Thanksgiving weekend was wonderful, truly wonderful; one of those interludes where one emerges feeling like a completely different (and better) person than one was going in.
I spent the long weekend in North Georgia, submerged in a heavenly mix of nature and civilization; exertion and relaxation; solitude and companionship; comfort and discomfort. Couldn't ask for better, really.
I spent Thursday and Friday hiking; almost 20 miles total, between the two days, and did it ever feel good. There's just something about getting out into the mountains, away from the noise and far from the madding crowd - it works wonders, every time. I think it has something to do, for me, anyway, with the stability that they represent. Life has this way of growing ever more complicated; things, circumstances, people change... The world flies around in this state of perpetual commotion... The noise of society reaches a fever pitch... And then I drive those winding, mountain roads and look, and there they are, just the same as they always were (well, to my naked eye, anyway), untouched and unmoved by the storms that have passed over them, the headlines that have screamed around them, the battles that have been fought and the earth-shattering events that have transpired while they stood there, just as they always have. Really, for me, they stand as a parable of the unchanging faithfulness of my Heavenly Father, and what a great, great comfort that is.
Plus, hiking solo is just plain a great opportunity to think - about plans and priorities, where one has been and where one is going, those sorts of things; especially here at the end of the year. (Of course, that moment always comes when the brain quits indulging in the luxury of thinking and instead focuses on just trying to force screaming lungs to gasp for oxygen and aching feet to take one painful step after another.) Plus, you meet the coolest people on the trail, from the friendly AT-hikers overtaken filtering stream water, to the trail angel in the Springer Mountain parking lot, to the two dudes just back from a 34-day backpacking trip in Southeast Asia, to the three cheerful hunting buddies roaming the mountain looking for bear, to the sweet, slightly overweight and under-prepared couple who drove me around a mountain in the Chattahoochee National Forest in the pitch-dark for an hour, looking for my car... But that's another story.
In any case, spending two days hiking was literally heavenly and long overdue. Plus, burning all those calories meant I could tuck into a
Dillard House dinner, guilt-free.
I got to spend a day with Andrew and Katie, really just relaxing - eating breakfast at Bronx Bagels, exploring Avalon (Alpharetta's newest lifestyle development), poking around downtown Decatur, wandering the aisles of the vast Dekalb Farmers Market, discovering the utter awesomeness that is Kudzu Antique Market (I shall return!), and savoring the exquisite tasting menus, with their riffs on classic Southern flavors, at Restaurant Eugene, in downtown Buckhead.
Omelet topped with caviar
Sweet potatoes and a mess of greens, yes sir!
Crisped, fried rice and a perfectly poached egg
Probably the single most pivotal part of my weekend, though, was the day that I spent on the streets. I've always been deeply moved whenever I've watched films or read books addressing poverty and inequality; I'm always left weeping and with a determination to get out there and
do something, and yet, somehow, life and routine have this way of creeping in and chipping away at those good intentions. So, needless to say, it caught my attention when my friend Justin started telling me about a
street ministry he had been introduced to; this weekend turned out to be the perfect opportunity to investigate.
For starters, to get a better understanding of what this ministry is all about, feel free to check out the website I've linked to above or Google "Pastor 7 Atlanta", but long story short, The Lord reached down with a mighty hand and rescued a cold, hard sinner from a desperate, miserable life of crime and drugs and prison and set him on a path to eternal life. This guy just couldn't keep the good news inside, so he decided to go back into the same places he once inhabited, the poorest and most dangerous parts of inner-city Atlanta, and feed the hungry, both literally and spiritually; the work he started has been steadily growing ever since.
From a logistical standpoint, our task was simple - we were to load up in our vehicles and follow the ministry van into what is known as The Bluff, one of the most infamous drug neighborhoods in the city. We'd stop at about five or six different pre-arranged locations, ranging from parking lots to abandoned buildings to housing projects, hand out sack lunches, pray with whoever we came into contact with, and share the love of Jesus.
I'm still not entirely certain that my command of the English language is enough to put words to what that day was like, but it was important enough to me that I have to try. Let me start by saying it wasn't fun. It was a day marked by profound discomfort and a powerful desire to turn and run, back to safety and comfort, away from the dark ugliness and poverty that I saw all around me. For starters, this comfortably middle-class white girl who has never known true want or fear her entire life, was completely horrified at the conditions she saw her fellow human beings living in, right under the shadow of the interstates and shopping malls and megaplexes that are as commonplace and familiar as her own backyard. I'm not kidding here. Google "The Bluff Atlanta" and check out the images - this is no exaggeration; it really looks (and smells and sounds) like this. And I'm serious - in the event a person forgets that they're in the heart of America, all they have to do is look up and see the same stadiums and high-rises and shopping centers that one passes while traveling I-75. This dreadful, poverty-stricken alternate universe lurks literally right under our noses as we cruise by in our comfortable, climate-controlled vehicles at 79 miles per hour, and we don't even know it.
So, yes, I felt anger, at a nation who prides itself on being the world's policeman and yet who allows this kind of misery, right in its own backyard. But there was more, far more. I heard an elderly woman sing Amazing Grace at the top of her lungs, head thrown back, like she really meant it, in the middle of an abandoned parking lot. I saw and heard former addicts and drug dealers stand in the middle of a circle of believers and read God's Holy Word, followed up with those familiar lines, "and that means to me..." I saw a young thug, anger and mistrust distorting his features, swagger up to the food line, snatch his lunch and move away and thought about the fact that he was one of the very lost lambs that Jesus left the ninety and nine to go find. I held hands with complete strangers and lifted up Jesus' name, in prayer and in song. I played human taxi to a little fellow who climbed on my back and refused to let me put him down until we left - he issued orders while devouring a donut, and I toted him around and held all of his goodies, and we sang the Potato Chip Song. I saw a father stand quietly, his hands on his children's heads, listening to the Gospel. I saw a very little boy, far too old for his years, curse and shove a little girl, and I grieved, because how does a little one know to behave that way, unless he sees it acted out in front of him by the adults in his life? I listened as one young man, just newly turned away from dealing dope, told me his dreams, his hopes of getting his GED and then learning heating and air-conditioning or welding, of building a new life for himself, clean, sober, and giving glory to the One who saved him. I hugged and hugged and hugged, people like me, and people who, I confess, I might be tempted to cross the street to avoid in my everyday life. I wrapped my arms around people whose history and way of life was a complete mystery to me, and I talked to my Jesus, out loud, on their behalf. I looked into eyes and I saw them fill, with tears and with hope. And, in the process, through all of that, through what I saw and heard and did, I could feel my soul expanding, right before my very eyes.
I thought about it later. 7 Bridges bills itself as an organization that reaches out to the lost and broken of Atlanta and beyond, and welcomes the help of any and all who wish to participate in that mission. We kind of naturally classify who falls into which category: the poor and homeless and downtrodden fall under the "lost and broken" heading and church-goers and families and civic groups fall under the "helper" heading. As I watched some of those church-goers, though, a different picture started to emerge. I saw in their faces some of the same discomfort and awkwardness that I felt, and I saw eagerness and excitement start to dawn as they too began to realize the mighty power of God that we as believers can so easily take for granted and what that power can do in lives that so desperately need Him. It got me thinking - maybe what 7 Bridges is doing is much, much bigger than just ministering to the hungry, literally speaking. Maybe, in addition, they're providing an opportunity for those of us who have maybe gotten a little complacent in our walks to get "on fire" again, to open our eyes to what The Lord is ready and willing to do, even in our own lives. So everybody gets fed, really. Some get lunch and a hug and an opportunity to meet their Creator for the first time, and some get a chance to fall in love with their Savior all over again. That's a pretty good day's work, I'd say.
I will say this much, and I say this especially to those of you reading this who are, like me, blessed to live a wonderful, prosperous, comfortable life serving Jesus. There is a big, big, hurting, dying world out there that is starving to know the true and living God. I've never been so thankful for the blessing of having known Him all of my life, for having learned his ways since I was a child, and for the truth of his Word. I've also never felt such a burden to share the good news, because this world needs it, bad. And I understand more than ever before that sharing that good news might involve some discomfort and a willingness to step outside one's bubble of security. What good is the Gospel if we only tell it to ourselves and to people who look and sound and smell just like us?
I don't know where this road will lead, but I know that if I follow Him, it will be glorious.
Anyway, Andrew and Katie arrived ahead of me, so once I'd dropped my bags at our super-cool (wink, wink) hotel located smack next to the World Trade Center construction site, I set off to find them so we could embark upon our first eating adventure. It was just the three of us, this first night; my brother Dan and his wife Emily were scheduled to arrive the next morning. We decided to hit this Asian noodle place in the East Village that Andrew (who spent a few weeks in the city taking a culinary class a couple of summers ago, lending him a certain amount of street cred) had been raving about. Now, to be honest, I am a noodle-lover (yes to all of that carby goodness) but not an Asian-cuisine lover. The best response I can generally muster to a white styrofoam box full of General Tso's Chicken from Hong Yip or Fu King is a tepid shrug. I'll eat it, but don't expect much by way of passion. That being said, I can say without qualification that my bowl of Spicy Lamb Noodles (please do not expect me to remember, let alone pronounce, the linguistically correct name) and accompanying Spicy Tiger Salad was the most delicious Asian food I have ever eaten in my entire life. I even include sushi in that statement, and I like sushi pretty well. Long story short, those fantastically chewy, hand-torn noodles, redolent with warm spices and rich lamb flavor, counterbalanced by the cool, herbal crunch of the salad, were really, really, really good. Totally, totally worth braving the claustrophobic interior of the place. Besides, there is something that feels so authentically...New York about sitting, back propped against the curb (it did occur to me to wonder how much dog pee I was sitting in), chopsticks in hand, slurping noodles from plastic to-go containers. I liked it.
We had to burn a few calories so we could justify dessert, so we walked uptown, intending to climb to the top of the Empire State Building for the nighttime view, which was totally not worth fifty bucks and a two-hour wait, so we skipped it. We did, however, venture onto Times Square, which I don't care if I ever set foot in again. What a gross monument to everything that is disgusting about American consumerism. I also had a chance to walk into Grand Central Station, which is positively stunning in its grandeur. Even the bathroom signs are carved in marble. But enough of all of that; the real reason for the season was dessert, which we found at ChikaLicious Dessert Club, where I picked up a slice of Vanilla Mille Crepe cake (literally a pile of crepes layered with vanilla pastry creme). Katie and Andrew collaborated on a Meyer Lemon Dough'Ssant (a riff on the Cronut, which is actually Dominique Ansel's trademark, and whose out-of-control popularity is demonstrated by a knockoff for sale at Dunkin Donuts, of all places), a tasty banana custard pie, and something else, which I can't tell you anything about, because Andrew doesn't believe in food-sharing, which is totally ridiculous if you ask me. That, coupled with some brown water from the hotel's espresso machine, savored in the splendor of the luxurious lobby, made for a real pleasant nightcap. 
