Dear Friends,

Ronnie moved to a better living situation in Chicago, with a friend he met at our Monday dinners. Jasmine took little Malcolm to the projects on the other side of town. Nick and Coral bought a house in a place where buying a house makes sense for a young couple. The Brooks family’s eviction turned into a state-subsidized apartment and a job for TT, but not near us. Adam and Larita moved away, too; our intentional community and this neighborhood worked great for him, but not for her, hard as we all tried. My kids are gone, too, of course, both of them in Los Angeles chasing down dreams of their own. What can I say? Walnut Hills is a hard place to stay, and an even harder place to come back to.

The four households at the center of our little fellowship are more grounded here, of course, but the older I get the less I trust the constancy of anything but change. All I know for sure is that our being here together for this long has been good for at least some of the people who have come and gone from this neighborhood. And that it’s been good for us, too, on balance.

The other day Mark told me Michael and Judy are taking their three little ones back down South in a few weeks. Given all the drama they’ve brought into Mark and Anne’s lives—addictions, adultery, debt crises, screaming fights, separations, nervous breakdowns, multiple house moves, custody battles with former spouses, and more—I thought Mark might be more relieved by this news, but the fact is that he loves Michael like a younger brother, and counts on him now as a hardworking friend. In a real sense, Mark and Anne have conspired to make Michael and his family eminently missable in a positive way.

Later that day I asked Judy about their moving date, so we could plan a going away party. Here is the text I got back:

We’re shooting for April 1. I’m sad, but this is better for the kids. This city makes you hard and I don’t want them to fall into something Michael and I can’t get them out of. I don’t really want a big fuss about us leaving because I’ve got bad anxiety when I’m the center of attention, but I’ll just have to take a Valium that night because you guys have been good to us and we would not be able to go back home if you had not helped us grow out of our old lives.

If that text doesn’t make you cry, it’s only because you don’t know Michael and Judy, or what they’ve been through, or how much compassion and patience they’ve required of Mark and Anne, or what it means that they’re finally making family decisions based on their kids’ futures instead of their own pasts. Regardless, amidst all the coming and going here in Walnut Hills, I hope it makes you think.

Here’s what I think: Nothing in this world lasts forever, except perhaps for that great chain of love that stretches beyond our individual lives and ties them all together. So then, for however long someone lives in our neighborhood, or we in theirs, it is always worth the trouble to try to wrap both them and ourselves in that chain.

Your friend,

Bart

PS Because many of you have asked for an update on my peacemaking work with the Telos Group, I’m sending you another letter about that in a few hours. Think of it as a kind of long, very optional PS. Honestly, the fact that anyone reads these letters at all is both a surprise and an honor for me.

PPS As some of you know, my son Roman is in Hollywood these days, making his way in the entertainment industry. A few weeks ago he booked a speaking part as a wannabe rapper on an episode of TNT’s cop drama, Southland, which airs at 10 pm on April 3rd. If you watch, please help the kid out by giving him a shoutout on Southland’s Facebook page. And remember, he’s acting!

Dear Friends,

I realize this message may get lost in the sea of holiday appeals, but I promise I’m not asking for anything but a little understanding.

The day before Thanksgiving, Marty and I stopped by the neighborhood supermarket. On our way in, we met Benjamin Reed, the father of a great new family in our fellowship, who gave Marty a huge smile and me a big hug. Ben and his wife rent a house with his sister and her husband, and between the two couples there are at least ten kids who are not yet 15, one of whom our friend Adam teaches at the local elementary school. There’s a different lineup every time they come to dinner, but they always bring a lot of good energy.

This time Ben was alone, so we were able to stop and chat a bit, about their holiday traditions and our kids being home from California. As we parted, Ben thanked us again for bringing them into the group, and we told him again how much we all love having them. It was nice.

A few minutes later, inside the store, Marty and I ran into Terry, who left our fellowship three or four years ago after one too many conflicts and disappointments. Honestly, I get tired just thinking about all the doctors, police officers, counselors, teachers, landlords, and welfare officers I dealt with during my long, quixotic campaign to make life better for Terry and her daughter Tanya. All I know for sure is that by the end of it Terry, Tanya, and I could barely stand to look at each other. Indeed, more than anyone else in Walnut Hills, those two taught me that trying to help someone who isn’t trying to help herself is one of the surest ways to wreck a friendship.

Fortunately, all that drama was a long time ago, and Terry doesn’t hold a grudge. Every time I see her now she’s warm and engaging…and I mind my own business. This time she asked about Roman’s rapping and happily reported that Tanya was out on her own, up to God knows what but at least out of her hair. I could have said lots of things, but I settled for “Happy Thanksgiving” and moved on.

On our way home, as Marty and I reflected on the contrast between our relationships with Ben and Terry, the value of offering fellowship and connection unsullied by handouts and hidden agendas, and the wisdom we’ve gained over all these years of trying to love our neighbors in this broken place, I held something back. Honestly, nearly a month later, I still haven’t told Marty the truth. She’ll read it when you do.

In that grocery store, just before we ran into Terry, I was still thinking about Ben and his family, and about how little was in his cart, and I was trying to figure out some not-too-awkward way for us to buy him and his household a big turkey and all the other fixings. Instead of simply accepting Ben’s friendship, in spite of all we’ve been through with Terry and dozens more like her, and even though nobody was asking, I still wanted to help.

Here is my confession: I always want to help, and not always because somebody needs it.

And here is my Christmas wish: That I would want to love other people—really love them—even more than I want to help them.

Sincerely,
Bart

P.S. My other Christmas wish is for you to know how grateful I am for your kindness and encouragement. Thanks for staying with me.

Dear Friends,

A few months ago I told you about my new job with the Telos Group, but I didn’t share very much about the work itself. Well, buckle your seatbelts, because I’m about to remedy that oversight.

My new team’s name is probably the best place to start. In ancient Greek, the word “telos” describes a unique purpose or goal that is rooted in a fundamental principle, towards which all intentions and energies are singularly focused. Ours—and there are six of us—is the freedom, security, and dignity of every human being in the Holy Land, which makes us genuinely pro-Israeli, pro-Palestinian, and pro-peace, all at the same time.

Simply stated, we believe that one of the most important keys to the Middle East welfare of everyone—including the United States—is a viable two-state solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. That makes us pro-American too, which is a good thing because such a solution will never be reached without significant help from the United States.

Unfortunately, while Americans of faith—and especially American evangelicals—are among the most influential stakeholders in the region, most have never met either an Israeli or a Palestinian, or encountered both Israeli and Palestinian perspectives. On the contrary, important segments of the American faith community persistently advocate for one-sided solutions to the conflict and educate the next generation about it in complete isolation from the peoples and present realities of the Holy Land.

We at Telos are reversing that reality by taking influential Americans from across the political and theological spectra on high-touch, multi-narrative pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and by bringing Israeli and Palestinian leaders and activists to the United States on speaking tours. Then, as more Americans come to know and care deeply about people on all sides, we inspire and equip them to build genuinely pro-Israeli, pro-Palestinian, pro-peace movements in their own communities, aimed at radically improving the way America relates to that part of the world.

It is going to take time, of course, to win over enough American hearts and minds to really transform the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Time alone won’t do it, though. Recruiting more people into active peacemaking will take leadership too, especially with a situation as complicated and controversial as this one. That, of course, is where Telos comes in.

I am no Middle East expert, obviously, but the two men who founded Telos—Palestinian-American lawyer Greg Khalil and former Bush State Department staffer Todd Deatherage—are not only experts, but also highly respected leaders, both in Washington, DC, and on the ground in the region. They teach me more about the conflict each day, but they are relying on me to better communicate our vision and help them build a genuine movement for Holy Land peace among Christians in this country.

That movement is growing already, but Telos itself is still a small team of specialized leaders relying on the generosity of a few big donors. That made sense in the beginning, but now that we are impacting communities all over the country, it’s time to build a broader base of support. That, of course, is where you come in.

Please, take a few moments to look through the updated Telos website, including Greg and Todd’s brand new blog, Radically Centered. If what we are doing makes sense to you, and if the security, dignity, and freedom of every human being in the Holy Land matters to you, and especially if you believe in me as a leader, then now is the time to get involved. Really, a commitment of $10 or $20 per month, along with your good word of mouth, would make all the difference. Even if you can’t give, it would mean a lot to me if you just joined the Telos email list.

Can you earmark your gifts to specifically support my work? Yes…and I hope you do, by putting my name in the earmark box. As you know, a few months ago Telos almost couldn’t hire me because a grant fell short. Even now, unless my outreach efforts produce more donors as well as more active peacemakers, this may be a very short run for me.

On both my trips to Israel-Palestine this past year, I met strong families and beautiful children on both sides of the Green Line, whose hopes and happiness are being systematically crushed by a situation that doesn’t really work for either side, and that doesn’t work at all for the rest of the world. Together, I believe we can help transform that situation.

Remember, the best kind of history is made by those who commit themselves to a righteous cause while it still seems impossible.

Your friend,

Bart

P.S. In case you are wondering, yes, Marty and I are still living and loving our neighbors here in Walnut Hills. The motley little fellowship I usually tell stories about in these letters is and always has been a voluntary project, even for us. So then, be sure to join the Telos email list if you want to follow my peacemaking work, because I’ll just be telling more neighborhood stories on this one.

Dear Friends,

I am walking to the grocery store on purpose. It is a bright new day in Walnut Hills, and I want to feel good about this place and its people. Driving would be faster, but the sun is warm on my back and I want to smile admiringly at somebody’s child and make them feel good too.

Last night’s thunderstorm has scrubbed the air clean. On my way I pass some corner boys who, if not entirely transformed by the freshness, are at least feeling friendly enough to return my straight-backed nods and greetings. At the bus stop across the street, an old, bent over woman follows me with her eyes until I stop and risk a wave. She waves back. Now I wish Marty was with me.

Up ahead I see the first stroller coming, but it is worse than no good. The young woman pushing it is on the phone, and I judge her completely at 20 yards. Sure enough, she doesn’t lower her voice: “…yeah, so I tol’ that mothafuckah’ he better back the fuck off, ‘cuz I ain’ taking no more of his bitch-ass sorry shit…”. Her three-year-old must hear it too, but his blank expression gives away nothing as they pass.

In my mind I begin to follow them home, surveying the damage, telling the boy’s future, but then I stop myself. I should judge myself too, but I don’t. The day is young, and I still want to feel good. I wipe the slate clean and move on.

The grocery store parking lot is usually a minefield of petty hustlers and domestic conflict, so I keep my eyes on the big electric doors until I almost reach them, and suddenly there she is on the sidewalk, six or seven years old and all dressed up for a party, her hair tied back with pink ribbons.

Really, she looks like the little black girl in that Norman Rockwell painting, except this one is standing next to a grocery cart, lovely and serious, looking for her mother, whose car pulls up a moment later. Then the little girl smiles, and her mother smiles back, and I know in an instant that neither needs me to make them feel good. Even so, I can‘t resist.

“That child is absolutely beautiful,” I say to the mother, who thanks me kindly. “You look like a princess!” I say to the girl in my safe adult voice, and if I didn’t know better I would say the little princess curtsies. They load their groceries and drive away, and I go inside to buy my milk and eggs, glad to be here. Mission accomplished.

Then, on my way home, a bass-pounding Cadillac full of young men pulls up beside me, spewing misogyny, cigarette smoke, and general menace, and I am at it again, spewing judgement in equal measure. I know it is dangerous to turn and show my contempt, but I am so angry at being robbed of my peace that I do just that. Sure enough, the hoodlums in the car begin talking loudly and gesturing in my direction, but then the light changes and they drive away too. In a moment, even their thudding bass is gone.

Back home, in the Bible on our coffee table, Jesus’ brother James says, “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”

A few feet away, in the poetry collection on our bookshelf, William Edward Hickson says, “If at first you don’t succeed / Try, try, try again.”

I have two more blocks to go, before Marty meets me in the kitchen. Please, God, let the sun shine on Walnut Hills for a little while longer. And please, God, let me pass another stroller. And please, God, if you can manage it, let whoever is pushing it be out of minutes.

Sincerely,

Bart

Dear Friends,

Every morning this week, Marty and I have woken up happy, knowing that Bug (Gerald) and Toot (Sharinasia) are safely asleep in the next room, and that they’ll start smiling and saying cute things the second we wake them up. They’ll smell good too, from last night’s ‘baths and potty before stories and kisses’ routine. It’s been a long time since we had a five- or six-year-old for this long, let alone one of each, and we are enjoying every hug, spill, and tickle war. By the time we drop them off at day camp, however, we are awfully grateful for the six hour respite from their nonstop energy. Caring for Bug and Toot this way is one of the great blessings of our life in Walnut Hills, but it’s a good thing their older brother and sister are away at sleepover camp this week.

What isn’t a blessing right now is caring for Bug and Toot’s parents, Patrice and Frankie, who are homeless again through every fault of their own. We could make room for them too, of course, but we won’t take them – or their 2 month old – in because we know it won’t help. Nothing will help, really, unless Patrice stops having babies and Frankie stops blowing jobs and both of them stop getting arrested and going to jail. They love their kids, mind you, but only the way a child loves puppies, showering them with affection and trusting someone else will feed and house them.

For years our friends here and Marty and I have done everything we can think of to move Patrice and Frankie in a better direction, but they are too damaged by their own families to seize opportunities, and too young and proud to simply take our direction. So on Friday, after the older ones get back from camp, we will drop off all four of those impossibly beautiful kids at whatever shelter or friend’s apartment Patrice and Frankie are at that night, knowing full well that it is just a matter of time before they get swept up in the same system that wrecked their parents.

Tonight, though, Bug and Toot and Marty and I will make chocolate chip cookies and watch a Veggie Tales video. And then, after the kids are tucked in and the toys are put away, Marty and I will lie in bed and talk each other through every possibility all over again, even though we both know better. We’ll love those kids every minute we have them, and we’ll love them every minute we don’t, whether or not it makes one bit of difference in the end.

Are we crazy? Of course we are. And so are you, I’ll bet.

Keep the faith,

Bart

Dear Friends,

Since M. Scott Peck’s The Road Less Traveled has been on the NY Times bestseller list for more than 25 years, chances are slim that I can get away with stealing his opening line. So then, I’m going with one of my own:

Call me Ishmael.

What I mean, of course, is simply this: Life is difficult.

When I first read Peck’s book in college, I couldn’t very well relate to his assertion that life—everybody’s life—is a series of problems. As a new Christian ripe with confidence in my religion, I thought we only had or caused problems when and because we failed to obey God. It never occurred to me that some suffering might be a legitimate part of the gift, or that our sins mostly came from trying to avoid or escape from right and natural problems instead of meeting them head on.

This is not another story about the peculiar difficulties of our inner-city neighbors, or about our little community’s most recent efforts to meet their needs. On the contrary, right now we would-be do-gooders are the ones in pain.

One of us has some really bad cancer. Another just fell hard off the wagon. One of us is grieving the loss of her husband. Another just had her heart broken. A few of us are deeply and justifiably worried about our kids or about our parents. A few of us need new jobs. A few of us are no longer sure what we believe.

We are not in such pain because we are so compassionate, or so generous, or so sensitive to the poverty and brokenness that surrounds us. No, the reason my friends here and I are hurting so much these days is just that we are alive, like everybody else.

Really, this stuff is par for the course for any small group of human beings, whether or not they’ve done anything especially right or wrong. Maybe things are especially hard around here, but then again, maybe you and yours are in even more dire straights. Life is difficult, after all.

I picked up The Road Less Traveled again the other day, to see if there was anything useful beyond the famous first line I’ve finally embraced. As much as I appreciated Peck’s description of the four tools for meeting our problems—delaying of gratification, acceptance of responsibility, dedication to truth, and balancing—what struck me most was his definition of love as the will to use them.

Before I became a Christian, I thought love was just an emotion, but my ministry mentors quickly taught me that love was more of a verb, something that you do for others. After many years of ‘doing’ love, however, and especially here in Walnut Hills, where such doing accomplishes so little, I like the idea that love actually consists in the determination which precedes both feelings and actions. I like the idea that love is the choice to confront life’s suffering head on.

In this case, I expect my friends and I will close ranks, doing our best to take care of each other the same ways happy families and similar groups have always taken care of each other. I expect we’ll take turns listening, praying, driving, sharing food, babysitting, crying, getting tired, arguing, and letting each other off the hook.

Frankly, I’m not sure how much extra time and energy we’ll have to share with our even more vulnerable neighbors, but eventually we’ll get back to them, and in the meantime perhaps watching us face down our problems together will draw them to our fellowship in a different way. I hope so, anyway.

I also hope that those of you who read these letters are at least a little bit encouraged by this one. As different as our circumstances may seem to be, all our lives are difficult, or will be soon enough. And, not coincidentally, all our lives are precious and beautiful, too. Really, I’m glad we’re all in this world at the same time.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

I know, that doesn’t even make sense, but still, it was worth a try.

Your friend,
Bart

Dear Friends,

I was on the third floor of our house a few weeks ago, talking on the phone, when I noticed a small hole in the wall over my desk. I didn’t think much of it until a few hours later, when I opened the drapes and found matching holes in the double-paned window behind me. I connected the dots, of course; the bullet wouldn’t have hit me if Marty and I had been home the night before, but it surely would have freaked us out.

Instead, it just made us feel stupid. Really, despite all the guns, alcohol, and ignorance in this neighborhood, chances are slim that anyone in my family will get shot. On the other hand, if something really bad ever does happen, we’re going to look like total idiots for staying, especially when we so often wonder what difference it makes.

Marty and I planned to keep the matter to ourselves. When Roman called home from college, however, I ended up telling him I wasn’t sure the rewards here were worth the risks. Before I knew it, he was giving me my own pep talk.

“Come on, Pops,” he said, “it’s definitely worth it. Think about all the people in that neighborhood who are better off because of the fellowship. Their lives still may be totally messed up, but they get to be part of something good, they have really positive friendships they would never have on their own, and they have something special to look forward to every week. What you guys do there matters.”

Hearing that from my son made me feel better, of course, but it took more than that to convince me.

Every year or so, we give folks two weeks’ notice to get ready for what may be the world’s oddest show-and-tell talent show. It is mainly for the kids, of course, but we encourage everyone to participate in some way, and pretty much everyone does. One year Nick brought his baseball glove and explained why he likes playing, Dre did a standing backflip, Emily burped on command, and little Majesty sang a Temptations song acapella. Last year Ronnie read an endless and incomprehensible science-fiction movie review until I finally got up and stopped him (and simultaneously instituted the much-beloved five-minute limit). Regardless, according to prior instruction everybody gets a huge ovation.

This year, as we cleared away the dinner plates and rearranged the chairs, I put my arm around Jimmy, a quiet old man who smoked and drank with our friend Chester, and who surprised us all by continuing to come to dinner after Chester died last year. Even so, none of us have had much success talking with Jimmy, and he still barely acknowledges us when we see him on the street. Mostly he seems to endure our company in exchange for a home-cooked meal.

“I’m glad you made it tonight, Jimmy,” I said. “Oh, I wouldn’t have missed it,” he replied with a smile. “I came to read my poem.” Really, you could have knocked me over with a feather at that point, but I didn’t let on. Instead, I gave my “applaud no matter what” speech and started the show.

Ronnie’s act was mercifully short this time, Zach played his harmonica, Marty showed off our beloved tandem bike, and Lexus read her A-plus science report on volcanoes before I finally called on Jimmy, half-expecting him to beg off at the last minute. Instead, he walked to the front of the room, pulled a dog-eared paper out of his jacket, and read aloud in a clear voice.

When Jimmy finished, we all sat in stunned silence for a moment before we began to cheer. “I haven’t heard that many words out of you in two years!” Mark called to him as he returned to his seat grinning. The show went on, of course, but I couldn’t get what Jimmy said out of my mind. Afterwards, however, he slipped away before I could thank him. Marty got the poem, though:

This Is The Place That My Friend Chester Harris Brought Me To
I Was Unsure And Didn’t Know What To Do
But Now That Bart And Marty Have Helped Me Through
With All The Good Loving And All The Good Food
I Have A New Loving Family And Christian Love Too.

We framed it, of course, and hung it right where it belongs, covering the bullet hole over my desk.

Keep the faith,

Bart

Dear Friends,

Our little fellowship is a motley crew, but we get along pretty well. I’m not saying we don’t have our share of irritation and conflict, but between our various faith commitments and our various experiences of failure and disappointment, we generally have plenty of grace to draw on when things go wrong. Which, around here, is almost always. I’m not sure how many Bible verses you could prove by us, but this one for sure: Love covers over a multitude of sins.

Then again, sometimes a multitude of little sins is a whole lot easier to cover than one great big one.

I would be lying if I said anyone was excited when Michael told us his wife Judy was pregnant again. After all, Michael and Judy were barely managing already, with three pre-schoolers, a slew of debts, convictions, and other children by other partners back in Georgia, and Michael working only sporadically as a welder. He’s a long way from his drug-dealing, meth-addict days, and she’s closing in on her certification and a job as a bookkeeper, but all that growth has required lots of investment already, and as a family they still have a long way to go. As Michael knew better than anyone, another baby wasn’t part of the plan.

When I chided him for not using protection, Michael said that Judy caught him off guard just once, after a long hiatus, and immediately became pregnant again. I must be the unluckiest man alive, he told me.

Of course, no matter how inconvenient they are in theory, babies have a way of making themselves welcome once they are born. By the time Michael and Judy brought little Janine home from the hospital, everyone wanted to hold her, and Michael most of all. After a few weeks, however, everyone who held her could see what Janine’s mother had managed to conceal until then: Michael isn’t the little girl’s father.

Honestly, at first I was afraid to talk to him about it. Michael is a big man, after all, with a short temper and a long history of violence. But then I found out he’d already talked about it with Austin, who in our fellowship plays the part of Michael’s big brother.

Austin told me Michael had long suspected that her ‘one night only’ offer was Judy’s way of buying time, but that instead of judging her infidelity, he had decided to forgive her and raise Janine as his own. That mess ain’t the baby’s fault, he told Austin, and besides, I done plenty’a worse things than her momma done in my time. It was just that simple.

I would be lying again if I said it would be that simple for me, or for Austin, or for any of the other less-vulnerable men in our group. We’re the ones who moved here on purpose, to shower our neighbors with that extra-strong, faith-based love we so like to talk about, but I daresay the folks we’ve dropped in on know better than any of us about covering one another’s sins. It would be easy enough to say that they just give each other more practice, but after watching Michael for the past few weeks, I think his kind of grace is less about what you learn to do and more to do with how you learn to think and feel about yourself.

Living in a place like Walnut Hills, it’s not hard for me to think of myself as a good man. It’s not hard for me to feel like a good man, either, or even for my love to cover a multitude of sins. To cover a great big sin, however, takes more than the love of a good man. What is takes is the love of a man who’s learned the hard way that when push comes to shove, he isn’t good enough.

God knows I’m getting there.

Bart

Dear Friends,

I may be the only one who’s noticed, but after writing monthly about our neighborhood for more than five years, I’ve managed just a single letter since last August. Part of the reason is that I couldn’t bear adding to the deluge of updates and solicitations pouring in between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day, but mainly I’ve been trying to find my way on Abraham’s Path and struggling with my demons here in Walnut Hills.

In case you’ve forgotten, Abraham’s Path is a cultural walking trail that traces the footsteps of Abraham across the Middle East. It is also the centerpiece of the Abraham’s Path Initiative, the international NGO I joined in June, thinking I was part of a radical shift towards cross-sector leadership development, interfaith outreach, and large-scale systems change.

What I ended up being part of instead was a mission-definition process which left API focused on developing an online knowledge base that invites and enables travelers to experience the Path, its various peoples, and the story of Abraham in a genuinely transformative way, and which left me, who knows practically nothing about social media or cultural tourism, looking for my next assignment.

Confusing as it was, my brief sojourn with API took me to some of the world’s most amazing places, introduced me to some of the world’s most wonderful people, and convinced me that I can be equally valued and useful for the common good outside of evangelical Christendom. What that sojourn didn’t do, however, was quiet my mind about my poor, unfortunate neighborhood. As much as I love my family, my little faith community, and our life together, this place and its people are really starting to get to me.

It’s good that most of you have been my friends long enough to already know what I mean, because I don’t feel like describing it again any more than you feel like reading it again. After all, nothing has changed since we started, including my personal sense of purpose.

I came here to love broken people, well aware that even though an individual might change once in a while, the self-defeating family s/he would need to escape to do so wouldn’t, nor the absurd ghetto subculture where a family like that makes sense. I always understood that our ministry would be more about hospice than healing.

So then, five years on, I’m not disillusioned; I’m just awfully tired. Marty’s tired too, in much the same way. For the first time in our lives, we’re wondering if engaging our neighbors this way is worth the romance, beauty, and hope that it daily costs us, or, even if it is, how much longer we can pay that price.

Strangely enough, we’re in no great hurry to answer that question. The rest of our lives—our kids, our little faith community, and all of you—sustain and enrich us so well that we have plenty of time to get it right. Until then, we’re just staying the course here, whether or not I remember how to write about it.

What we ARE in a hurry about is me finding that next assignment, career-wise! Not because money is tight—we’ve got savings and Eastern University has been very generous with both Miranda and Roman—but because doing meaningful, creative, fruitful Kingdom work outside this neighborhood has always been the best antidote for what ails me here.

Does that mean I’m open to new ideas and opportunities? You bet it does! I may no longer be a perfect fit for evangelical Christendom, but somewhere out there, somebody needs the kind of vision and leadership I’ve grown into over time. So then, if you’ve got something you think I should look at, go ahead and send it my way.

While you’re at it, go ahead and send a photo, too, since I’m sending you this one of us. I’m also sending you all our love and many thanks for the kindness and support you show us in so many ways.

Your friend,

Bart

Dear Friends,

Towards the end of our big community dinner last Monday, right in the middle of this crazy obstacle course game, time stood still just long enough for me to look around.

Up front, six-year-old Tanisha and her father TT were running the course together, laughing at each other while the rest of the group shouted directions and cheered them on. TT’s been in and out of jail for as long as I’ve known him, and he and his wife Gina are always on the edge of disaster, but their love for their kids is incredibly strong. I hate the way they parent, and I hate lots of the decisions they’ve made, but I can’t help rooting for that family, and not just in games.

At the back of the room, Gina’s brother Terrell was shouting encouragement, along with his best friend Robert. Terrell is only 5’5”, but he weighs more than 250 pounds, smokes like a chimney, and has a bad case of asthma that takes him to the emergency room four or five times a year. He’s a genuinely nice kid, though, and great with his nieces and nephews, which is a good thing since he is practically unemployable and will probably live with Gina and TT forever. Robert is genuinely nice too, which is no small thing for a nineteen-year-old boy in a neighborhood like ours.

A few rows up were Danielle and her daughter Jasmine, whose two-year-old son Malcolm happened to be squirming in my arms at the moment. He had been running into danger before I scooped him up like I used to scoop up Roman, without even thinking about it. Jasmine didn’t mind, of course, partly because she was so into the game, begging her mom to be her partner in the next round. She’s still a little girl herself, after all, though just last week she finally landed a job at McDonald’s. We’re all delighted about that, since none of us much liked Jasmine’s backup plan of stripping in bars. She’s better off here, playing kids’ games with people who love her.

On the other side of the room, Ronnie and Deandra were sitting next to one another. Ronnie’s an awkward twenty-something white guy who came to us out of a halfway house, angry, suspicious, and alone. Over the past two years, however, Ronnie has not only stayed sober; he’s grown up as well, into a bright, healthy, fun-loving young man who takes care of himself and cares about his friends. Among those friends is Deandra, a gregarious but physically broken fifty-something black woman whom our fellowship has kept safe and warm for years. Deandra was smiling that night, partly because, after many years of toothless frustration, she’s finally got dentures, and partly because she loves it when we all play games together like a big happy family. If you knew her real family, you’d understand why.

Out in the kitchen, my introverted next-door neighbor Ric was doing the dishes, happy for any excuse not to play the game, while my wife Marty, who cooked for 50 tonight as usual, sat with Ric’s wife Karen, laughing with some of the younger women in the group. Among them was nineteen-year-old Tasha, who we’ve collectively mentored for the past six years, and who is just about to move from her family’s overcrowded apartment into our fellowship’s community house. Tasha usually won’t play my games either, but she and Karen had taken a run at it earlier, just for fun.

There were thirty or so other people around me, too, all of them connected to me and to one another by a web of loving relationships so tangled and unlikely that I could never fully describe it in a way that makes sense. And yet, in that frozen moment, it all made sense to me. I’m not saying my friends and I don’t struggle with ourselves and one another, or that we know what we’re doing when it comes to living by faith, or even that a few of us might not have shown up drunk or high that night. I’m just saying that, for that one moment, it wasn’t very hard for me to believe that God was the One who brought us together, or that God was in that room, whooping it up with the rest of us, having the best time of all.

On the way home afterwards, as I decided whether to give Deandra the Oxycontin left over from my ankle surgery—believing that her daughter stole her own prescription—or whether she would just sell it for beer money once I dropped her off, everything went back to not making sense, and I wondered how God slipped away on our way to the car. But then I thought, so what? I had my moment, and I still have it.

So do you, I hope.

Bart