I lay in the still early morning quiet, listening for the few birds that stuck around for the winter, and watching through the haze of my pile of blankets for the first frosty bits of light to soak through my windows. The morning is as seamless as the lake in my memories, buried deep in the mountains without a single ripple to disturb the surface.
And then footsteps.
Then a door slams.
Next a baby screams.
A few minutes later another door is slamming.
Soon there are multiple sets of feet stomping around on the floor with no awareness of what the word 'quiet' might mean. Dishes are clanking; pots and pans making an early morning racket-song as the voices begin in the un-silence and build in energy the longer they carry on.
Pretty soon there's music coming from the living room, seeping into my bedroom through the paper-thin walls, and I am awake whether or not I want to be or am ready to be. On a good day I grab my smile and my mandolin and prance into the living room to join the festivities. On a better day I am the one awake before everyone else, and I therefore assume responsibility for the musical joys of the morning, and wait for others to join in.
So I lay there, under the pile of blankets, thinking back to the previous night. We gather in the living room, wonderful smells, a room just full enough of people, smiles and adopted family. I can see the invisible glow emitting from the room, it's crawling through the cracks in the wall, leaking outside into the darkness. We share food and laughter and life. These are pieces of things I've wanted for so long, these are answers to prayer, and parts of Jesus walking around with skin on. I blink multiple times to make sure this is really happening, like the times you pinch yourself to make certain you aren't dreaming.
And then I make a sleeping attempt around eleven (pm). That's a reasonable time, isn't it? I lay in bed with headphones on, music or an audio-book as my attempt at sleep; my attempt at sanity and at quiet. stillness. silence.
It's now one a.m. and I am laying, frustrated, in my bed as I listen to sound-clones of what will be in the morning.
Feet walking, stomping.
The occasional door slamming.
Bang.
stomp. stomp. slam. loud laughter. stomp.
talking, more talking, with insertions of laughter, sometimes far too loud, it seems, at one in the morning. And I lay there trying to decide exactly how much I can suck it up, and how selfish it would be to go tell people they are being too loud.
I get out of bed and do the latter.
I was thinking about all this on the bus ride to work this morning. I was in a bit of a hurry when trying to leave, nothing too rushed, but I still really dislike being rushed. It makes me feel disgruntled. It makes me feel grumpy. It makes me feel like everyone is getting in the way, and that no one realizes what it means to have to go to work on time.
No, I don't have time to talk to you, Hope.
No, I actually need to use the bathroom right now.
etc.
I will spare anyone reading this the rest of the description and my messed-up line of reasoning and cut straight to the bone of the issue.
Community, it sounds all fluffy and nice.
And parts of it are.
Seeing Jesus show up, praying and worshiping together, sharing food and stories and music, it's all pretty amazing. It's kind of astonishing that this sort of thing can happen. It really is. Like I said, sometimes I have to blink.
And then there's the other side. The side I'm pretty sure Jesus wants to happen, the side I'm pretty sure frustrates the hell out of me sometimes (yes, people, contrary to popular belief, I get frustrated, angry even. And selfishly so).
We go through at least a roll of toilet paper a day, and even more when anyone has a cold.
Milk and butter are a commodity, especially when it's organic.
Sleep is also, more so for me.
Dishes are a constant chore for everyone. I'm not sure how this works when it seems like the dishes are disproportionate to the amount of people living here...? you tell me.
There are kids screaming. loudly. 'nough said.
And I realized while sitting on the bus that maybe Jesus gave us community and gave us each other so that we would learn what it really meant to look to others good before our own.
And that is not something I really want to hear when I understand what it means. Yeah, I like the pretty words, like all those beautiful fairy tales coming to life out of poetry books..... until I actually know what the words mean.
But it's then that Jesus steps in and puts on flesh. It's then that he tells me that he carried a cross and my sin on his back, it's then that he tells me we are to follow in his footsteps.
Community is about not always having the time to do the things you want, or the silence you need to remain sane, or the space to keep your own privacy. Because it reminds you that Jesus gave all of his life for us, and he called us to put others' good before our own.
And it also reminds you that there's no way on earth any of this is going to happen unless you continually look at him.
I can pretty much guarantee that without him you are going to lose your sanity as well as your temper.
But the amazing and exhausting thing is being given this gift, this chance to see Jesus and be constantly reminded of how much we all need him.
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