The wrong crowd

I’ve told you before how I always wanted to be popular. And how sometimes I take steps outside of my safe zone to do something I might not have considered in early years of my life.

And I’m seeing how these two things come together in my life and create circumstances I couldn’t manufacture.

All that to say, I’m constantly finding myself in the wrong crowd these days.

I used to think there was a right crowd for me, and if I’m honest, that crowd looks mostly like me. Skin color, stage of life, socioeconomic position. I have a desperate need to be “in” and liked and included combined with a serious case of introversion and hermit-like tendencies that keep me in my house a lot. Sometimes this results in feeling left out.

I know I could do the inviting but there’s this fear of rejection and the hurdle of how emotionally draining it is for me to work up the nerve to ask someone to do something and then recover if they say “no.” I’m the worst at being the one to organize a group or plan a coffee date or play date or party. These are skills I don’t cultivate.

This could be a sad story of how alone I feel or a pity party or a diatribe about the lack of community I see in our individualistic world. It could be, but it’s not.

What I want you to know is that sometimes you find your fit in a crowd and sometimes the crowd finds you. And sometimes the crowd will be the one you wouldn’t have imagined and didn’t think you needed.

It’s no secret that I spend Tuesdays with refugees. And occasionally other days. I am often the only Caucasian in the room. Definitely the minority. And I love every minute of it, even when I’m feeling useless because the only language I speak is English.

But then a father will have a question like “How much to feed a family of 6 here?” and I will sit and give the only answer I know: “It depends. On where you shop. On what is in season.” We work it out as best we can.

I sit in this room and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.

Or we visit a family at home and it’s chaos and broken English and translation. It’s sitting in silence staring at each other. It’s selfies with the kids and hugs. It’s an invitation to maybe go back to Africa someday. It’s friendship forged over hot sauce. 

And three hours later, it’s time to go but also not enough time.

—

At our house, there are kids from the neighborhood who stop by to play with our kids. They barrel onto the porch any hour between after school and bedtime with a “Hello!” and my kids race to the door to either say they’ll be right out or that they can’t play tonight. These kids wander through my kitchen and eat tomatoes from the garden right off the counter. They play Barbies and dress up. Their English is limited and improving so sometimes the young boy will speak to me in Spanish and I will try to answer him.

“Hola,” he says. “Como estas?”

“Muy bien,” I reply, and he smiles.

Later, I will remember other Spanish phrases I know. My brain is not trained for languages that aren’t English.

These kids live in the apartments nearby. Their parents don’t speak English. We are not arranging playdates. This is not the middle-class suburban experience I envisioned when I became a parent. (We are not quite middle class, anyway, I don’t think.)

My relationships with neighbors and school moms and refugees are messy and awkward and unconventional. My next coffee date will be with a mom who grew up in Jordan. I can’t wait.

In all honesty, these are not the kinds of relationships I would have sought if I had my way. But they are the ones that are finding me. And with their arrival, I’m finding a place to belong in what feels like the wrong crowd. (And it’s only “wrong” in light of my own pride and prejudice.)

But when I read about the life of Jesus in the Gospels, I find him constantly hanging out with the “wrong” crowd. He was never where people thought he should be, and even when he was, the “wrong people” found him.

And the beauty of his way is that everyone was “in.” He could hang out at the temple and teach, or sit by a well and converse with a woman about her way of life. He walked with fishermen, dined with a tax collector, healed and touched people no one else noticed.

I want to be around the kind of people Jesus was around.

But sometimes I’m still scared.

The other day Phil and I were walking downtown toward the market, and a man on a bench called out to us, “Hi, how you doing?” I wanted to pass him by because I knew he was going to ask for money, but he continued the conversation before we were too far away.

“Can you help me get some food? I just want a 2 for $2.50 at McDonald’s.” It was right down the street, a block away. “I don’t want no drugs or anything, just some food.”

I had cash in my purse, which isn’t always the case, so I pulled out $2 because I thought that was all I had, and I gave it to him.

“Sister, can you spare $3?”

I found another dollar and handed it over.

“Thank you,” he said. Then he went on to say that he knew we were brothers and sisters in the Lord. I don’t know if this is true or how he knew that, but it’s what he said. I asked his name and he told me, and I shook his hand. It wasn’t until I was close enough to touch him that I noticed the sores on his body. By then, it was already too late, and I touched him and told him my name and we all went about our business.

Maybe you think it’s naive or unwise to give someone money. I don’t blame you. I know nothing about buying drugs or how much that would even cost, and I know that people take advantage of people every day. But I could not in good conscience walk past a person asking for food while on my way to buy food for a dinner party. I would have hated myself the rest of the day.

Not only that, I want to be the kind of person who sees other people, no matter who they are.

Jonathan, that was his name, is a real-life, breathing human being. I know his name now, which means I can use it the next time I see him, and I’m sure to see him again as much as we hang out downtown. (But only if I look.) I honestly don’t care what he does with the money. I mean, I care because I want health and wholeness for people, but I won’t be offended if he didn’t use the money for what he said he would. I’ll let God handle that.

I tell you that story, not to brag because honestly there’s nothing to brag about. I only want to say that in that moment, I felt like I was right where I needed to be. I was more at home with the beggar on the street than in the crowded market. I am more at home in the home of a refugee family than I even am at church sometimes. I am more at home in the basement of the church with the newly arrived refugees than I am at a Bible study or prayer group.

I hope that doesn’t offend. I’m not saying your way must be the same as mine. There is nothing wrong with these other places, but those aren’t the places that make me feel alive. Not anymore.

I’m at home with the wrong crowd and it feels so right.