possessions

My next-door neighbors the Sanfords hosted another garage sale last weekend.

This is a routine occurrence. Frieda Sanford lives off some small, monthly disability pay. So to make ends meet she holds garage sales about every 2 to 3 weeks.

She really is an entrepreneur from the poverty culture. She knows how and where to find really good deals on used junk and re-sell it for profit.

When we first moved in about 4 years ago, Frieda’s youngest son The Tiger asked why we never had garage sales, like having them was a normal part of life.

I don’t know. I guess we use everything we have. Or the things we have aren’t worth selling. Or perhaps I love my stuff too much.

The real lesson here is about possession: the Sanfords do not hold on to anything longer than they need it. Ever.

It works like this: they pick-up some free or cheap junk somewhere, use it for a month or so, then sell it for profit. Or sometimes give it to someone else in need. My favorite example is the time they found a practically brand-new above-ground swimming pool. It sells at Wal-Mart for $250. The Sanford’s found it at a garage sale for $30, set it up in their back yard, invited the neighbors over to swim for a few months, then sold it for $50 at the next garage sale.

Over the last four years the Sanford’s have taught me much about my unhealthy (and ungodly) nature to latch onto and hoard material possessions.

They are true transfer agents. Everything under their roof is always “for sale” or to be given away.

As a secret agent, I’m often asked by Christians how I go about “discipling” people. “I don’t”, is my usual answer. “People disciple me”.

Without being seminarians, having theological degrees, or even high school diplomas, the Sanfords have stumbled upon what I consider to be the true meaning or direction of Jesus’ words, “sell all you have and give to the poor”.

Everything is for sale or to be given. Always.

various sunday reports

Testimony #029...

Agent Wife and I thought there was a funny water-running noise from the bathroom sink. To inspect, I had to crawl through a kitchen cabinet and remove a panel I installed 3 years ago after a different plumbing ordeal.

Turns out our bathroom sink drain pipe was leaking at a connection. It didn't look like rocket science to repair. But I'm not an expert butt crack plumber. So I wanted to call the jack-of-all-trades. But I didn't because I knew he'd be in the middle of home church.

Low and behold, Jack ends up calling me. Begging me to let him come over so he can skip church. Come on over. We'll have church in my kitchen cabinet.

We get something fixed for $7 of parts as opposed to a $75 plumber visit. I love it. Thank you CEO.

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Tiger Tales...

Agent Wife and I wanted to grill burgers tonight. At the last minute we tried inviting 3 or 4 different friends, none of whom could come. So we took the advice of Jesus and invited the poor to our banquet.

But only The Tiger showed up.

It seems like years since I've hung out with The Tiger. He's almost 18 now. He quit school two years ago and works as much as he can.

He's still in that weird transitional phase of leaving kid-like ways behind and becoming a man.

Sitting at our table he asked a weird out-of-the-blue question: how long have Agent Wife and I been together?

He's not the first young person from the poverty culture to ask that. I think when a) you're married and b) you're married for more than a couple of years that the kids take notice. It's foreign to them.

The Tiger's mom, Frieda Sanford, has been with Manuel for at least 5 years. That's the longest she's been with anyone during The Tiger's lifetime.

But I think this "togetherness" subject is on his mind because his older sister Jessie recently moved back in. She broke up with hr boyfriend because he was cheating. But a few days later the boyfriend moved in with Jessie at Frieda and The Tiger's house (next door to us).

I've known The Tiger since he was 10 at the old izzy group food pantry days.

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Before my shower tonight I discover that half of my body has broken out in some bizarre pink-ish rash that mildly itches. This has never happened to me.

I wonder of it has something to do with crawling under the cabinet
...

subverting the empire

This subject has been on my mind most of my life, yet I didn't know what it was or what to call it.

Claiborne's book was influential in my life as it gave simple definitions and action oriented examples for these weird life-long thoughts.

So did Colossians Remixed, that Agent X shared with me. But that book was too wordy for me. Kind of like a doctoral version of the Claiborne book.

And I still don't have any commentary on undermining the empire. Yet.

I think I can live it easier than I can explain it.

So I'll post a snip of some other guy's words on the subject, along with this link of links for his series on subversion:

...from Josh Brown:

"They say nice big gas guzzlers are the way to go. So we get rid of a car, ride a bike, carpool, and walk. They say we should be left to ourselves when we pull into our suburban home. So we sit on our front porches with our garage doors open. They say we should buy what we want when we want it. So we cut up our credit cards and give micro-loans to videographers in Ghana and a medical clinic in Kenya. They say having a multi-million dollar building campaign and excessive utility bills is worth the 3 hour event on Sunday mornings. So we break bread with our friends 7 days a week and give our tithe away. They say the truest indication of beauty comes from the commercials, magazines and what you wear. So we say a child’s way of life is more important than any lotion, t-shirt, or luxury that a child can provide us. They say you should care only about yourself and do whatever it takes to get ahead. So we live together with other couples as family sharing expenses and resources. They say the only way to protect ourselves, ensure security, and live peacefully is by way of state of the art weaponry directed at our enemies. So we usher in peace by way of the cross for our enemies.

Undermining is a radical posture and extremely polarizing. It is a dangerous thing to suggest that there is another way to live. So much that it can get you killed by the empire.

So Jesus comes and talks to women. He touches them and they touch him. The host culture did not allow that. But he didn’t care. He was too busy undermining the cultural role of men and women.

So Jesus comes and washes the feet of his friends. The host culture did not understand this “lowering” of one’s self for the sake of others. But he didn’t care. He was too busy undermining individualism and pride.

So Jesus comes riding a donkey. A farcical and mischievous thing for someone claiming to be a king to do. But he didn’t care. He was to too busy undermining Caesar and Herod and every other political leader who ruled from position and not service.

Speaking of the empire Walter Wink writes, “The Domination System tenuously maintains the upper hand; shattering its hold at any single point threatens its stability all along the line.”

That’s why people dismiss us. That’s why people dismiss half of what Jesus taught. It threatens stability. It’s too true and too revolutionary to be safe."

Hope that makes sense.

testimony #027 & #028

In a determined attempt to not forget all of the small and seemingly trivial things of our weird lives, here are some recent testimonies that I’m trying to catch up on:

A) Yesterday I receive a letter from my mortgage company. They performed some new math on my monthly payment. Not only is my monthly payment going to be about $20 less each month, but they sent a check for $81 due to an escrow account abundance. Thank you CEO. The very bill I struggled paying for last month is now giving back to me. Weird.

We do not seem to have any $81 needs in our life at this time. I’m praying what this is meant for.

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B) (I glossed over this last month, but recently saw some significance)

Last month I received an electric bill that totaled $8. I knew this was a mistake since our bill is usually in the $50-$60 range this time of year.

The previous month I never received a bill in the mail. So I looked up the account online, saw that $51 was due, and paid online via debit card.

I don’t like online transactions. I’m convinced some hacker somewhere can rob me blind.

So...my $8 bill shows that the total for this month was really $59, but that I had paid $51 online...TWICE. So now, only $8 was due.

Well, I panicked. There’s no way I could have been operating all month with an additional $51 less from my account. We were bare to the bone and would have overdrawn more than once.

I went to the bank to see if the electric company really took $51 from me twice.

Nope. Only once. But their bill says twice.

The electric company screwed up...in my favor.

Since the universe operates on a “reap what you sow” principle, I figured I better call and straighten this out since it could come back and bite me in the butt. Had this mistake gone against me instead of for me, you bet I’d be harassing them and taking no prisoners. So I better “fess up” and show them their mistake.

After 29 minutes of phone tree mania, I finally reached a human. The electric company lady had a confused tone in her voice as I explained their mistake. Like maybe she was thinking, “You dumb-ass. Why are you calling? Take the money and run!”

So she explains that according to their records, I paid twice and there was nothing she could do to change that. She would leave a note on my account saying I called, but that’s it.

At the end of the month, we had just enough money to pay for all of our needs and not a penny more. Had that electric bill been $59 instead of $8, we wouldn’t have made it.

Thank you CEO.

the garden files (reloaded)

The gardening season has showed up on my doorstep crying in a bassinet. I embrace it, although deep down I feel ill prepared. Whatever that means.

All year I dream of the next gardening season. Even at the first sign of green sprouts from the earth's pores, I'm mentally plotting and scheming three chess moves ahead:

"Next year I'll till in...SAND and MANURE."

"My garden is baked by the sun over 90% of the day...I'll construct some sun-blocking machine with fabric and tent poles and my neighbor's tree, giving at least 50% shade"

Last year's dismal failure of a gardening year sort of took the wind out of my sails. I was totally excited about last season, until the drought burned it up and made my garden a waste of time and water.

Then, as part of an inheritance package from Obi-Wan, I received his killer tiller. It was 35 years old, 5 HP Briggs & Stratton, and could reconstruct mountains.

Then a month ago it died. The motor quit and the pull rope can no longer crank. That usually means a thrown rod or bent piston.

That usually means buy a new damn tiller.

I've never been so let down. It's now added to the ever growing pile of yard machines of mine that no longer work.

"Change" is the theme this year. So is "I don't give a crap".

If stuff grows, it grows.

No longer am I doing the white-boy, internet research way of gardening via cardboard & mulch. I'm following the advice of Obi-Wan and bra-less feminists of the 70's: go natural. It will be much more work weeding, but that will give me an excuse to be in the garden daily.

And on this note, the garden files of 2007 begin. Maybe the CEO will communicate through it again.

randoms: monday april 9, 2006

Obi-Wan:

My dear friend and mentor Obi-Wan was moved from the hospital to the rehab center about a week and a half ago. The rehab center is the Taj Mahal of hospital stays. Complete with nice comfy spacious rooms, flat screen TVs and what seems like a nurse to patient ratio of 19:1. He's well cared for.

And he's actually getting rehab'ed as opposed to doped up with IV's and lying in a daily daze watching Oprah.

Obi-Wan can do more things for himself now than I remember him doing a few months ago. All with only one leg now. Yay rehab center folks.

And rumor has it that he should come home soon. Possibly this week. Just in time for his upcoming 90th birthday.

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Son and Dad Tree Service Inc:

I've been off since Thursday due to The Son's Easter travels and cold snowy wet weather in the fair mother city. Perhaps I'll work some tomorrow afternoon.

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Uncle George:

It is no secret that I am a huge fan/admirer of George Muller (1805-1898). He lived only by prayer and faith in the CEO. Thus he told the CEO only (and no man or church group) of his needs and desires. The CEO delivered always. Through his lifetime (and well beyond) 120,000 orphans were housed, schooled, and raised on his prayers and faith alone.

I am in the midst of reading everything I can get my hands on about him. Most of which says the same as all books draw of his left behind journals and other eye witness sources.

Currently, I am reading his recently reprinted 700 page autobiography, that I started back in November (mentioned here). I couldn't finish it before our holiday travels. My alumnus' library, who's student workers are notorious for re-shelving books in the wrong place, lost it. I recently found it 100 Dewey Decimals away.

This book is the detailed daily activities of Muller as opposed to the numerous digest briefs published.

The orphan work started in 1835 and are still in existence today. It's reassuring to know that Muller went through the same faith struggles that I endure.

He was not superman.

1838-1945 were the greatest years of trials. Many of the details of his staff trying to pay rent on the orphan houses are kin to my own ordeals with the mortgage in recent months. And as I am still discovering, the CEO always delivers to those who ask. Nice to read of similar trials in others from 170 years ago.

On these reports, George Muller will continued to be affectionately referred to as Uncle George.

my $.02

In light of my wife’s recent report, as well as Organic Guy’s and Jack’s, here’s my input.

On living “outside the box”, outside of the cage, and losing a sense of weirdness...

At first, I didn’t like this outside-the-box life (that is...assuming we really are outside). It was thrust upon me due to circumstances beyond my control.

But instead of fighting it and trying to make my own destiny happen, I slowly went with the flow of sorts. Like the CEO was allowing me to slowly enter this hot-tub of weirdness one toe at a time, as opposed to diving in. I think I’m liking it more all the time.

It would be far easier to just have a career, save up for the future, join the local church, play "team", suck ass, and look forward to retirement.

But I would be miserable. Ever since childhood, none of those things have ever turned me on.

That would be a boring-ass life.

pruning boy #005: discovery

I've been at this pruning gig for over a month now. I like it OK. I'm the bitch: the hourly waged gofer guy who's micro-managed at everything I do. And I'm OK with that.

My life the last four years has been all about pruning. Now I am a professional pruner. There's a lot of lessons in that.

But today while sawing up a big pecan limb, I finally realized who I work for.

The Son and The Dad are the real life inspirations for Homer and Grampa Simpson.

The Son's a great guy. He's not as dumb as Homer, but his "literalist" sense of humor annoys me enough that he might as well be Homer in some respects. (me, handing blue key chain to The Son: "here's your blue key". The Son: "It's blue? I thought it was silver"). God, help me.

The Dad is almost an exact replica of Grampa. He sounds exactly like him.

Often when The Dad & I are sitting waiting in the truck or waiting for The Son to settle up with a customer, The Dad will make a joke about how this sitting part is "the toughest work of the job" or something along those lines. It was funny once. But every two minutes?!?

Homer, Grampa, and Agent B. We're the tree pruning trio of the fair mother city.

pruning boy #004: a day in the life

6:15a – awake

6:16a – coffee, feed dog, etc.

6:30-7:30a – communications with the CEO and the agent network via internet.

7:30a – breakfast, kids, dress, stuff

8:57a – Arrive at the boss’s house (The Son). Weed-eat his and The Dad’s property while The Son checks on a potential future job.

9:35a – Assume my migrant worker seating position in the back of the van with various chainsaws, tools, and butt-loads of gasoline and other toxic materials that aren’t meant to be inhaled for long periods.

9:45a – Go to feed store to pick up a pallet (40 bags) of fertilizer for about 70 jobs. They only have 10. And the new shipment comes next week, with a new, higher price. The Son already quoted his customers a certain price for fertilizing and no one else has this formula in town. The Son is mad.

10:02a – Drive up North Treadaway. See Jack and possibly his long-lost daughter in passing, out front on their property.

10:15-11:45a – fertilize trees for one customer with various properties all over the north side of town. This customer owns the largest scrap yard/recycling center in town. Get an up close view of some fancy properties that few know of.

11:57a – Agent Wife & kids pick me up for lunch.

1:01p – back in my migrant worker seat. Off to various fertilizing jobs.

1:55p – Find myself asking “are we in Hollywood?” as we fertilize the hoityest-toityest house I’ve ever seen in the fair mother city. It struck me odd since it’s location is not exotic or a private acreage. The Son tells me that the owners had the original house demolished in order to build the current one. I’ve been in some nice upper level homes around here, but this was first class all around.

3:02-5:27p – mow & edge The Son & The Dad’s yards.

5:39p – home, shower.

6:03p – supper with the family

6:40p – clean a butt-load of dishes. Agent Wife baked muffins which caused extra dirty dishes. Worth the sacrifice.

7:05-8:30p Hang out in the back yard with kids and on the driveway. Sebastian & Jenny’s mom pulls over to talk. She’s having a baby in two months. Also, our down the street neighbor Amy pulls over. Tells us a story how she and her husband lost two cars in one day (a wreck and a blow-up). Then they received two cars by the end of the weekend. Her dad gave them a minivan that wasn’t being used. Then her church bought them another minivan as a blessing. Thank you CEO for the testimonies.

9:00p - kid’s baths

9:34p – email, more communications with the agent network, etc. Report.

Off to the home remodeling gig tomorrow.

Good night.

perspective

I’ve been in the desert, thus this coercive gig with the poor for over four years now. Only recently have I had a new perspective on things in the financial realm. Or perhaps, middle class versus poverty culture and their way of doing things.

On the pruning boy gig a few weeks ago, we started the day with a familiar scene: we entered the customer’s property, surveyed the upcoming work, serviced the equipment needed, etc.

Then the customer herself comes outside. It was a typical customer for Son & Dad Tree Service Inc: wealthy, elderly, widow lady with a lot of money and a son somewhere who calls in service work for his mother’s house.

My boss The Son turned on his good ole boy charm while kissing up to the customer as expected. But this woman had a subtle edge to her.

She acted like nothing was ever right. Complaints about previous service people working at her house and complaints about this or that, all which seemed trivial from my standpoint, are what spewed from her pores.

Meanwhile, here I was (two weeks ago) wondering how my own mortgage would be paid and having nothing concrete in my future to feed my family. And I’m thinking, “woman, what the hell are you whining about? You have a killer house, a nice car, and what not. And you’re sitting here bitching about dumb stuff.”

Then as the CEO would have it, I was reminded of how that was me merely four years ago. I remember it being easy to complain about trivial things the more comfortable I was.

I remember the Happy Days Community Church paying me (and wife) a salary of $300 a month and grew to $1450 a month for being their benevolent directors. And I remember complaining how we were so low on the totem pole of the church pay scale and how I wish we could have received more, etc.

Right now I’d be kissing someone for that kind of monthly income. $1450 a month is actually a stellar salary considering my missionary heroes Mother Teresa and Uncle George Muller made zero.

Guess it’s good to have some reality slapped into me once in a while. It can hurt, but in a good way.