Room 407.

I have struggled with whether or not to write about these next experiences because I realize that telling of them may seem self-aggrandizing. However, I think they're important parts of my journey with God. So I'm going to write about them, on the condition that I write about them in complete honesty, by including the parts that make me look like a dolt. A saint, I ain't.

At Wednesday's prayer meeting, Lindell once again invited all those who knew they were not right with God to step forward. Though a level 5 tornado could not have ripped my body from that chair, I knew that I belonged in the group of people to whom Lindell spoke, and so I prayed from my chair, while others prayed at the altar. I told God that I wanted to have the faith to place my life in Him, but I was gonna need some help. Duh.

The next morning--I'll call it "the day of the flood"--I got out of my car in downtown Springfield, where I work. I walked out of the parking garage, sprouted my umbrella, and continued down McDaniel, past the financial firm, and Amycakes, and the train depot.

As I was walking, I was thinking about my umbrella. It's blue, white, and jumbo-sized (so it'll keep your purse dry!), and it has the emblem from Ravinia on it. For anyone not of the Chicago area--Ravinia is the name of a snooty outdoor music festival, the official summer home of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and to be associated with Ravinia is something of a status give-away. The perception is that people who frequent Ravinia also listen to NPR, go to private colleges, and generally know their way around a bottle of wine.

So I'm walking along, thinking about my umbrella, favorably aware of the fact that though those around me might not understand, I am infact broadcasting to them how special I am. That was when I cast my knowing glance out over across the street. On the side opposite the depot, a man in a wheel chair sat at the corner, trying to eat something with a steady stream of rain pouring onto him, and his food. He looked disheveled, and unkempt, and as though he was carrying half of his belongings alongside his cumbersome body. And then I heard it. Rather, I felt it.

A gentle, but insistent prod. "Give the man the umbrella."

Now I don't have any special attachment to this umbrella, or at least there are things I'd be far more remiss to give up. But it's my umbrella, and it makes me special, and reminds me of many a bottle of wine shared at Ravinia while talking about NPR, and even if it were the fug-ugliest umbrella on the face of the planet--I'd still look like a nerd walking over there to give a stranger my umbrella! I mean, seriously, what would people think?!? No one just walks over to a man in a wheelchair to give him an umbrella.

"Give... the man.. the umbrella."

Well, crap. I guess I'd better get over there. I've ignored many such directives in the past. I can't count the number of times I've felt the task passed to me, and said, "No, no, I can't...what would people think?" I couldn't pull over to find out if that girl needed a ride. I couldn't ask that man to go to an ATM with me so I could get him some cash for food. I couldn't say, "I'm sorry, sir, but it seems like you could use someone to talk to." I wanted to do those things. I did. I just worried that I'd seem weird. Man, that looks so much more lame in print than it does when I'm thinking it.

But this time, I knew I'd made a promise. Just the night before, I had told God I would try. I don't know what God does when you tell Him you'll try, and then you don't, but it can't be good. So before I could give myself a moment to chicken out, I crossed the street, and said "Hi, you seem like you could use an umbrella. Please, take this one, I have another at home." He thanked me, and said that he could in fact use an umbrella.

And that was that. I had done it. I had stepped out in faith. I had listened to the voice. I was exultant! Eight hours later, I stepped out into the flash flood of the week (because they do seem to happen every week down here), and I thought..."Ok, God, so I'm getting wet. But I did what you asked, and you can have your fun, I don't care. I did it." We're gonna pick back up on that bit of defiance in just a bit. Stay with me.

Now let's talk about this morning. Last month, I had gone with my housemate to North Point Church's Second Saturday Impact Outreach event. Fun was had by all in the name of the Lord, and I got a hotdog to boot, so it was a good day. This month, we decided to go again, this time to help at The Kitchen, a homeless shelter (and so much more) on the northside of town.

We get there, and they begin to count us off into groups. "We need 10 volunteers to head off with Patrick! Ten more with Suzy!" So you have no idea what you'll be doing, you're just jumpin' in. My housemate turns to me, and says "You pick the group we should join. That way, if our assignment sucks, I get to blame you the whole time." No problemo. I send up a silent prayer, "Father, you know where you want me."

"We need ten people to go with Toni!" That's us. I motion to my housemate, and we go stand off to the side to get our orders.

Did you know that in the old Missouri Hotel, where the homeless shelter is housed, there are four floors of bathrooms? Yeah, I do, now. I am, in fact, intimately acquainted with those bathrooms. Starting with the bathroom in Room 407.

Let me tell you something. I am an academic for a reason. It's because I have no real skills. But I can work my ass off, and so we started to clean. And it was gross. I'm hot. I'm sweaty. The facemask keeps falling off, and I'm trying to shove it back up with my gloved hands. My housemate is my potty partner, and she's singing annoying worship songs, and saying things like "I just love how wonderful these people are going to feel in clean bathrooms!" Meanwhile, I am having none of that. The only things I'm saying are to myself, and are generally like this, "Fine, Lord, fine. I'm here. Purely out of obedience to you. I hope you're happy."

We move from the first bathroom to the second, and there are spiders EVERYWHERE. Now I am ridiculously afraid of spiders. So I am literally scrubbing, jumping around, shrieking, AND trying not to cry ALL at the same time. And it was at about this point that I started to crack. If I had to mark the moment.

And then the third bathroom, I'm exhausted. Then, the fourth. Oh, the fourth. I have been in many a frat house bathroom, but I have NEVER ever seen something quite that disgusting. I'm bending over the toilet--by the way, convenient in case I start to wretch--and there are speckles of brown and yellow substance all over the seat, and bowl. And I'm thinking "Fine, fine, Lord--you win! I can't compete with the Lord Almighty, you win!!"

And then I thought...hey, wait a second. What's that all about? He wins what? I lose what? Why are you here? In the name of a very wise man named Ice Cube, I realized that I had better check myself, before I wreck myself. And when I checked, it wasn't so great.

See, I am somehow misunderstanding the meaning and implications of submitting to the Lord. I know that because when I ought to have had a gentle, or at least gentler spirit, I had only defiance. Almost as though I was making a bet with the Lord..."I can do what you ask. I can hold out longer than you, and prove that I can do this faith thing. My way."

Not so great at all. I'm gonna go brush my teeth, and start over.