In The Land of Dumped Couches
If you came to my neighborhood, it wouldn’t take you long to see one of the many overused loveseats gone awry. You will find them perched on their heads, covered in smears of mud acquired on the team effort trip from door to dumpster, and seeping stuffing from every strange place. Every corner has one and I often find myself admiring the vintage beauties they once were prior to their present practicality. Welcome to Clarkston. The dumpster dotted land I call home.
I never wanted to be here… in Atlanta, Georgia I mean. I always said it was the last city I’d move to, devoid of mountains and all things life-giving for a nature heart. I never wanted to curl up with roaches, ambulance sirens, and the sinking sense of solitude that comes with leaving family behind as I slide the 2x4 through the brackets on my door frame. Maintenance requests ignored, staff delivered neighborly complaints of “my unattended children” running in the hallways causing a ruckus. The worst curse words hurled my direction as a primary language…from kids as young as four. Stolen bicycle seats, late night internet stake outs at the neighbor’s parking space to check e mail, line dried clothes souring for the third time in this constantly changing weather. The normalcy of “color flying” gang reports…from my cell phone… and distant gunshots heard over dinner with friends. Mold, sinus infections, and allergies. Heat, so much heat.
Hmm… and yet.
If that’s all it were, and to be honest some days it has felt that way, it would be downright redonculous for me to leave those lush leaves behind for these cockroaches, crunchy rented carpets, and concrete.
I have been searching for a while now for that final sentence that summarizes the suffering into one beautiful notion of purpose. It has come slowly these days but I am finally starting to write again, and it’s making itself known through the abiding times with my sweet savior who “remains faithful because He cannot deny who He is,” 2 Timothy 2:13.
The odd thing about those couches is that there not too different from the people here… worn thin and barely balancing, set aside with their inner parts coming out in strange ways, They are marked with the journey from their doors to these dumpsters, and for some, the pressure has been too much. A spirit of death has gripped Clarkston recently with many self- imposed deaths. Abuse is common and confessions come my way at the late night hours and the bright ones. It is a place in need of healing… in need of someone to see its potential, its original beauty, to pick it up from it’s dumped form, head to the ground, and repurpose it. Jesus.
This week I held a “secret church”night on my balcony for what was supposed to be four little girls from Burma, Sudan, and Ethiopia. It, of course, became 7. They are excellent negotiators, never, never underestimate them. ( : So, at work teaching till’ 5:00, quick gym class, leave early to make it back to anxious faces there at the door the same time as me… sweaty hugs and joyful exclamations. They were ready. We set up the hot chocolate in a coffee pot on the porch and they go to work layering blankets and Ms. Jenna’s dirty laundry basket towels all across the railing so no one on the playground will see us. We become more acquainted with the process of making hot chocolate with a packet and everyone passes the spoon and takes their turn sharing whatever they’d like. It’s Muslims, Christians, and Jesus at the party. I explain persecution and the way others must follow Jesus in other countries as they have “birthday parties” to protect their times of worship from the government’s eyes. We try to talk quietly as they do… we failed. ( :
I open the floor for the questions I have asked them to bring about God, any and all, and it unfolds into the beautiful time of truth-telling and exposure of misunderstandings of who He is. I ask, “Can I ask you a question about Jesus now?” The contagiously genuine Burmese Muslim responds, “Ya-ah…That’s why we’re here!” I am speechless. We read from the word and talk about it… my temple will be called a house of prayer… and we practice that too. Too many pictures make the girls a little rowdy and I have to lay down the law of respect. We finish early and everyone washes dishes, vacuums the carpet, and begs not to go home. I pray it is only the beginning. Before they’re even gone, another one is calling to me from below the balcony… one who currently lives in abuse and comes to my door for refuge and takes me to hers for help, mediation, and support. The night is over and I go get a movie to start the rest part of the weekend. Friday’s aren’t conventional and I would never change that. I would probably add a few others to the story and I pray God will bring the right roommate who will stand in the gap with me for these kids.
It is time for bed though my heart would sit here for hours just to write to you again. It is eleven and I have to teach again in the morning. Last night was one of the wee hours due to the aforementioned family’s presence in my apartment as I was the door she came to crying. I pray God will provide for my needs through the full-time support of others as the balance of 40+ hours of teaching responsibilities that often come home with me after staying late are met with the needs of the place I came to bring the Kingdom to. And, they just aren’t balancing out. This is my call and this is the obedience I choose.
On a sweet note, I am now a member of a trilingual refugee church plant and the partnership has been powerful. Every Sunday the knocks of way-too-early knuckles announce it is time to go to church. I am running out of room to stuff them in my car. This week 6 walked in with me, last week it was 8. We sort of supply the children’s church. All but one are Hindu. This Sunday I took them home and was invited in by the Christian aunt to eat. There I was, sitting across from the abusive, addicted, Hindu father of one of the boys I take with me while spitting out fragments of beef and chicken bone in my rice and Daal. And I think to myself, God you are working in this, you are faithful even when my time is small. We are all being connected.
Please feel free to write to me. I LOVE to hear from you even though my internet only happens in others parking spaces, coffee shops, or work. Thank you for your patience.
I thank God He has me where He has me even though, lately, I have been struggling with working full-time and living in ministry full-time. I am seeking as I know the long-term call is overseas… but we can only live out today, today. So, here I am with the unreached in the field of preparation. I covet your prayers and feel the work you put into them. I ask that if you feel led to continue, you would focus them on what God wants to do here and for my wisdom and freedom to be a part of that. Thank you. You are family.
Love,
Jenna in Clarkston
Mail me!:
Jenna Givens
822 N. Indian Creek Dr. #E19
Clarkston, GA 30021
