Oh, Snap

A short discussion on need

Do you remember the first time you confronted deep need?

I was an exchange student in Moscow as a junior in high school, around 1997.

I grew up in a semi-rural county in Colorado, spent most of my days riding my bike and exploring the mountains. I lived in a four bedroom house with two parents and three siblings and a dog that once attacked the neighbor’s poodle. I had seen unhoused people in downtown Denver on the handful of occasions my family made the trek there for a play or concert, but my concept of true need was narrow. Mostly I thought about horses.

Photo by - Kenny on Unsplash

But, my first day in Moscow, chasing after my host family, I saw a man at the entrance to the metro tied to a skateboard, a below-the-knee amputee on both legs. He was playing the violin, soulful and beautiful, with his cap turned up on the ground to catch coins. People were rushing past him on all sides, but he continued to play, and I stopped up short. I couldn’t move. I don’t know if it was seeing someone who used his hands and a skateboard to get around or hearing him play the violin or watching the people rush past him like he was a flock of pigeons, but our eyes met and I reached into my bag and put all my rubles into his hat.

I have never forgotten that man. I have never forgotten his eyes or the way his fingers hovered expertly across the frets. And I haven’t forgotten my distinctly immature feeling that I would never be in a position like him.

Fast forward to 2006, I was 27 and pregnant with my first — a boy!

I worked part-time in the Anthropology department at Case Western Reserve University (spending a good chunk of those hours in the bathroom) and my husband at the time was in dental school. We were struggling. I was trying to finish up my thesis for my MA from a distance, balance a difficult pregnancy, and support the dentistry endeavor. Our meager savings had been depleted by school and the impending birth had us elated but also terrified. It wasn’t clear how we were going to manage the real-life-ness of it all.

Is this situation really like the man at the metro? No, it isn’t. But is it a story about a person without financial resources who didn’t know what to do? Yes, it is.

I decided to apply for SNAP and Medicaid, spending countless hours tunneling through mazes of paperwork, endless phone calls, and uncomfortable appointments to get approved. It was not something I ever planned to do, and I felt deeply conflicted about it, but in the end, we needed the help and didn’t really have any other options.

When I think back to those few years we had government aid, it’s with deep gratitude and with a profound understanding of what I owe back to my own community.

I later returned to Russia in 2001 as a missionary for a year and half and had even more experiences seeing need so deep I could barely breathe. And I had to watch a government that fundamentally didn’t seem to believe in helping anyone.

The seeds of hope are already in the ground.

— Philippe Lazaro

So, you put all of this together, and I’m not sure how to process what’s currently happening with welfare benefits in my country.

I don’t pretend to know all the ins and outs and moneys and economies and all that. I will be the first to raise my hand and admit I’m no expert.

But I am a Christian. And the desire to really be a disciple of Christ is at the core of every decision I make. I hope that conviction is obvious to those around me.

But this decision to remove food aid and medical support seems clearly un-Christian to me. I know there are people who would fight me on that, but I’m intensely non-confrontational, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

I just think Goodness calls us to be good.

And I’m so pleased to know that in this confusing world and bizarre political climate, there are other people who believe in doing good.

I had a chance to talk with Philippe Lazaro from Plant with Purpose this week. And a few things he said really stuck with me. He said, the seeds of hope are already in the ground. And later, he reminded me that holiness arrives at a time that feels dark or forgotten or busy, in quiet spots that are easy to overlook.

So how can we water the seeds of hope that are already planted?

How do we turn a desert into a garden of abundant generosity?

How do we find the holiness that is already here?