Ricardo and the Metal-head, Ukulele-playing, Mexican-American, Greaser-Crew

We call them the “Greasers.” They are about five or six freshmen and sophomore students who come to UrbanLife faithfully and call it home.  This summer, with less students around, I finally got to know this crew.  

All teenagers are trying to discover who they are and how they fit in.  It is just painfully and endearingly obvious with this group.  I mean, how many Mexican American teenagers do you see rocking Metallica t-shirts, slicking their hair with a black pocket-comb and strumming Hawaiian tunes on their ukuleles?  They long to be a part of a sub-culture.  And, whether they admit it or not, they long to fit in.

The “Greasers” also long to be known and loved.   

So where do I find a leader that can connect to this complicated crew?

In my own family.

Ricardo.

Ricardo has some chameleon-like qualities himself.

True stuff:  He is Mexican.  He is American.  As recent as last week, he had knotty dreadlocks. He (used to) slick his hair.  He owns a ukulele.  And what really matters: He can connect with just about anyone, anywhere.

Fresh off of 4 months of world travel, Ricardo is in the process of discovering his purpose.  At least a piece of it may be found in loving and serving this particular crew.

I am so proud of Ricardo.  I am proud of the way he befriended these guys.  I am proud of how he led them throughout the week.  I am proud of how he pushed them into new and often challenging and scary experiences.  I am proud of how he modeled confidence and the ability to cut loose.   

Would you pray with me for these guys?  Pray that God will use Ricardo in the coming school year as a safe and inspiring mentor in their lives.  Pray that Ricardo will also discover more of his giftedness through his leadership with the “Greasers.”

There was a moment at camp where incarnational ministry became real to me.  For the 1980’s dance party, the Greasers brought some metal rock music from that era on a CD.  They convinced the DJ to play it.  And I promised to take part in the mosh pit.   When the guitar came in, the dance floor mostly cleared.  In the middle, bumping and slamming into one another, was Ricardo, myself, a couple brave African American dudes, and the whole Greaser posse.   This was their world.  And we got to enter it, if only for half a song.

If the Greasers long to be a part of a sub-culture.

Why not the sub-culture of Christian disciples?

I am praying it goes down like that.

I can see it now:  

UrbanLife’s own Christ-following, Metal-head, Ukulele-playing, Mexican-American, Greaser-Posse.

Single Track Squeals

Courtney's hands gushed sweat the whole way up the mountain.  On the asphalt road, he tried hard to think about other things.  On the bumpy dirt road, the knots in his stomach got tighter and tighter.  If you had looked into his eyes, the fear would have been obvious.   But he wasn't about to admit it.  Not in that company:

Courtney had never learned to ride a bike.

The complication with the scenario, was that our cabin was headed for a single track, double black diamond mountain bike trail.  Once the van dropped us off, the only way back was down the trail.

I rode in the middle of the pack. Guys squealed like girls and brakes squealed like angry mice. Thrill seeped through their pores.

Courtney was more like a drunk driver though.  He struggled to stay on the track.  His near-collisions with  trees and boulders added up.   Somehow...someway...he made it through the forest trail.   He didn't even go over the handle bars.  He didn't even slide out.

At the bottom, he finally copped to one of us:  "I have never ridden a bike before."

Really Courtney?
That would have been good to know.
Dude: you b--a--r--e--l--y made it.
I'm glad you are safe.
I'm proud of you.


Camp is like this though.   This very dynamic is why we take youth out of the city and up into the mountains.   They experience new things.  They are faced with fears.  They overcome them.

And...they realize new giftings.  They begin to wonder who God created them to be.

I'm pretty sure Courtney is not believing God created him to be a downhill biker.  But he is beginning to wonder about his purpose.   He is starting to imagine how God might use his love of athletics (football & wrestling), his knack for busting rhymes, and his welcoming hospitable nature.

Call students to be all that God created them to be.

If this is all we do at UrbanLife, I am all in for a long long time.

Tag Team Back Again

Date nights are important for a marriage.
Quality time is essential.
 Fresh flowers should really show up now and again.
But serving in ministry together is like marital Miracle Grow. Very few things can fuel and synergize connection like being about the work of God, in the same space.  

Last week, Melissa and I served together, and it felt like old times.

Here why our world's collided:
UrbanLife's New Heights Project is one effort to develop young leaders from within neighborhood.   College-aged students are paid as interns to lead emerging high school leaders.   These high school leaders are, in turn, asked to pull off activities and events for the younger kids in the neighborhood.  Vacation Bible School and Refugee Tutoring Day Camps are a couple of these.

As the acting co-director of Refugee Tutoring at Ibarra Elementary, Melissa was asked to share background and advice for working with elementary refugee students in East City Heights.  She may downplay it, but her voice was critical.   It has taken a couple years to establish relationships, build profiles and track academic progress of these 30+ students.  Her advice and experience go a long way.

She surprised a few of them with:
"You will work with students from nearly 15 different countries."
"Some of them never held a pencil until they arrived in the US."
"In elementary (SD Unified) there are few ESL interventions for new arrivals.  Their English skills are so low, many teachers don't know what to do."
"Some may act as if they do not understand any English when you ask them to do something :) "


While Melissa taught a group of students that I work closely with, I sat in the back.
My thoughts went a little something like this:

"Man, she knows her stuff."
"God is clearly leading us, as a family, into this work!"
"I have an amazing teammate."
"Geez... I really love this gal!"

Thankful today for a tag team-mate.

"It was Awesome."

It was a gut-level, enthusiastic response to my wife's text.

  

 

She was blown away with my response.  Up until now, moments with students have been encouraging, conversations surprising, gatherings energetic.  But never awesome.
More frequently the adjectives I use are less positive. Small group conversations are circuitous.  Rides home are rowdy. Evening meetings are both fun and difficult.

But this time, it, "Was awesome."

This day reeked of awesome-ness on a number of levels:

1. 9 of my friends got out of the neighborhood for the afternoon.
2. We experienced a classic summer day in San Diego.
3. 11 people fit in our minivan.   It has a capacity of 8.
4. The event was virtually free (minus the footlong subway sandwiches).
5. Over-the-line (a San Diego originated beach game) was a complete hit.
6. I heard lots of "Thank you coach!" and "That was so much fun!"  These guys are in the beginning stages of expressing feelings of gratitude.  This was huge progress.

While those are worthy of the "awesome" tag, I saw even more after reflecting on the day:

1. Trust is built via positive experiences together.   These guys are beginning to trust me.
2. I am functioning within my own strengths and gifts. I felt my own heart pound with contentment and thankfulness during our time.  This is what I was made for!
3. More and more, I am beginning to see these young men as God does.  I am seeing flashes of brilliance in them.   I am recognizing gifts that God has given them.  And I am pointing them out, as a way to call them forward.

"Was [truly] awesome."

God in the DSL Hook-up

As a first year teacher at Hoover High School, I received one of the toughest assignments:  Teach Reading to 9th graders who are significantly below grade-level.  Most were like 6 years below (3rd grade readers).  But because they were so behind, we had them in our classes for nearly half the school day.  We taught them explicit reading strategies with high-interest text, and saw some fantastic growth.

Some of the students, though, were too beaten down by their own previous failures to try very hard.  Some students had such developed avoidance tactics, that they rarely had to struggle with text.  Some were just plain hard to deal with.  A few, in my honest and deflated moments, I thought were virtually doomed.  I thought the world would eventually just swallow them up.

Voungtha Sy topped that list.  Voungtha did some crazy things in my classroom to avoid work.   One day, I asked him to leave the classroom, but he refused.  As I walked towards him, he would run.  He even hopped a few rows to stay away and incite a game of chase.   His classmates were thrilled.  For a moment, he was a star.   He just laughed when I called security to come get him. Voungtha appeared completely apathetic.  I wanted to get to the bottom of the "why."

Being an ambitious, driven, concerned young teacher, I drove to his home for an official home visit.  Perhaps I would discover new ways to reach this struggling student of mine.  What I discovered, was less help and more empathy.  His grandmother lay in the one bedroom apartment, on a hospital bed, adjacent the living room window.  She we hurting and in her last days.  Father was angry with his son but lacked the English skills to communicate real concerns or explanation for his sons behavior.  In Cambodian, he screamed at Voungtha, in my presence.  Voungtha's smirk from class was a world away.  

"Where would he do his homework even if he wanted to?" I thought.  

"Please encourage Voungtha to try hard in my class," I said.

"What will become of this kid?" I wondered.

"His future is dim." I projected.

***********************************************

It's official now: the world did not swallow Voungtha Sy up.

In fact, when my DSL installation technician arrived at my doorstep, he looked strikingly familiar.   Within moments, I placed him.  And for the next half hour, I questioned and praised him.

He made it. 

Voungtha lives down the block for me and supports a family, including two young kids.  He works hard during the day and counts it a privilege to have a job.  Many of his friends don't.  He finished school on time (somehow) after being kicked out of Hoover in two separate years.    

He beat the odds.

That visit was good for my soul.  

It reminded me that a) Growth and maturation is a process, often over years and years.  b) I am no savior. I couldn't even keep him in class.  c) Moments of grace like these, are a gift.  I am savoring it even now.

Some Ridiculous

Tonight we had a kickback.  

This means we hung out together, fired up the BBQ, shared some pollo asada tacos, and watched the sun go down. 

Two ridiculous phenomena  ruled the night:

1. Urban youth found a new love in lawn bowling.  For us, it was more like dirt and rock and sidewalk bowling.  But they loved it.  Even after Paul, the leader that rallied them left, they played for an additional 45 minutes. They played for keeps.

2. We discovered the art of roasting jelly beans together.  They are amazing.  But something is still wrong about the buttered popcorn flavored beans.  They make better charcoal than candies.

Ridiculous.

Risky Business

Love is risky.  It maddens.

My crew was anything but lovable last night. 

Spring League varsity basketball game.

Across town.

Things went sideways fast.  

I burned all my timeouts way ahead of time.  

The scoreboard deficit piled up.  

Guys sauntered in from timeouts.

Failed to gather for coaching advice.

They refused to run plays. 

They talked back.  

They pouted.  

They blamed each other.  

They made excuses.   

Things got worse.  

I benched one of them for the remainder of the game.  

Then another.  

One changed into street clothes,while his teammates were competing.

We lost by 30.

Embarrassment hung thick.

Two of them failed to line up and congratulate the other team.

I instructed them to line up.

They big-timed me.

The ride back to UrbanLife was swift.  

Careening corners.

Player conversations about opposing strategy. 

Missing the point.

A different player challenges me verbally.

Super inappropriate and misappropriated.

I pull him aside.

They walk home.

I’m fuming.

Love is risky.  It’s confusing.

I don’t like being disrespected.

Don’t they know?

I love them.  

Been loving for 6 months straight.  {which is nothing}

Been a college coach.

4 years.

Was on a different trajectory.

One with less obvious opportunities for bruising.

I chose them.

I choose them.

They don’t get it.

Love is risky. It exposes us. 

I care about success on the court.

People who know me were watching.

I want to impress.

My own ish.

Love is risky. It endures.

Today we meet again.

Will be some accountability.

Will be some hard conversations.

Could be suspensions.  

Some restoration?

I want to love them in their ugliness.

Jesus would.

Want them to know that they are better than that.

ONeill, Wojtkowski, Tyson, Cos- all those guys would wash their hands of these dudes.  

I know it.

I saw it.

I can’t.

It’s bigger than that.

God invited me to love these guys.

Particularly.

By name.

No matter how things go down.

Whereever the road takes us.

Even if they quit the team.

Or get kicked off.

I will love them.

Even if it hurts.

Even if it scares me.

Even if I get punked.

Even if I never win a game.

Because

He loves them.   

Love is risky.  But it is right.