Discovering that my love is not great...

This morning, we got up too early to join our homeschool group in the glass lobby of the Lila Cockrell Theater.

We were there to sit audience for the dress rehearsal of the Nutcracker ballet. The opening scene isn't part of the deal, but we only pay $5 for a ticket--so there are no complaints. The girls were decked out in their prettiest Christmas-colored garb and happy enough to sit around for a half hour waiting to be seated because they were waiting with fun, new friends.

After the production, we walked down the block and ate lunch at Shilo's Delicatessen. It's closed eight out of ten times that we try to stop in--usually evenings and Sundays--but they were open today! I was pleasantly surprised at my vegetarian croissant sandwich, but the little girls didn't care much for their potato pancakes and applesauce.

As we ate, our attention was turned to three young servicemen in camouflage studying the menu outside our booth window. They debated among themselves for a long while before coming in for a round of lunch specials and water. Twenty minutes later our hearts were warmed to see them file past the register without stopping to pay because another patron had picked up their tab anonymously.

As we left, Cuddlebug meekly inquired about a boat ride on the Riverwalk. A mild day, nowhere we have to be, a resident discount, no lines and three sweet smiles quietly awaiting my answer. It was the perfect storm. This is their victory procession to the ticket stand where I will have to borrow $15 cash money from my 8-year old because they're not taking debit today.

I do not know why my 8-year old is carrying around $15 cash money. We keep emptying that wallet into safer places, and it keeps filling up with money--like the widow and her oil. I blame the grandmas.

Back on street level, we ducked into St. Joseph's Downtown Church. It was beautifully adorned with tapestries, paintings and stained glass as was the way to share the Gospel with worshippers before publishing and literacy were commonplace. The beautiful sanctuary was also riddled with at least a dozen life-sized statues, and Fifi's demeanor gave me concern.

I worried that she might be sick or faint dead away before we left.

We reverently walked the perimeter of the room, not daring to sit in a pew, and came upon a man unpacking his bedroll and backpack on a bench. As he wriggled his left arm out of its strap, I took note that his shirt was ripped the length of his torso. Clearly, this place was more his home than mine, and so I said nothing and continued on my way to the exit.

We passed the "poor boxes," and swiped a tourist information sheet on the way out.

Thinking back, I don't know why it didn't occur to me in the moment to give the girls some bills or coins to slide into those boxes. They kept asking about the boxes. They whispered about the boxes. They noticed every one of the boxes.

"Mommy, why does that say "poor box?"

"Mommy, how do you put money in there without a key for the lock?"

Once at the back of the sanctuary, another homeless man held the door for us. I greeted him with a smile and a "good afternoon," but we must have been too close, still, to the sacred place because he did not respond.

Back on the curb again, Fifi strung together her impressions the best she could. It sounded something like, "Mommy, people like that would never think to come into any of our churches."

It is sad and she is right. Our churches are all locked. There is no steeple. There are no people. We are grieved and talk through our feelings. Inaccessibility in the protestant church is a hard truth to swallow. Especially when it's coupled with childish indignation at the idea of taxes going toward government-sponsored social programs. My question then becomes, "O.k. then, Christian--what are you doing about it?"

And on our way home, we exited the freeway near our suburban neighborhood, and I met a man who busted my heart wide open...

to be continued