"...here's to the restoration of broken things."
The ideas that we formed a few years ago about intentional community were so romantically whimsical. Like two weeks of great fall weather or songs that write themselves. We first heard of people living life outside of the patterned norm alongside one another in books such as The Irresistible Revolution and A New Way to be Human while we were in college, and a child of possibility and necessity was conceived inside our bellies. We were not called to live isolated? And on the contrary, to live together? And share together? And create together? I like people. This was exciting.
As any Bible-belted-good-Methodist-who-has-always-been-accused-of-being-Baptist-due-to-my-tendency-to-lean-slightly-toward-the-red-of-big-questions-which-are-rarely-really-the-big-questions would do…I found a scripture to back my new ambitions. And thankfully, this time, I believe it may actually align, which can only be accredited to the Holy Spirit who lives inside of us, helping us to see where the scriptures are alive and helping us to not be too physical with our boyfriends. Holy Spirit: official sponsor of 2011.
It was in reading Acts 2 that I thought about early followers of The Way in the first century possibly being 20-somethings learning how to share life together in a very counter cultural way, even for their time. Our past two generations did not invent unhealthy independence and isolation. Fear and greed did. Now, we may have help perfect it;) But surely, interdependence and community have always been the against-the-grain thing to pursue. Because it means we have to live and work and create and be in healthy conflict with and trust people. And sometimes people suck. And this is a truth proceeding even the Savior walking on our soil. All to say…surely safe to say…we may be in good company even with the people we are reading about who lived 20 centuries before.
Opportunity presented itself to maybe move toward this dream of intentional community. Several “plans” to move from Shreveport after college in 2009 had fallen through: ie. timing for grad school, getting signed with our CCM band at that one Nashville “showcase” where that “judge” suggested we wear matching converses, falling in love/marrying/and moving with the almost-hipster worship leader that never seemed to show at any of the Christian conferences I went to find him at. So a sleeping child in the bellies and thoughts of dreamers became a possibility once again.
The summer after graduation, the one where we realized we would probably be living in Shreveport for a bit longer, we went to Haiti and took our first step into a now three year walk alongside people and experience who teach us much. After that trip, I took a leadership job in the missions department at our church which eventually became the director of missions, and the next summer, I led the young adult team down for round two. It was there that our ideas became needs. We would need to do this. We would need to live together. Collaborate together. Study together. Pray together. We had lived in a 5 room guesthouse for two and a half weeks among poverty that was so rich we couldn’t help but be slapped in the face with the reality of a backwards Kingdom and how right it truly must be. We had spent the year taking the small amount of times that we could actually find to play music together, or eat together, or pray together. But, jeez, we all lived halfway across the other side of town from each other. And life was busy.
And we had been finding that many young adults/college students in the greater Shreveport area that we talked to were saying things like, “I’m lonely for…”, “I wish I had time to (insert creative process here)”, “I need more (depth? truth? learning? giving? going? connecting?)…”
We had seen it in Haiti. We had experienced it on floors of chapels and front porches. We had read about it. And thought maybe we could let ourselves move toward it. Something. Anything.
Now we’ve got nothing special or figured-out going for us. At best, we’re a handful of people who are constantly caught in the battle of “did God say that? or did I make that up?” But there are a few moments where I do feel like we’re being written by some big quill or shaken up in cardboard moving boxes, headed somewhere new. And one of those moments is this: Long story short. We stalked this house that was for sale for a while as it went on and off the market and I made a fool of myself by acting as if I knew what I was talking about with the realtor or had a plan of any sort. It was yellow. It was huge. It was perfect. Had a few holes, and a lean that made you wonder if you were standing up straight or not. It was the one we felt we shouldn’t give up on, no matter it’s $100grand selling price and $75grand renovation need. And one of the girls wanting to move in, Anna Connell, got a random baby sitting request from a new couple who had just moved (Bill and Hilary Free, plug here). One date night, two hours of conversation, and a call to the realtor later (adding in a couple of months of waiting and paperwork), the Frees had bought the house and we had begun the adventure of finding the money that God was going to provide to maybe get hot water before we moved in in July of this past summer. Or at least stop that tree-sized vine from growing in our foyer.
And I wrote about my fears a few months ago while dealing with that step of the process. Moving out of our gated community. Into a house without central air and heat during the hottest summer of North Louisiana. And it’s been a fumbly, bumbly, surely beautiful beginning.
We survived the heat so far and eventually remembered to meet and pray that God would send rain to send better weather so that the house could actually be conducive for the community we wanted to share it with. We’ve played “hide the ceramic cow” consistently for a few months now. We’ve taken old coffee cups and plates and smashed them into pieces to make art out of. We got a cat. Who lived on the front porch. But then got moved to the back porch because she’s too friendly for my allergies. But she still thinks she lives on the front porch. We received financial backing pledges from wonderfully excited and invested individuals and larger church bodies like First Methodist and Brookwood Baptist which will come together after the first of the year. We have left our doors opened while we paint and studied and put out the cry, “come by if you feel like enjoying the weather with us!” We’re meeting neighbors. And hanging out with Emmet and his kids at the Community Renewal Friendship House. We’re heating our lean cuisines up in our microwave and sitting on counters to eat them until we can fix our stove. We’re hanging art and getting ready for the September 23rd Bazan house show. And running into each other when our schedules permit it.
But here’s the reason for this post, other than to simply write as well as update: we’re at that point where the Yellow House needs a good ole fashion DTR. A define-the-relationship (mom). Because if “A” is a life of unhealthy independence and isolation and “B” is interdependence and life-giving community, despite the resources that have abundantly poured in…we’re having trouble getting from point A to point B.
Our lives as church workers, artists, and students were truly so busy in the first place that one could justifiably have asked in the beginning, “Does anyone really have time for this?” Knowing that the “this” was not simply “the Yellow House” but was “community and creativity and service” saying “no” really wasn’t an option.
But if I am being honest….one 12 room house, one $65,000 pledge, 2 window units, 2 dryers, one stove, a large front porch, one nonprofit-status-paperwork process, a thriving community, and a whole web of young adults later….we are currently still just residents, most of the time. Ships passing in the night. We run into each other in the kitchen when we have time. We schedule into our busyness a couple of hours to paint this week or the next. And when we can maybe make it happen, we have a house meeting (we’ve had one). We are residents. Paying rent. Living in a house with all the potential of a sleeping lion…wondering when the best timing will be to live into what we’ve been called to. We wait for perfection. We wait for ample time. We pay our rent. And we pass in the night.
So in recognizing and identifying the restlessness that comes with this reality over the past couple of days, I felt the need to do two things: take baby steps (but actually take them), and then blog the journey.
The journey being: the DTR of the Yellow House. Figuring out how to be more than ships. Figuring out how to be a Christ centered, culturally relevant, intentional community for young adult, the arts, and missional living. Figuring out how to step back and ask the Holy Spirit how in the WORLD are we supposed to reconstruct schedules that seem impossibly necessary. And then listen when he answers.
With the baby steps being 3 fold: house meetings, family meals, and Sunday teachings.
House meetings, to start at the bottom layer of the onion with this building of community. If we can’t figure out a good way to wash dishes or pray together, we are again, only ships. What will be shared must be fostered.
Family meals, to open our doors and say this night of every week our doors will be open and we’ll be sitting and eating. It may be “bring your own supper.” It may be, “hey, I cooked some noodles.” But it will be something to invite people to, and maybe we’ll learn how to love each other and share our groceries and talk about quality things. This is where good is born.
And Sunday teachings, to bring in the wisdom of those whose shoulders we gratefully stand on. To ask church leaders. Community leaders. Business leaders. Serving leaders. Worship leaders. To come and sit with us, all of us, any of us on Sunday afternoons and let us glean. As to join our efforts. As to inspire our input. As to grow the Kingdom and its civilians.
So I share this to share this…We are being equipped for the fruition of beautiful things. But through the weight of busyness, we are missing it. Honestly. So now, I tip my cap in gratitude to the Spirit for pointing it out, and ask, “Where now?”
I hope you’ll be able to read back through here in the next few weeks and see how our house meetings are going. And that you’ll bring your food to our table or porch for our first family meal. And that you’ll come for the teachings. For conversation. For stories.
Monday night I painted a terrible flower on a canvas. It was so ugly I wanted to step through it. Tuesday night, I broke glass, glued it on that flower, then painted over everything. The flower made texture that brought the whole thing together.
Here’s to learning. And messing up. And trying something new.
We’re hanging that piece up in the foyer this week at the Yellow House:) You should drop by to see it…
Britney
