Oh, you pretty things...

"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places." - Ernest Hemingway


What a beautiful God there must be...

Yesterday my husband and I took a drive through the suburbs to run an errand. I hate the suburbs. I grew up mostly in the suburbs. It's definitely for some people. It's definitely not for me. I hate the suburbs.

As we were driving, we passed my old old neighborhood. Not my old neighborhood, the one that I moved out of for good when I got married, but my old old one. The one I lived in from the age of 6 to about the age of 10. At the light by Jenner Ave, there is a bench. A bus stop bench. And at that bus stop bench last night, there was a lady. Her head was down, and she was a bit bent over. Short dark gray shaggy hair, baggy khaki shorts, khaki socks pulled up mid-calf, loose t-shirt, a few shopping bags, and the most purpley hat I have ever seen in my life. I never saw her face.

As I passed her driving, I just knew it. She was Jesus.

When I was in Houston, TX there was a homeless guy named Tom-Cat. He smoked weed and loved Jesus. He told me all sorts of wild stories about his past days. A regular person would probably shake their head and decide that he was off his rocker. Maybe he was. Doesn't mater. He was Jesus.

When my whole family went to rescue my baby sister from China, we went out to eat the second day we were there. Walking amongst the bustling city of Beijing was very intimidating and exciting all at the same time. We actually had the chance to eat at the Hard Rock Cafe there (and buy plenty of t-shirts with their Beijing logo, of course). While we were leaving and walking back to our interestingly amazing 4 star hotel rooms, my brother River saw him. He was a little boy decked in rags, maybe 6 years old...playing a hand-made instrument. He was blind, and begging for money. River gave him everything he had...his leftover food in their styrofoam casing...and all the coins in his pocket. I know for a fact...that little boy was Jesus to River.

Jesus was one of us. He looked like us. He smelled like us. Every now and then, I've noticed that God likes to place someone in my path. Well, I guess more accurately, puts me in someone else's path. He likes to remind me that whether we love him, know him, seek him, hate him, don't wanna know him, or whatever, that He is a part of us. His breath created us. That makes us a part of Him.

These encounters really knock me off my feet. I see Jesus in the radicals and the martyrs. Maybe you see Him in the televangilists with their shiny hair and bright smiles, or maybe even the soap-box-Bible-shouters and sign holders. But what about the ones we forget about? What about the ones who are quiet? What about the ones who go unheard? For me, those are the ones that have the biggest impact.

The random bag lady with her bright purple base-ball cap sitting at the bus station. She is the one that reminds me of Jesus. I don't know her name. I don't know what her voice sounds like. I don't know her story. But last night, she was Jesus. And that speaks more to me then I could ever try to express.

Fenn xxx

(not the suburbs, but possibly why I'm a vegetarian...wait. what?)


  1. Nice pic with your post. Also good story.

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