God sends teachers of all types.
If we are observant students we will notice them. And if we’re lucky, we will actually learn a lesson. Absorb a teaching. Come to an understanding that was previously absent.
Sometimes our teachers are children.
In them we witness the simple joys of innocence. The genuine gift of a little hand in ours. Discovery abounds. The rippling of laughter lifting the heaviest of days. Rosy-cheeked smiles peering from a pile of autumn leaves.
In them, we learn the power of the present.
Other teachers may be our peers. Our parents. Elders ~ spilling out wisdom from decades of experience. Enduring the challenges of this life. Coming out on the other side to tell the story. To tell the tale.
…
That cold November day, my teacher was wearing a pair of filthy coveralls and had an unkempt appearance. He smelled of liquor and had gentle, beautiful eyes.
How often do you see a homeless person in your town?
It’s a regular occurrence when I drive into the city. The urban outskirts. Men mostly. Sometimes women. Leaning against a tree or signpost. A small tote with a few meager possessions, holding a piece of brown cardboard.
On it, a hand-written expression of their life.
Their existence summed up in one or two phrases.
Desperate hands reaching out from a weary heart.
Asking for help.
…
As quickly as the leaves can pick up and swirl on a windy autumn day, so too, has my mind whirled with arrogant disdain. Judgmental sighs. Questioning motivations and quickly surmising circumstances.
What words do we use to describe these wanderers in our society?
Lazy.
Destitute.
Dirty.
Addict.
Free-loader.
But trusting that God puts all things into motion and that He has designed our lives for purpose, perhaps we can look again.
…
What happens when we stop this time?
We don’t just drive by. Instead, we look at that person, and for the first time we see a fellow human being. Behind their eyes we see a wounded soul. Another hurting life.
Just like you and me, a blessed child of God.
Suddenly new words may cross our mind. Knock softly at the door of our hearts.
Lost.
Abused.
Cold.
Vulnerable.
Afraid.
What about “teacher”?
What if the only difference between us is which side of the cardboard we are living our lives on?
The Amazon box that arrived on my doorstep the other day provoked my thinking.
Parcels delivered as the holidays draw near. Cardboard boxes snugged down with packaging tape. Inside, a gift awaiting its coverings. Beautiful paper, tufted ribbons, and elegant tags for garnish.
We live our lives outside-in.
We show the world the beautiful wrappings. The Pinterest parties with perfectly matching cups and napkins. The Facebook facades. Claiming the latest triumph or posting a photo of the enviable, acquired possession.
We don’t tend to display the crinkled, mess filling our insides. The bubble wrap – the insurance that holds our fragile hearts. We don’t put on exhibit the emotions that were crushed in transit, from our childhood to this adult life we now find ourselves in. The crumbles of dreams that have fallen wayside to the darkened corners of our box.
All of those ugly things – the pain, the fear, the helpless, the anger – are all neatly tucked inside. Safely out of view to the chaotic and threatening world beyond our cardboard exterior. Carefully, we mark “FRAGILE” on the outside of our box – by averting our gaze or bustling past a genuine and smiling face.
We struggle to maintain the appearance that all is well.
But what about the homeless person?
Their lives are lived inside-out.
We see all of their stuff.
The need.
The loss.
The empty.
The broken.
You can almost feel their pain if you take the time to come closer.
I think that’s what keeps us at bay.
Because if we get too near, we’re frightened that we may actually identify with the sadness. The hurting. The aching of loneliness. Suddenly, we could be drawn into that uncomfortable space. The susceptible position of inside-out.
…
What great lessons can be learned from living our lives in a similar fashion?
When we share our broken parts we can be a piece of the whole, incredible mosaic. The bigger picture. The complete healing that is offered in Christ.
When we surrender our losses, we win the battle against the enemy.
In the living “inside out” we are no longer bound down by the strapping suffocation of fear. We come to see the contentedness we share in our Lord, and the beauty in each life.
Each life, a lesson. A story. A teaching.
Jesus taught in stories.
He taught in parables.
Luke 15: 4-6
Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them.
Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says,
‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’
We are all lost sheep.
We are all homeless until we find our security and identity in the arms of Christ.
We teach our children these simple but profound lessons about loving our neighbor.
Too often, in the rigors of responsibility, in the drudgery of the day-to-day, we forget. The golden rule becomes tarnished. We roll up our windows. Smugly, we clench our hands around the steering-wheel and speed by as we try to escape the feelings we hold inside.
Inside the cardboard boxes of our hearts.
But our Jesus calls us out to a New Life in Him.
He won the battle at the Cross and set us free in the Resurrection. In Grace we are exempt from the tortures of sin. We are immune to the ravages of the enemy.
…
So might it be that those living from the inside of that box are examples for us?
Might they be teachers for living a life more like Jesus?
Simply.
Honestly.
Wide open.
Humble.
For when we are aware of our humility, it changes us. I’ve not met a homeless person who was unkind. They walk this world wearing their true self out in the open. Hearts and souls exposed. Trusting.
Can you begin to imagine the courage it would take to stand before the world, with all of its judgmental passersby? To ask for a meal. Ask for work. Ask for money.
A life that demands rebuking such fear.
A life that has succumb to survival.
Less than 24 hours ago I had left my family gathering for Thanksgiving.
It was an eight-hour drive home and my sweet Louise and I stopped halfway for the night. Downtown Indianapolis. Taking in the holiday lights, the crisp November air, and the activity of the city.
Even after the joy of that visit, I was feeling empty. Maybe the city-scape would help to mask the pain of missing my younger brother.
You see, he wasn’t with us that year.
My biological brother is homeless.
The Thanksgiving before, he was living in a shelter and decided he needed to move 1,000 miles away. The shelter had purchased a 1-way ticket for him. What was his Thanksgiving like, I wondered?
Then my teacher appeared.
He was wearing filthy coveralls. His hair was matted and his shoes, barely there.
He was a messenger for me, I have no doubt.
A teacher of compassion.
A professor of peace.
Matthew 25:40
“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’
That gentleman was walking around Monument Circle. Anyone who would acknowledge his presence, he asked if they had anything to spare.
I caught his gaze and we stopped to talk to him.
We learned his story.
He had been on the streets for years since his mother died. When she passed, everything fell apart. The depression enveloped him. The hopelessness his constant companion. He couldn’t find his way out.
We gave him some money and told him what a beautiful smile he had. What kind eyes. And moreover, what a blessing his story and his presence had been to us that day.
We shared our love of Jesus.
I asked if I could give him a hug.
His eyes watered and he replied a choked up “yes”.
I held him for a moment and prayed that God would continue to provide for this man. And for that space in time, I felt I was hugging my brother, all those miles away.
Emma, too, offered a loving embrace.
The man wept as we stood close in the chilly, evening air.
“I haven’t been touched by another human being for six months.” he said.
We prayed with him and then parted ways.
A weaving of souls into a beautiful tapestry.
A mingling of lives. Edges meet. Inside and outside the box.
God working His Story in this hurt and broken world.
…
This is one of my favorite Thanksgiving memories to date.
This meeting was not by happenstance. Nor coincidence. It was truly a gift to me. As if God’s Sovereignty had come down from Heaven to hold my aching and burdened heart that night.
These chapters of our lives are so impeccably orchestrated, that we can only be still and watch with awe and gratitude.
So, no matter which side of the cardboard you find yourself, may you have a beautiful, blessed, and learned Thanksgiving.
My Sweet Louise 
Please share your thoughts.