And Jesus would play kickball with them…

I want to be a good friend; a person who's life reflects the love and mystery of a God who is largely Unseen. You can see shimmers of Him in kindnesses, snow, grieving, laughing babies, and among the homeless community.

I have been thinking lately about all of the good people who have stepped into or camped out in my life who have reminded me about this Jesus who "gave one for the team" so that we just might have a remarkable life…if we so choose.

Many of these people – these breathing "standing stones" of rememberance – don't share this Jesus life nor his story.

In a season of complete and utter spiritual bitterness, the folks that loved me lavishly were the Isotopes, the cheeky  professionals on our wiffleball team. We did life in a crazy quilt community through wiffleball, kickball, dodgeball, volleyball, softball (no bueno), lawn olympics, and life seasons. We had fun.

After an Olympic-grade game of kickball, we'd amble over to a watering spot and talk about how badly the Royals were playing, our hopes for the K-State Wildcats, our kids, work…life.

At this time, I was broken and angry at the Almighty and carrying around a bucket of bad business of the soul.  I dressed in black and – up until the wiffleball/kickball/dodgeball team – didn't look people in the eye socially, crossed my arms across my chest as a rule, butted in where I wasn't invited, and was so lonely, I wasn't sure I could go on.

I was so peeved and hurt and devoid of laughter. God had – once again – let me down. What was worse, my old church community had assumed all sorts of things about the divorce and I could not correct them. I would not.

And then I got an invitation from the Manhattan Parks and Recreation Department to join a freshly formed wiffleball league. Hmmmm. The only problem was that I was so broken and closed off that I did not have companions nor friends to recruit. But an internal nudge kept at me so eventually I made a list of a few folks from different departments who might want to do something silly…like play wiffleball.

I sent an email to them in an overly-worded-trying-too-hard-to-be-cute email and by golly – they began to say yes.

We lobbied to collect league fees, debated a team name (Isotopes), chose "uniforms", ignored game rules, and found places to practice. We played, got to know one another, began to work better among our many departments, and a dying ember of life and joy was retrieved from the catacombs of my zombie heart.

God brought life through wiffleball, conversations over beers, wins, losses, diving catches, and Cam's crazy-good, non-self-promotional athletic abilities across each sport we tried. (He is an athletic savant.) We added folks and folks moved on. We saw families build and falter. I even had my own "Allie's Athletic Supporters" during my first triathlon. My kids had their mom back and a wider circle of people who cared for them.

At this time, I also began attending a tiny and loving and spiritually vibrant Free Methodist Church in the company of the "AquaDomous" clan. This helped, too. And I think that Pastor Waterhouse and clan would have joined us in the league of extraordinary wiffleballers if they'd have had time.

What is the point of this post?

God used people who do not sit in churches, cultivate quiet times, nor probably even believe in Him – to remind me of Him and to restore my hope. It changed me.

No longer do I have a desire to sit in the Amen pew at church. I prefer the slacker aisle where the real fun, coffee, and needs are more open and shared. I fit better there.

I see the church for what it is and what I think it was supposed to be: NOT A BUILDING, nor a brand, nor a spiritual police force or club.

I see the church as a broken, needy, community. When one falls, the real church reaches out in tye die or Armani to extend a hand and time to listen, dust off, and walk with the one.

We are not a Sunday morning, Wednesday evening, special Friday night service calendar item. We are the church – up to our knees in compost on Monday, emailing/writing a quick note or calling on Tuesday, sharing our lunch on Wednesday, playing wiffleball on Thursday, tossing back a frosty beverage and living a real life on Friday with our friends, helping our neighbor string Christmas lights on Saturday in the blistering wind, and making new friends at the library on Sunday-kind of people. We get out. We allow ourselves to be "inconvenienced."

We go to the Farmers' Market, symphony, indie music festival, art openings, college games, kayaking club, ski trips, memorials, to work, home to love on our families…and to live. We were never intended to be defined by a place or doctrine or political party.

We were called to be in relationship.

We were called to love like Jesus did; maybe to play kickball like he would have.

Score!

Ruth Wilson is someone I have yet to meet, but I may get lucky and meet her soon. She is a wild rumpus of imagination, direct conversation, and hope. I like her. She wrote this yesterday and it was too good not to "repost":

Jesus just says to LOVE.

The orphaned.

The broken-hearted.

The lost.

The prodigal.

The hungry.

The prostitute.

The widowed.

The stolen.

Just freaking LOVE.