pieces of grace

Tonight, I finally met Mike. You know who he is. He sits in front of Asian Ghetto all day with his boom box, playing Michael Jackson and other dance music that I kind of bounce along to on my way to class, asking people for change. If you say no or sorry, he says God bless you anyway. Mike’s been there every day for at least the past four years, probably way longer. I’ve heard about him from people in my fellowship who have shared meals with him and read blog posts past Intervarsity alumni have written about their good conversations with him. I’ve always wanted to sit down and talk to Mike. But for the past two years, I’ve managed to say “no, sorry” or ignored him every time I’ve walked past as he asks for change with a big smile on his face. I think I gave him some change once, but as soon as I finished putting the money in his hand and giving him a smile, I hurriedly walked away, satisfied that I had “helped” a homeless person and rushed on to the next important thing I had to do.

Tonight, though, I finally worked up enough grace and love to buy him some coffee and talk to him a bit. I almost didn’t. The first time he came into Sweetheart’s I merely stood there, wondering if I should offer and feeling God nudging me. When he left, I sighed a bit, wishing that I actually had. But five minutes later, he came back. And God’s nudging from before turned into pushing. What followed was a very short conversation, but one filled with much revelation. A couple of things struck me about Mike. First was that he knew both my friend and I were Christian, not because of our actions, but simply because he has seen us around so often and at Intervarsity homeless outreach events. As we introduced ourselves, he said, “Yeah, you’ve seen me. With my boom box and everything.” That hit me hard because it’s so true. I have seen him with his boom box, but I’ve forgotten about him, not even thinking that perhaps by now, after two years, he recognizes me too and knows more about me than I know about him. Mike not only recognized us, but he had eyes for me when I had no eyes for him. Second was how curious and questioning he was about our faith. He asked us about church, about Jesus, about the Resurrection, and about sin, all in the span of about five minutes. I saw a heart that was so open and wanting to change, but not sure how. Third was just how happy he is, despite his circumstances. Though he is homeless, he wished us good luck on our finals multiple times.

I think Mike knows a lot more than I do. And he is more Christ-like than I am most of the time. He sees people, really sees people, and strikes up conversations with them. He questions, but trusts. And he rejoices in spite of his situation. As summer comes up, I hope to spend more time talking to him, instead of shying away and retreating to my own secure communities and social bubbles. He says he’ll be at Convergence this Sunday. I really wish I could be there, because I have a lot to learn from him. We all do.

In case you couldn’t figure it out from the title, this post is, very simply, about legs. My legs, to be more specific. I know what you’re thinking. You couldn’t care less about my legs. And you are thinking how strange I am to dedicate a whole blog post to a particular body part. But I have a good reason. Well, several good reasons. Tonight, I got my first ever pair of basketball shorts! As I was admiring them in the mirror, it suddenly occurred to me how rarely I wear shorts. Even in elementary school, I always wore sweatpants for PE, and felt super shy sporting shorts (alliteration ftw). The first time I wore short shorts was when I left my own, longer shorts at home and had to borrow a classmate’s. Several people told me I looked good in shorts, which surprised me, because I didn’t really like my legs. Entering high school, I still never wore shorts. This was partly due to the fact that I get cold very easily and so would just default to wearing my uniform sweatpants all the time, but the main reason was because I didn’t like my knees. They were always too bruised from dance, especially freshman year, when I had to do a dance with knee spins and bowls on my head, but that’s a story for another time. And, I don’t know, my legs just didn’t look that good.

I found myself admiring all my other peers who had these really nice, long, tan, shiny-looking legs and wishing I had nice legs too. As a short person, I have come to acknowledge the fact that I will never be admired for great, long, model legs. And I realized that this insecurity about my legs is something I’ve carried on with me into college. Yes, I still check other girls’ legs out (don’t judge me) and heave an inward sigh, wishing my legs looked like theirs. I never realized how big an insecurity this is, but it’s true. I rarely show my legs or wear skirts/shorts above my knees. I just wear leggings all the time instead. But I ended up buying some dance club apparel this semester, a pair of short shorts and a pair of bball shorts. I picked them up tonight and realized, “What am I doing with these? I never wear shorts!” But then I tried them on and decided they were too cute to never wear…which means, I may actually be wearing shorts and showing more of my legs soon. Yes, I think this is something I need to push myself to do. It’s time to leg-go (hohoho) of this insecurity and embrace myself the way God made me, bruised dancer legs and all.