but generally it’s more of a “do you have any tattoos?”  “Just this one.”  “Oh, I hadn’t even noticed that.”

It is very small.  It is also very important to me.  I got it in Zambia.  A friend of mine did it with a sewing needle and calligraphy ink.  She did a lot of them for a lot of volunteers.  All the same, or relatively the same, depending on how drunk she was when she did them.

Although I was living in Southern Province, at the time we were considered part of Central Province for Peace Corps org-structure purposes.  A group of Central Province volunteers had liked how the abbreviation for Central Province Peace Corps, CP PC, was reminiscent of the band name AC DC.  They designated the lightening bolt as Central Province’s symbol and it stuck.  It was on the Province t-shirts, carved into the Peace Corps house’s gate, painted on all sorts of things, and it was the tattoo.  Except for the people who got theirs when she was drunk; they got tadpoles.

After trying to find pictures of it, I get why people don’t usually see it.  I went through years and years of photos and found one where it’s visible.

 

Guardrail, 10. Alfred, 0.

“Here, I’ll test it for you, ok?”  I leaned the guardrail against the wall.   My little sister, Alfred, and I were the kinds of kids who turned everything into a jungle gym, even our grandfather.  Our bunk beds  made a much better jungle gym without that pesky safety guardrail on the top bunk.

--  The beds had been my father’s growing up and so were quite sturdy.  The guardrail was a long piece of solid wood with thick grooves for sliding onto the head- and footboards. 

  When Alfred and I wanted to play on the bunk beds, I’d crawl up onto the top bunk or stand on the side-rail of the bottom bunk and carefully, and slowly, lift the heavy guardrail off the bed.  It was unwieldy and difficult to move, being so heavy and long.  I’d prop it against the bedroom wall, where it would lean, towering over us, twice the height of Alfred.

And then it would fall on Alfred.  No matter how carefully I leaned it.  Now matter the angle I put it at.  No matter what, it would topple over onto Alfred the minute she stepped near it.  I’d place  it on the wall and walk back and forth in front of it, testing it, seeing if any floor boards would creak and knock it off balance.  I’d stand in front of and jump up and down.  I’d go across the room and run past the guardrail.  It would stand still, perfectly still against the bright yellow wall.  --

With trepidation, Alfred took one step, two steps, nearing the guardrail.  She just had to pass it to get to the bunk beds.  Three steps.  Almost directly in front of it.  Four ste—CRASH!  The guardrail came tumbling down on her.  Poor Alfred; she couldn’t win.

My friend, Crystal, on the bunk beds without the guardrail.

Munchkinhead on the bunk beds with the guardrail up.

 

 

The only sliver of wall where I could lean the guardrail.  Facing this spot, the bunk beds are at 8 o’clock.

 

 

Picture up top: Alfred standing where the guardrail would fall, a little older than when it would fall on her.

Winner Take All – Book Review

The Chinese are everywhere.  That’s one take away from Dambisa Moyo’s Winner Take All: China’s Race for Resources and What It Means for the World, but it’s not the only one.  In this fairly short but very extensive look at China’s investments, purchases and loans around the world, Moyo explores the whys, wheres and hows of China’s past and future development.

The big takeaway is that China is the Little Red Hen, working steadily and surely while the rest of the world is the other barn animals off playing.  China, and only China, is preparing for the future.  China is purchasing, excavating and storing resources it will need to continue developing, resources that are limited and for which the world will face shortages in the future.

Most surprising to me, China isn’t only working out deals with other developing countries, but also with countries that like to consider themselves world powers.  I knew about many of China’s dealings with Zambia, and I’d heard some rumblings of China’s loans to the US.  But, I had no idea how extensive China's network is.  I didn’t know, for example, that China attempted to buy the port of Long Beach or that it has 25 year deals with Eastern European countries for oil supplies.

China has been accused of neo-colonialism.  But, as Moyo points out, China's activities may have some similarities to past colonial powers’ activities, but China’s approach is very different.  China is building partners and working to create win-win situations where both China and the host country get something they need.  This builds good will, strong good will that is already taking hold.  Many developing countries already view China far more favorably than traditional donor countries like the US.

Moyo’s work is well-researched and her premises and conclusions well-backed by her extensive economic background.  There are a few spots in the book where the economic language and ideas get pretty heavy and require a good working knowledge of econ.  However, even for those who do not have such a background, this book is worth a read.  Most of it is very accessible and Moyo does a good job explaining some of the complex issues.  And the subject matter is highly important.

This is one of those books I hope our leaders read.  I recommend it for you, too.

Fun with Munchkinhead Day 9

No fun without Munchkinhead.  Munchkinhead left today.  In fact, as I’m typing this, she should be getting off her plane in Milwaukee.

Before she left, we squeezed in one last trip to the plaza.  We got matching shoes.  Munchkinhead had to repack to fit the shoes in, but she did it.  She only bought 3 pairs of shoes on the trip.  Not bad for such a long visit.

Munchkinhead trying on shoes.
The one on her right foot are the ones we got.

Munchkinhead also repotted my plant for me.  It’s a small yellow rose plant that Mzzzzz Jones got for me about two  years to cheer me up when I was sad.  It’s badly needed repotting, but I’m terrible at that sort of stuff.  Munchkinhead, on the other hand, is very good with plants. 

We picked up a slightly larger and very nice pot at Ross the other day.  It even matches my kitchen curtains!  We got a small bag of potting soil from the local hardware store.  Munchkinhead laid some newspaper out on the kitchen floor and went to work.  My plant looks happier already.