Triple digits baby

I have a confession to make. 

Today, after much hesitation, I gave in.  The peer pressure was simply too strong. 

Emery laid it on thick.  Sure he looks like a 6’4”, 300 pound teddy bear.  But sometimes bears bite. 

Over the years, I have taken a lot of slack for my hair.  Personally, I believe it is misunderstood.  Sort of like Picasso; too progressive for its day.  But that’s not my fault.   I can’t help it if I am ahead of my time. 

Emery is one of those slackers; a poor soul who simply does not understand true beauty. 

Now I have nothing against “Peanuts.”  And I wouldn’t even mind it if Emery said I looked like Charlie Brown, Linus, over even Snoopy.  But Peppermint Patty… now that was uncalled for.

So this morning, I took care of it.  Actually Eric did.  (Sorry mom—it was purely a financial decision.) On November 27, 2006 at 10:23 am, I, Kent Miller, received my first haircut since leaving St. Joseph, Michigan.

Now what makes this event even more significant is that today is a day for the history books… or at the very least Wikipedia.  Today is day 100. 

Eric and I have been traveling on our pilgrimage for 2400 hours.  Also known as 144,000 minutes.  It is triple digits baby.  5 times 4 times 4 plus 20.  100 days.  I believe it is a world record.

Anyways, the point is thank you.  The last 100 days has been the most insightful, stretching and exciting time of my life. And I am positive this experience would not have been possible without your support.  God has truly blessed us.  Thank you.

Friends on the Outside

It was a beautiful day.  The sun was out, fall colors on the trees and the air warm and light. Kent and I sat outside eating lunch.  We had been to this place before and the food was pretty good, today we came for the seating.

As we were finishing our meal we noticed several of our “friends” as Kent and I have taken to calling them.  Homeless folks who we have gotten to know through the morning program we participate in at the Church of the Reconciler.  After sitting by a fountain for some time they crossed the street and headed towards us.

Our level of anxiety rose with each step as the group approached.  What should we do?  Clearly we have enough money to afford to eat lunch as we’re sitting outside finishing our meal.  Will they recognize us?  What do we do if they ask us for food?  We’ve already learned that giving out money is not good because it often supports addictions.

Still I don’t have enough money that I can buy food for six individuals.  Nor do I have any leftovers to offer – and if I did which person should get them?  As they drew near Kent and I decided to duck down and pretend to talk to each other.  The hope was that we wouldn’t be noticed and placed in an awkward situation.

As our friends passed by no one appeared to spot us.  We were in the clear, except for our conscious.  Recounting the story to our gracious host later, he agreed that we faced a difficult situation.  He was glad we had been provided with the experience.

God’s guidance in life’s questions, Eric :p

A darn good post

I was going to write a darn good post today.

Seriously, it was going to be the best one yet. I had it all planned out.

But then life happened.

As I sat down to write, I heard a noise outside. It sounded like a man on the porch.

“Do you hear that?” I asked Eric, wide-eyed and nervous.

“Yeah…” Eric glared back. “I think there is a guy standing outside.”

Instinctively, I walked toward the window. Peeking between the blinds I could see a tall, African American man looking at the ground.

I asked Eric what we should do. He didn’t know.

“Should we ask him what he wants?” I asked, fearfully.

“Yeah…” Eric said.

Opening the door, my heart beat like a two-year drumming on a pot: fast and inconsistent.

His head turned to the door’s creek. His eyes looked worn.

“Is the pastor here?” he asked.

“No,” we answered in a unison echo. “He is taking a bath.”

“Oh,” the man responded with disappointment. “Do you think I can get a glass of water?”

Agreeing, I walked to the kitchen.

“So….” Eric paused. “How are you doing?”

“Not so good,” he said boldly. “I heard some bad news today… I learned that I have HIV.”

My jaw dropped. I didn’t know what to say.

“I just came from Princeton Hospital,” he continued, tears streaming down. “I was trying to get my life back together… but it is too late. I chased the wrong things for too long… I still need to tell my mother.”

My mind continued to race. “What should I say!” my brain screamed. It is never too late with Christ.” “Jesus still loves you,” “It is going to be okay.” Nothing sounded good enough.

“I’m sorry,” I said. It was the only response that sounded sincere. “We will be praying for you.”

“I already have been,” Eric echoed.

About this time, RG came into the room. He saw the man sitting there and addressed him as Alex. Hearing his name triggered my memory. Alex had come to RG’s house unannounced earlier in the week. He said he wanted to get his life turned around. He said he wanted to make things right with Christ.

Alex and RG walked to back room. All I could hear was sobs. I no longer felt like writing. Blog postings just didn’t seem that important.

Over the past four years I have done everything I can to prepare for the ministry. I have worked at churches, preached sermons and volunteered countless hours with youth, the homeless and the elderly. But nothing prepares you for tonight. I don’t care if you have been in the ministry for 30 years or 30 seconds. There is never a “right” thing to say.

New Balance Shoes Were Made For Runners

 

“I’m really excited to finally get out and run,” I burst out while trying to double knot my grey New Balance shoes. “I feel like it is a part of me that I have missed.”

“Yeah… I guess.” Eric echoes—his voice sounding firm but delayed in response.

“So how is your sister doing?” I question as we begin–classically too fast.

“My sister?” Eric recalls unsure of the question. “Oh she is fine. She is trying to decide whether to participate in the Miss Watervliet Pageant.”

“Oh wow!” I exclaim as our pace moves to a more realistic rhythm. “I never saw that one coming. I don’t know…” I hesitate. “She just seem like the type…”

Eric’s pace slows as he ducks behind me and appears to ignore my comment.

“I’m not saying she won’t win,” I articulate. “I’m just surprised she wants to.”

“Whhaatt?” Eric gasps. “Why don’t you take off… I’m going to run on my own.”

Aggravated, I replay the conversation in my head. I don’t understand why he is so upset. “He is acting childish,” I think. Frustrate I turn my frustration to the run.

—

While in Nashville Eric felt alone. Although he believed strongly in the mission behind Rocketown he was never able to feel my same passion.

In DC I felt a familiar pain. I wanted so badly to be enthusiastic about the IFC but I simply could not. Interfaith work was not where my heart was.

—

Pumping my arms, I eye the finish line. Eric is out of sight and I feel proud. Minutes later, Eric comes tromping in. His face is red and his breaths are long.

“Are you okay?” I ask sincerely–unsure of his health.

“Yeeahihh…” he gasps between huffs. “I’m just tired.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you on the run.” I say now feeling bad. He is in enough pain. “I wasn’t trying to say anything negative about your sister.”

“What?” Eric questions. “Oh, it’s fine. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

“But you sounded so upset?” I ask. “You didn’t want to run by me anymore.”

“I’m just not used to talking and running.” Eric shrugs. “It is kind of difficult.”

At that moment I realized we were different–Eric tried to run and I was a runner.

—

While in Nashville I felt alive. Working with kids is a spiritual gift God has blessed me with. It makes me feel complete.

Eric felt the same love with IFC. It is not a choice he made but rather a calling he has answered. Interfaith work is as much apart of him as youth ministry is apart of me.

—

Eric and I still go running but we no longer run together. We’ve decided to take different paths. He runs at his pace and I run at mine.

-Kent-

Times are Changing

Don’t be scared. Right now we’re in inner-city Birmingham. By inner-city I mean the apartment complex down the street is known for gangbangers and drug dealers. You don’t live there unless you don’t have other options.

We’re living with a recent seminary graduate who is trying to start a new church. I respect him a lot. He has often wondered why the Church wasn’t doing what Jesus talked about.

This location is different – every location has been. Our work here will be to serve those who are homeless. We’ve been told that amounts to 3-4,000 people in a city of 250,000. The Church of the Reconciler started twelve years ago to be a middle class interracial congregation. It opened its doors to everyone. Homeless folks walked through.

While we’re here we’ll be worshiping, tutoring, feeding folks, and sitting in recovery groups. There might be a prison stop and a night in a shelter along the way. This is radical for two guys from rural Michigan. At the same time it is what we believe Jesus called the Church to. May we all learn to be more radical and faithful.

Amen & Amen, Eric