Gratitude from a Dream

As people flow around the busy street, I bore myself deeper into the tattered sleeping bag. My dirt-stained hands and charcoal nails fumble at the zipper, wishing I could completely encase myself in a cocoon of invisibility. All my belongings dig into my stomach and legs as the cloth groans with each of my movements. I avoid eye-contact from disgusted strangers and the grins of innocently curious and friendly children. If only they knew. As I wander, the streets my life and grime dare someone to enter in, to not be repulsed, to see past my exterior and still make the effort to know and to love. Suddenly, I’m in a cluttered shop, surrounded by pottery painting children with genuine warmth. The owner, a mother, ushers my companions and I one by one, to her personal bathroom, I fidget nervously as I inspect the ground, as if moving will remove my stench. When it’s finally my turn, I’m amazed that she doesn’t hesitate to put her arm around me and welcome me—a filthy, outcast who had it coming, by many people’s standards. As the doorknob clicks open, the room turns bright, alive with spring and familiarity of family that is joyous for my return. I make my way up the stairs, careful to not mar the pristine walls with the grime I’m not certain the hottest shower can fully cleanse. I am followed by a loving family member who leads me into the upper room. Light trickles through the trees as I remove the layers I’ve hidden behind, I am exposed and embarrassed, I cannot continue, it is too uncomfortable to not be enclosed in my familiar filth. How did I get here? Why am I being loved, I don’t deserve this, thoughts flood my mind as I examine the hollow face in the mirror. Creased hands find my matted and greasy hair, and I flinch violently at the gentle touch—no, I don’t warrant this, don’t get your hands dirty—and yet, this compassion that surprises is what my heart has yearned for and wanted to know all along. As I timidly look into the glass, just enough to see the brush begin to free my knotted hair—I awake.

Immediately I realize it was all a dream, I am home—and it’s Thanksgiving. As my eyes clear my mind is flooded with images—glimpses of the homeless I know from my town the invisible within my sight, men and women who see the unseen and have been compelled to tangible grace.  I glance around my room and am reminded of the Transform Burien citywide service where we prayed to unite the church to reach all in our city—divided only by chair arms and aisles—not by denominations and congregations. I can’t help but feel the weight and responsibility of the dream—my personal George Bailey experience. I cannot ignore the realities of life around me and how by God’s grace, he has allowed my life to be one of material ease and financial provision. I had to give thanks to God for the dream—realizing what I remember most was not the hardness of the concrete, the spits of disdain, or the shame I felt, rather it’s the compassion of strangers to me, someone who couldn’t give anything back.  The point of the dream wasn’t that I identify with homelessness in an obscure way, it was to remind me that the Gospel reaches the least of these—me. How we love the homeless, the abandoned, the outcast, can be a reflection of the gospel in our lives. Each of our hearts are clothed in tattered rags and need gracious love that looks past our inner filth and still chooses us to cleanse. This kind of love does not deny our filth or our need for redemption, rather the love is the thing that washes—it says that I know you are unworthy but I died for you. I know you cannot cleanse yourself—I will do that. I AM. I am the one who washes you, who straightens your tangles and mends your rags. Be grateful and gracious as I have generously given my grace to you. Live to others the love that transformed you. Allow me to use you to bring about my transformation in your city, your neighborhood, as I continue to transform your heart. Give thanks by living generously. Live the love you’ve received, one day, one person, at a time.