Amber

I did not want to take Ellie to gymnastics on Saturday morning. I woke up earlier than I wanted and then my Saturday morning coffee time went by faster than I wanted, and before I knew it, it was time to go. I did not want to leave the house. All of the sudden, it’s cold all the time, and I am not ready.

We got in the car, the cold car that I forgot to warm up ahead of time, and Ellie immediately starting singing, “Brr, brr, brr, brr…” to the tune of one of brother’s favorite songs by a band called Skillet. “Are you brr-brr-brr-ing to Skillet?” I asked her. She laughed a bright peeling cackle that matched the brisk air. My inner curmudgeon tempted me to squash her by turning on the radio to drown out her silliness, like I might have done a time or two before. Instead, I asked her what other song she knew that we could sing “brr” to. She suggested Somewhere Over the Rainbow. “Brrrr brrrrr brr-brr-brr-brr-brr, brrrr brrrr brrrr,” we sang. Then we giggled and I said, “Another song!” We sang our “brrs” through Shut Up and Dance! and Believer. It was fun to be amused with ourselves.

When the song ideas weren’t coming as quickly, I said, “Okay El, I am going to turn on the heater even though it may blow cold air on us for a minute, and I am going to turn on the radio and we can sing ‘brr’ along with the songs.” Creep by Radiohead was halfway through and it was entertaining to replace “What the hell am I doing here?” with “Brr brr brr brr brr brr-brr brrrrr?”

The next song on the radio was A Day in the Life by The Beatles. Under all our “brrs,” John Lennon crooned:

I read the news today, oh boy

About a lucky man who made the grade

And though the news was rather sad

Well I just had to laugh

I saw the photograph

He blew his mind out in a car

He didn't notice that the lights had changed

A crowd of people stood and stared

They’d seen his face before

As we got on the interstate, the heater started blowing warm air instead of cold. When Paul McCartney started up verse two, Ellie said, “I think the song changed. Is this a different one?” Before verse two ended, it was already time to get off the interstate. Gymnastics is up in the suburbs, but just barely—only by one exit.

As we climbed the off-ramp, I noted that our singing exercises and the full breath of the heater left us cozy and comfortable. The stop light on the exit ramp forced us to pick a side, left in our case. I pulled up to the white line at the red light and noticed a bundled woman, holding a cardboard sign, standing on the neglected patch of gravel and weeds alongside the street. She stood at the cold and windy apex of the exit, on the overpass with the interstate below. I did not call attention to her as my mind raced through all the regular arguments, the worn groove of give or not give, dug deeply into the psyche of Christian white women across the county. Many of us come to conclusions that justify not acknowledging the presence of a begging human being. I could give, but she’ll use the money for x, y, and z, and I don’t want my money spent that way. Or, I don’t want to be an enabler. Or, she should get a job. Or, it’s okay if I don’t look at her because I donate lots of money to the rescue mission and the food pantry. Or, whatever. Honestly, I was not going to do anything because I was too lazy to self-debate while the clock was ticking at this red light.

However, I also knew that it was only a matter of seconds before Ellie would notice the woman and suggest we give her a granola bar or bottle of water, as in the past I stashed these supplies for just this situation. But one day the supplies were in the way, and I moved them to the way back of the van, where I could not reach from the driver’s seat. I must move them back up here, I thought to myself.

“Mom, that lady needs help,” Ellie pointed out. I’ve long wanted to be an example of generosity for my children, even though the truth is that I am selfish and protective. More importantly, though, I felt a pang, prickle, prompt of the Holy Spirit, a feeling I’ve felt many times. I reached for my wallet, pulled out a couple of bucks and rolled down my window. Cold air reached its fingers into the van and yanked the blanket of warmth right off our laps. The woman walked over and said thank you as she received the cash. I asked her if she was okay, and she said she was trying. I asked her if she lived in Indy and then felt like a complete asshole because her sign said something like REALLY HOMELESS. Shit. Why did I even ask her that? She started crying, and I awkwardly told her to take care, because I guess I could not think of a worse platitude to throw at her. Geez.

The light turned green and I rolled up my window and turned left. Ellie and I speculated on how she could spend the measly few bucks I’d handed her. I said I hoped the woman would find a hot beverage like a cup of coffee to warm her up. Ellie deduced that she would be warmer just coming with us to gymnastics, what with all of those sweaty kids steaming the place up.

I suggested that we pray for the woman, who was clearly suffering, in need, even if she was a fraud. Who knows, but if she’s willing to expose herself to cold and discomfort on a Saturday morning, she must be deeply wounded, even if she is a trickster. Who am I to assign value to the choices and circumstances that brought her to this intersection?

Ellie prayed that she’d find a warm place to go. I prayed that the money she had would get her more than it ought, that somehow its value would increase. Also that God would draw near to her and soothe her hurting places. Amen and amen, please do for her and for us all.

After arriving at the gym, I found a seat near an African-American woman. I wondered if she felt uncomfortable in this suburban gymnastics facility, surrounded by competitive white women of at least moderate means.

I asked her how old her son was and we passed the hour talking about schools, kids activities, the battle against over-scheduling, about commuting to suburbia for gymnastics, all of which we had in common. Did I think I had something to offer her: casual conversation with one of the white women to normalize and equalize her potentially lonely situation? Looking at this more closely, maybe I just didn’t want her to think that I was one of them, whoever that is. I don’t know. It’s so complicated. Was I chatting her up for her benefit or for mine? Was she humoring me with banter, all the while suffering another guilt-ridden white girl? Or maybe, actually, it’s not that complicated. I like people. I like to chat with moms. I like people to feel at ease wherever they are. I like listening to stories that are different than mine and finding the places where we overlap.

I like it when my actions and words are birthed in pure, altruistic intentions. I wish it was easier to delineate between my selfishness and my generosity. But I know better. “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17:9) Everyday is an opportunity to burn away a little bit more of my human sickness and take on a little bit more of the character of Christ.

On the way home from gymnastics, as we left suburbia by way of the interstate, we sang, “brr brr brr” again. This time over the second half of Amber by 311.

…You live too far away Your voice rings like a bell anyway Don't give up your independence Unless it feels alright Nothing good comes easily Sometimes you've got to fight

Whoa, amber is the color of your energy Whoa, shades of gold display naturally

Lost a thousand ships in my heart so easy Still it's fine from afar…

It almost felt disrespectful to "brr" over this beautiful verse, like a child mimicking a wise adult by saying, “Blah blah blah.” I thought about the words we were covering up, how they echo in the cavern of my soul. I thought about the incredible amount of time amber takes to solidify, about how that gem doesn’t come easily. My deeds aren’t yet bright and clear; my motivations are still clouded, sticky with the grit of all manner of selfish living, but hardening with the translucence of hindsight and experience.

We exited the interstate, now back down in town, and I realized warmth had replaced my chill. Gratitude swirled in my heart for the subtle experiences gifted to me. Extending hospitality, even in tiny, meager unasked-for ways, placed a beautiful package in my lap, one I am still unwrapping. I can only hope that I am not too dense at the next opportunity.