Monday was a day that started out like any other. I woke up, read a little, showered, ate breakfast, poured myself a 12 cent cup of coffee and left for school. At 7 am, the air was still a bit chilly and I grabbed a coat on my way out the door. I got into the car, realized that the garage was freezing and my seat warmers weren't turning on (first world problems), so I pointed the vents on my face and cranked up the heat. As I pulled out of the driveway and scanned through the pre-programmed radio stations, I realized that I couldn't avoid the perpetually perky morning DJs and I decided to put in a CD instead. Just as my favorite song came on, the stoplight, and brake lights, in front of me turned red. Not wanting anything to interfere with my schedule, I played the "right on red" card and bypassed the slowdown by taking a detour through town.
By the time that I arrived at my parking spot (right on schedule), I was sweating under my North Face jacket; so I took it off and buttoned up my cardigan on my way into the building. As I walked down the hallway to my classroom, I took my first swig of my Blue Mountain coffee and realized that it was already less-than-scalding (I love my liquids ultra hot), so I ducked into the teacher's lounge to use the microwave. I didn't want to cause an explosion with my metal travel mug, so I poured my coffee into an insulated BPA free tumbler and set the timer for 1 minute. Not wanting to waste those 60 seconds by idling in front of the brain cancer inducing micro-waves, I took the opportunity to wash the elementary school germs off my hands with the new sweet cinnamon pumpkin soap from the staff sink. When the microwave beeped, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I.Am.Spoiled.
In just 2 hours of awake time on a typical Monday morning, I had already participated in literally dozens of thoughts, patterns, and habits that served to reinforce the fact that, here in Allie-Land, I meet my own needs. Maybe it's just me, but I have an overwhelming sense that we are not meant to live this way.
When I'm cold, I turn on the heat. When I'm warm, I turn on the air. When I don't like the noise around me, I change it. When things are moving too slow, I speed them up. When I'm hungry, I eat. When I'm thirsty, I drink. It goes on and on and on. When I'm scared, I protect myself. When I'm dirty, I wash myself. Does anyone else see the problem here?
If you're anything like me, you probably have very few un-met needs, too. However, if you're anything like the 16.4 million children currently living in poverty in America (or the 1.3 billion people around the world), you probably have many. Dear reader, you probably don't have to rely on family, friends, neighbors, strangers, or God to meet your needs. But they do. And I want to.
You see, when we tried this "living below the line" challenge, we didn't quite play by the rules. We attempted to EAT on less than $2/day, but we couldn't even begin to LIVE on less than $2/day. Never mind the all-organic Omega-3, DHA, vegetarian formula multivitamin that I swallowed within seconds of waking up on Monday morning...but if we had played by the rules here, my $2 would have been gone before I even stepped out of the shower. With the warm water, the goats milk soap, the scented lotion, and the fluffy towel, I would have been over my week's allowance before breakfast.
And this is where my thoughts turn to my son. When he's hungry, who's feeding him? When he's cold, who's warming him? When he's crying, who's soothing him? As an infant, he is physically incapable of meeting his own needs. As his mother halfway across the world, so am I. And so I trust. I trust in his caretakers. I trust in his "village." I trust in the God who has created him and promised to sustain him. And in this trusting, I get a glimpse of the Kingdom.
What if we, as Americans, were not capable of meeting all of our own needs? What if we needed to trust one another, and God, daily? What if our faith had feet instead of words, words, and more [empty] words? If I'm being honest, this is what I long for.
It's silly for me to spend $12.50 a day on food (the national average) and for you to spend $12.50 a day on food and for us to eat alone. It's silly for me to have a lawnmower in my garage and for you to have a lawnmower in your garage when both of us only mow our lawns once a week and there are 6 days leftover. It's silly that I am able to meet all of my own needs and you are able to meet all of your own needs and we don't even know about our neighbor's needs.
{This is not a political commentary.}
Here's the deal: I am angry at me.
I am angry that I have this deep, overflowing, furious passion inside of me that wants to rage at the injustice of poverty and isolation and yet, here I am. I am eating my money. I am meeting my needs. I am living in excess. And I am pretending like I am "living my faith."
Aside from the constant nagging headache, the irritability, the exhaustion, and the lack of energy, this experience with "living below the line" was largely positive. It broke me. And it made me want to break you, too. It proved to me what I suspect I have always known: "You don’t forget who your brother is — when you know Who your Father is."
I know the people who can't help but live below the line. I am adopting one of them. He is my son, and they are our brothers [and sisters.] I'm done pretending like I am self-sufficient. I want to need you. And I think you might want to need me, too.