7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess

by Jen Hatmaker

  I pray for the woman who will literally walk in my shoes. Jesus, embrace her with safety and healing. With every step she takes, wrapped in my clothes, may she know your faithfulness and experience your redemption. Take her to that sacred place with You where there is no more abuse, no more violence, only the sweet rescue of salvation.

  TOMS One Day Without Shoes, showing solidarity with the world's poor. I am grocery shopping barefoot. I have a picture of the bottom of my feet at the end of the day, and it's so gross, I can't even post it.

  Day 3

  Since I gave away 202 items from just my closet, and Month Three requires 210 giveaways, we’re going to adjust. The Council decided one week can involve clothes. The end. So even if we purge one thousand shirts, they will only count toward seven days.

  Now I have to tell you something, and it’s bad.

  Three months ago I was cleaning out the kids’ drawers as the season was changing from warmer-cool to cooler-cool. Out came shorts that didn’t fit, T-shirts inching up their bellies, jeans from last year, and other outgrown items. I pulled at least twenty-five items per kid.

  Every mom engages this purge twice a year. There is nothing noble about it. It’s out with the old and outgrown, in with the new and shiny. It’s not about reducing, simplifying, or sharing; it’s really a function of our kids growing two sizes every three months while we research gland disorders and reswear off GMO products.

  But I did something bad. I knew this month was coming, and I wasn’t sure we’d have enough to purge so quickly after that cleanout. So I stored the piles to donate should our options become too slim. That’s right, my trusting friends:

  I prehoarded.

  I’m sorry, okay? I won’t count them. Sadly, I don’t need to count them. We will exceed 210 items by a landslide. I told you I’m the type to cheat in advance, and now it’s confirmed. Two hundred and ten sounded like a lot! I was scared we’d be leaning against the walls where our couches used to be by the end of the month.

  But yet again, I underestimated how much we’ve bought.

  Crimeny.

  Day 6

  I am a schizophrenic consumer.

  I have an overabundance of certain items as unnecessary as diet pills for a supermodel. For instance, I have about a hundred books. On God. I have another sixty on women’s issues. This doesn’t include my fiction, memoires, essays, global issues, cookbooks, biographies, and reference books. Oh okay, and commentaries, mysteries, poetry anthologies, parenting books, and autobiographies. And history books. And maps and atlases. And humor essays. Books on tape. You get the picture.

  Also, I have lots of movies. Like four drawers full of VHS tapes and no VHS player. Included is Karate Kid 3, a straight-to-video tragedy starring young Hillary Swank who was ridiculously annoying and also managed to seriously overact in said movie that I spent actual money on. That is an hour and a half and ten dollars I’ll never get back.

  And don’t get me started on blankets. I am uptohere with blankets. It’s not like we live in the frozen tundra or don’t enjoy a $250+ a month electric habit. We are not the Ingalls living in the Big Woods while our children, Caroline, Laura, and Mary, huddle together for warmth. I should invite Michael Jackson’s son, Blanket, to live here among his own kind (and maybe Gwyneth’s daughter Apple could live in our refrigerator and Frank Zappa’s daughter Diva Thin Muffin can stay in my pantry).

  However. I am downright destitute in other categories. Most black holes exist in my kitchen. For example, I have two potholders. Two. One is a Christmas-themed gem complete with mildew polka dots. It is as thin as a Kleenex, so it withstands actual heat for about three seconds then no longer protects my hands from burning metal. The other is a crocheted mini-potholder I bought from Trina’s daughter. It is 1mm wide, so I’ve burned myself innumerable times as it doesn’t cover the surface area of my hand (too bad for you, Bottom of Palm and Tips of Fingers).

  My reaction to the potholder conundrum is nonsensical:

  Scene: Jen suffers ninety-fourth burn, extracting dish from oven:

  “Aaaaaaghhhh! I burned the tips of my fingers again and now I won’t have fingerprints! I can’t be searing my hands all the time! I just ca-a-a-a-an’t!” (Holding up hands dramatically, perhaps shaking them for effect.)

  “This is how I make a living! This is my livelihood! I’m a word surgeon. . . . I need my hands to execute my craft! These ten fingers are how the magic happens, and without them I might as well cut out my voicebox too, because that’s how useless I am on earth!”

  Brandon, fantasizing about the missing voicebox, “Here’s ten dollars. Go buy some.”

  I can’t explain why I haven’t bought new potholders. I guess its laziness. What else could it be?

  The potholders aren’t in that category by themselves. The same is true about bath towels (seven in the whole house), mixing bowls, cooking utensils (I have one half-melted spatula) and pots and pans. As a matter of fact, I still use a 1993 wedding shower pan that adds so much flaked Teflon into every dish, I’m certain I’ve seeded us all with cancer.

  So evidently, I’m of the feast or famine variety.

  Day 11

  It’s Easter.

  Between ages zero and thirty-two, I celebrated Easter the fun way: with bunnies, baskets, and expensive clothes. What better way to say “Jesus reigns” than dressing my preschooler in a $45 dress to show her off in the church lobby? (You’re welcome, Jesus. Be blessed.)

  Now let’s be clear: if you had asked me what my Easter priorities were as I stood all fancy in the lobby, I’d become grave and mention the resurrection. For crying out loud, I’m a Christian. But truthfully, between the outfit shopping, the Easter baskets, the egg ______ (dying, stuffing, hiding, hunting), the pictures, the lunch menu, and the gift buying, Jesus was flat last. I started thinking about Him as the band started at church, and I thought about Him for a whole hour.

  That’s just true.

  But for the last three years Jesus has messed with me. Frankly, He’s hijacked all my holiday endeavors. I’ve always celebrated holidays with a cultural major and a spiritual minor. Take Christmas, for example. I endlessly spent on garbage no one needed and worked myself into a December frenzy and oh well. La de da. Now I’m overwhelmed by the poor and the disgusting consumerism cycle and the heinous neglect of Jesus and the appalling nature of it all.

  Then we got to Easter, or as God called it, Passover. Easter is a little name picked up from the Anglo-Saxon fertility goddess of spring, Eostre, who saved a frozen bird from the harsh winter by turning it into a magical rabbit who could lay eggs. Hence: “Easter” bunnies and eggs. Why are elements of a pagan religion associated with the highest holy day of the Christian faith? Oh bother. Can’t we just carry on and dye our Eostre eggs in peace?

  Assessing the typical American Easter, on one side I see Jesus on the cross, humiliated and mutilated, bearing the failures of every person past and present, rescuing humanity through an astonishing miracle of divine redemption, splitting history in two and transforming the human experience for eternity. On the other side I see us celebrating this monumental heroism with chocolate bunnies and boiled eggs, with Jesus as an afterthought. It doesn’t make sense. (Insert some of you tossing this book in the garbage. Don’t mess with my Easter fun, you hippie chick.)

  This year, Austin New Church decided to rethink “The Traditional Easter Service That Brings In More People Than Any Other Day of the Year.” It is our church’s two-year anniversary, and certainly we could stand more foot traffic, but I’m not sure Passover is best celebrated by a high-attendance Sunday of people who won’t be back until Christmas Eve.

  We literally asked ourselves . . . What would Jesus do? Would He drop a bunch of cash on fancy clothes? Buy out the chocolate and plastic egg supply? Find the biggest church in town and spend twenty minutes posturing in the lobby?

 
Who in Austin might want to celebrate the astonishing hope of resurrected Jesus but might feel uncomfortable surrounded by beautiful people dressed to the nines? Who needs the gospel spoken into their brokenness but might not be welcomed by the saints in the sanctuaries? It came quickly to us:

  The homeless.

  If Jesus came to proclaim freedom for the captives and good news to the poor, then Passover uniquely belongs to the bottom dwellers. So we cancelled service and took church downtown to the corner of 7th and Neches, where our homeless community is concentrated. We grilled thirteen hundred burgers and ate together. Our band led worship; then in a powerful moment of solidarity, we shared Communion. It was a beautiful mess of dancing, tears, singing, and sharing. It wasn’t an us and them moment; it was just the church, remembering the Passover Lamb and celebrating our liberation together.

  Now, if we get one repetitive request when serving our homeless friends, it’s this: “Do you have a bag?” (Could also be: Can I have that bag? Can I take that trash bag? Do you have a bag I can put this bag in?) So this was the perfect moment to give away seven of my nine purses, which were nice and roomy, just like the ladies want.

  When the gals had a perfect view for maximum impact, I hollered:

  “Hey girls! Anyone want one of . . . these?”

  Cranberry red leather.

  Green with gold buckles.

  Chocolate brown bohemian bag.

  Turquoise with short handles.

  Burnt orange across-the-shoulder.

  Shiny black backpack bag.

  And one little purse I debated on bringing. It was a tiny thing, hot pink crocodile by Gianni Bini, functionally useless but fashionably magnificent. Our street girls want the biggest bags possible, since they carry everything they own. A wheelbarrow would be a huge hit. So my little vanity purse was a wildcard, but at the last second with a conspiratorial nudge from the Spirit, I threw it in.

  Not surprisingly, it was the last purse left. What self-respecting homeless woman picks a hot pink purse that would barely carry her bus pass? Glamour handbags are only for women who have eight others and a house in which to stash them. So I stood there with my one little purse, when it’s rightful owner, the one for whom I daresay that purse was stitched together, made a beeline for me.

  She had on her Easter finest, tights included, though it was ninety degrees. Flouncy dress with—what else?—hot pink flowers. Hair done in sections with matching beads, pink floppy hat on standby. Leather dress shoes polished to a sheen. Dainty ribbon necklace and rings on four fingers.

  She was six-years-old. Her name was NeNe.

  Never has a purse better matched its owner. She slipped that hot pink number over her arm and never put it down, not even to eat. Her mom looked at me and no words were necessary; mothers speak a silent language. I took her picture and fussed over her beauty and breathed a thank you to Jesus for the nudge.

  I serve a Savior who finds a way to get pink purses to homeless six-year-old girls.

  Jesus is a redeemer, a restorer in every way. His day on the cross looked like a colossal failure, but it was His finest moment. He launched a kingdom where the least will be the greatest and the last will be first, where the poor will be comforted and the meek will inherit the earth. Jesus brought together the homeless with the privileged and said, “You’re all poor, and you’re all beautiful.” The cross leveled the playing field, and no earthly distinction is valid anymore. There is a new “us”—people rescued by the Passover Lamb, adopted into the family and transformed into saints. It is the most epic miracle in history.

  That is why we celebrate. May we never become so enamored by the substitutions of this world that we forget.

  “It was just before the Passover Feast. Jesus knew that the time had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he now showed them the full extent of his love.” (John 13:1)

  Easter. We were a long way from the church lobby. Life is so hard on the streets.

  Easter. Wow.

  If this isn't the most precious picture you've ever seen in your life, you're dead inside.

  NeNe and her little pink purse.

  Day 13

  I have a growing number of friends joining 7. I casually mentioned it on Facebook, which started a firestorm of questions. Which begat more e-mails. Which led to rogue groups joining the fray. Which led to one group in Nashville demanding the outline because they couldn’t wait for 7 to become a book; fortuitous, since it didn’t have a publisher until yesterday (Hi, B&H!).

  Our ANC friend circle is joining, and I get e-mails from all over the country telling me their 7 moments and following along. God is rewriting so many of our stories at once.

  My girlfriend Amanda discovered “The Prom Project,” which collects formals and all the fixins for underprivileged girls to wear to prom. If you only understood how perfectly this nonprofit fits Amanda. She donated not one, not two, but twelve formals complete with gloves, heels, jewelry, and shiny hair ornamentation.

  Me: Amanda! Twelve?? Have you been attending the local proms on the prowl? Does Ryan know? Why on earth do you have twelve formals?

  Amanda: I used to do a lot of fancy things!

  Me: I do a few fancy things, and I’ve worn the same dress for seven years, making me a social tragedy. No long silk gloves or bejeweled heels either. Explain.

  Amanda: I’m from the Valley, okay! We learned to be gaudy at a young age. I grew up with a “more is more” mentality. Between everyone’s Quinceaneras and Los Dias de los Muertos and Cotillion and all my real estate cocktail parties and Renaissance fairs, I have a bunch of costumes, I mean, formals.

  Me: Wait, Renaissance fairs?

  Amanda: The Dark Ages are done. Fiat Lux.

  Thanks to Amanda, twelve skinny high school girls will attend their proms in the highest fashion without spending a penny. She made a prom memory possible, a rite of passage for the American teenager but impossible for girls in poverty.

  This is why the body of Christ is so essential. I could no more meet the needs of impoverished teenagers attending prom than I could recount the basic years of the Renaissance. (1500s? 1700s? I vaguely recall the word mutton and a movie with Heath Ledger.)

  But this is Amanda’s offering. She’s doing her part. We each meet unique needs in our cities and our world. If we all raised others up instead of raising ourselves a little higher, there would be few needs left on earth. I marvel at what God accomplishes with the generosity of his sons and daughters. I’m proud they are brothers and sisters. What a family.

  And hey, if you need any elbow-length satin gloves or chandelier rhinestone earrings . . . I know a girl.

  Day 17

  Were it not for the intervention of the Holy Spirit, my girlfriends and I would end up on Jerry Springer. We are loud and silly (Brandon would say obnoxious). When one friend volunteered to move in with me so that together she and I might make one whole wife, Brandon said, “Oh yeah, that’s exactly what I need. One more woman in this house who thinks she’s hilarious.”

  Admittedly, we skirt the edges of inappropriate and hold some pictures as leverage against one another, but let me tell you: If you’re ever in a crisis, we’re as effective as the Red Cross. We can mobilize in four minutes.

  This month of 7 created plenty of opportunities to team up. Susana sent an SOS e-mail about her single-mom friend, Staci, and her two daughters who’d lived with someone for a year, all three in the same room. Staci left a destructive marriage with whatever fit into the car. She was working, putting herself through college, and trying to rebuild a healthy life for her girls. She’d saved for a small apartment—a thrill—but she literally had nothing. No beds, no furniture, no silverware.

  The working poor get lost in the shuffle. Susana and Staci were friends for six months before she realized Staci was st
ruggling. Their girls were in a club together; there was plenty of laughing and banter. By all appearances Staci’s station seemed “normal.” The usual clues that point to poverty are ambiguous for those in the gap.

  The working poor are one missed shift from homelessness, one lost paycheck from hunger, one overdue bill from repossession. However, they learn to camouflage nicely into society. They laugh at the right jokes and deflect questions with sarcasm or silence. The children are ashamed to admit they haven’t eaten all weekend or can’t afford to play soccer, so you’d never know. In many ways they are invisible.

  Had Susana not asked for a plate at Staci’s house, and had Staci not pointed to the two plates holding snacks and said, “You’re looking at them,” she wouldn’t have known the family was hanging on by a thread. Susana urged (read: bullied) Staci into making a list, and she rocketed the needs out to our friend tribe.

  We had her apartment furnished, stocked, filled, and decorated in four days. Because of 7, we’d liquidated tons of items, awaiting the right recipient. Beds, linens, microwave, couches, TVs, table and chairs, dishes, pictures, all of it.

  Staci sent Susana this e-mail on Monday:

  We were so overwhelmed yesterday that I am not sure I even said thank you. Thank you for listening to that still small voice from God. Thank you for inviting your prayer group into your vision. Thank you for setting such a wonderful example of Christian service and womanhood. Dylan notices EVERYTHING and she told me, “Those people are Christians.” Yes, honey, they are. And God said we will be known by the love we show one another. How nice to lay in that bed and sit at that table and stare at those groceries in the cabinet. This is the best vacuum cleaner I have ever had. The microwave and the trash can and bowl of apples (my favorite red delicious apples) and the brown smooth sheets all scream GOD LOVES YOU AND YOU ARE NOT ALONE. Who knew apples could say so much? I have an overwhelming feeling that everything will be fine for the first time since I moved back to Austin.