Lent, Drag Queens, and my Dad...

This year for Lent I am journaling and praying along with the World Vision Activism Network (see link and tab to your right). This week, we’ve been looking at poverty. As in, intense “African children digging through dirt to find rocks to sell” poverty. We’ve been asked to look at our lives, our own dependency upon luxuries, and even more difficult, to investigate the places from which we derive our self worth. It suggested this week that we give up a luxury to help with this.  A pillow, shampoo, and socks were literally some of the suggestions. It also suggested either fasting for a day or perhaps choosing one meal per day to skip in order to better acquaint ourselves with real hunger. I spent all of Monday sick, so I emailed a friend, who is also doing this devotional for Lent, the following question—“If I spent the majority of Monday lying in my nightgown on the bathroom floor, does this count as fasting and giving up my pillow? I know I spent a lot of time praying.”

I don’t think this is what the devotional was getting at. (Though really, I did spend a lot of time praying. However, pretty much only for myself and my bowels. And for Gracie who was stranded in her crib most of the day.)

But it has made me rethink the way I view the poor. Particularly the poor here in America.

And that, folks, is a MAJOR buzz kill. The truth is I don’t want to think about those with less than me. I’m too busy freaking out over here about what I don’t have. Sure, I’ll clean out my closet and pantry to donate to my church, but don’t make me change the way I live.

Dear God, please don’t make me give until it actually hurts. I’m cool with giving my little 10%. But please, oh please, can you at least wait until we recover from paying off our adoption loan before you ask me to give some more? What’s that? It’s your money anyway… Well, I suppose if you’re going to get technical about it, sure, but…but…but…

It’s also killing my buzz about an upcoming party I’m going to. Sloan and I have been invited to a “Trailer Trash” themed Murder Mystery party. I’m the park snob who is married to the trailer park owner. (I asked to be a mean girl). Sloan’s role is, well, he’s a drag queen. There’s really no way getting around it. (His desire is to be a Glam drag queen. And I quote, “I’ve seen bad drag and I won’t do that. I don’t want to look like I just woke up at the Trailways station and put on a dress.”) And as I gather all of my gold jewelry, borrow my niece’s body glitter, and begin to take antacids to help the tater-tot casserole go down a little more smoothly with my box wine, there’s a part of my heart that is a little sad. Sad because I’m making fun of people because they are poor.

I’m trying to remind myself that I’m not making fun of poor people, just people who pierce their fake fingernails, have two inch long black roots, and giant dolphin tattoos on their ta-tas. Oh, and drag queens. But I’m totally cool with making fun of drag queens. Drag queens make fun of drag queens, so I consider them fair game.

I’ve also begun to pray for the people who live in trailer parks. In particular, one family I knew as a child. I don’t remember their names, or even know if they still live in a trailer park. But their kindness, despite their poverty, impressed me. They taught me that dignity is not reserved for the wealthy. Literally, I don’t remember their names, so I’m simply going to call them Peter and Mary. Peter and Mary went to my family’s church. They had two daughters, both of whom were younger than me. I was around 10. Peter was an unemployed construction worker and Mary, a seamstress. As a kid, I remember Peter always around our house, my dad’s dental office, or one of my dad’s many rental homes. He painted, sanded, and wallpapered. He hung mirrors and paintings. I just sort of saw him as Dad’s handyman. Mary used to come over to our house with her girls and she would measure me for dresses. Then she’d return for another playdate, with pretty, monogrammed dresses. And usually about once a month, we went to their little trailer for lunch after church. The trailer park was far from the golf course upon which I grew up. Every Sunday lunch we had with them was the same--homemade vegetable soup. We ate it out of large mugs. Mary would carefully hand grate cheddar cheese over my mug and then hand me a thread-worn, hand-embroidered, cloth napkin. Sitting on a plaid ottoman (they had no dining room much less a dining room table), I felt like royalty. I wasn’t trusted to eat soup in the living room at home. I didn’t even know they sold cheese in giant blocks—it always came sliced or shredded in a bag at home. And in my 4th grade eyes, the dainty napkin was clearly meant for a Princess.

The sudden flashback of this has blessed me immensely. Not only for giving me an extraordinary example of just who lives in a trailer park, but also an approach to ministry that allowed for the recipients to remain dignified. In hindsight, my dad didn’t need a personal handyman. And my mom didn’t need to get me handmade custom dresses. Nevertheless, they employed this family. And moreover, they never once offered to take this family out to lunch. Or pay for the yummy vegetable soup Mary made each time we dined with them. Or buy them a dining room table. Maybe you think this was an oversight, but I don’t. I’m sure if Peter and Mary had asked for a dining room table, knowing my parents, they would’ve bought them a table, chairs, and a 12 place setting of China. Instead, my parent's generosity was not an attempt to fix this family, but a marker of the Provider whom both families served.


My parents are many things that drive me batty, but anyone who as ever met them will tell you they are generous. Extravagantly generous. Ever heard of those folks in front of you who buy your meal in the drive through line at Chick-Fil-A? Well, that’s not my parents because they don’t do drive through. But I do know they once paid a woman’s entire medical bill at my son’s old pediatrician’s office because they overheard the receptionist telling the new mother her insurance didn’t cover her newborn baby. I watched my Dad walk over to the counter, reprimand the receptionist while he handed over his credit card, and then he laid his hands on the child’s car seat and asked the Mom if he could pray for the child. (Please note that I said OLD receptionist. I mean we no longer see this doctor, not she was elderly…)

My Dad gets where his money comes from. He gets where his health and his talents to make money come from. Sure, he’s worked hard. Really hard. But if you ask him how the kid of a truck driver from Tennessee came to live on the first tee of Greensboro Country Club’s Farm course in a finely appointed home, his answer will be Jesus. And not I’ve done good things so Jesus has blessed me because I’ve earned it. But God has blessed me richly and he’s done it for the sole purpose of me being able to bless others. And that blesses me.

So God, I get it. Whereas I have (some) money, I have extreme soul poverty. I confess I seek comfort in material things. I derive my worth from the number of people who know me, from the number of shoes in my closet, from the clothes my kids wear. I’m afraid to give because it means I’ll have less of the things that I use to define me. But YOU want to define me. YOU want to be my worth. YOU want to be my comfort. I confess I don't believe You are enough. Forgive me. BE GOD TO ME, O LORD.