A Word on the Murder of Abortionists

Do not rejoice when your enemy falls,
and let not your heart be glad when he stumbles,
lest the Lord see it and be displeased,
and turn away his anger from him.

--Proverbs 24:17,18 (ESV)

Star Trek Review

One would have to be a cultural hermit to be unaware of the flurry of discussion, reviews, and hype generated by the recent release of Star Trek. J.J. Abrams’ new spin on a story that many feel has already been beaten to death—and then beaten to death again—certainly brings a new perspective to this popular saga, offering something for both old fans of the series and newcomers. He stays true to the original characters yet takes enough liberties to produce something for both diehard fans and new audiences.

At least, that’s what I hear.

I think it’s safe to say that I find myself in the minority of viewers, and perhaps even alone among reviewers, in that I know next to nothing about the science-fiction greatness that is Star Trek. Indeed, the question is a fair one to ask by those contemplating a trip to the theater to see this film: what about those who are not fans of the original series and do not know the Star Trek universe? What should they expect, and will they even enjoy a film like this?

Apart from a small amount of back-story that is rather easy to pick up on, Star Trek stands alone as its own film quite well if you can track with a time-traveling villain, understand his motives for destroying entire planets, and accept that two of the same person can exist at the same time. The plot, which borders on an overly complex series of events that could potentially be stretched into its own TV mini-series, is not too difficult to follow. As long as viewers are willing to suspend their disbelief enough to accept Abrams’ galaxy of the distant future, there is much here to like. Ironically, perhaps the greatest strength of this film in relation to the rest of the Star Trek story is that it is a prequel. As a result, every aspect of the film is intended to feel fresh and original, and it accomplishes this quite well. You do not need to meet the classic characters—Kirk, Spock, Bones, Ahura, and Scotty—in advance because the film picks up at their origins and creates their background for you. Better yet, the characters are strong and distinct, and we quickly find ourselves emotionally engaged in their struggles and goals. The academic and always logical Spock faces an identity crisis as he wrestles constantly with being half human and half Vulcan (an alien race), for underneath his unflinching visage and academic language run deep currents of raw emotion—emotion that he must decide to either suppress or embrace. Kirk, whose father sacrificed his life to save him, decides to channel his roguish talents of stealing cars and seducing women into becoming the captain of his own starship. Bones overcomes a recent divorce and fear of space to make a name for himself as a doctor with Starfleet. And when we first meet Scotty, he is a crazy theorist stranded at a frozen outpost, downcast and rejected even though he went on to discover a formula for beaming that makes him an invaluable crew member.

From a film standpoint, we find little that is groundbreaking in Star Trek. Fans of Star Wars have already seen the planet-destroying weapon, warp speed, and ice planet. The plot suffers occasionally from predictability; one scene in particular finds Kirk beaming up to his ship a split second before he would have hit the ground in a fatal fall. Nevertheless, the combination works by creating an understandable story in a foreign universe, unique characters whose complications are sufficiently resolved, and beautiful cinematography in a colorful outer space.

If there is anything groundbreaking in this film, it is the ill-timed glares that Abrams somehow saw fit to use. There is plenty of eye candy, including vast pan shots across the hull of the Enterprise, black holes devouring planets, and lasers and explosions galore. Sometimes, however, the audience only wants to clearly and simply see what is on the screen. Kirk looks out into space from the Enterprise, only to have his face washed out in the backlight. Spock glances at a control panel, about to make a “logical” observation, when suddenly a brightness from behind washes out his stolid face. No matter how you look at it, the glares are unwelcome. Abrams allegedly justifies this by trying to show that the future literally is looking bright for humanity. Would we like to think this after watching Star Trek? Perhaps, but the idea seems to be sufficiently conveyed in the images of a vast space station orbiting earth and a giant space ship under construction in the corn fields in Iowa.

In the end, Star Trek accomplishes what appears to be its only goal, and that is to entertain via characters, plot, and explosions. Fear not, you who know nothing of Scotty’s beaming skills or the Vulcan ways, and abandon your pre-conceived notions of geekiness and confusion. You just might find some genuine quality and art underneath this latest sci-fi flick.

P.S. Sorry it's been so long, but now that summer is here I'll try to be more active in my blogging.

please be patient folks

I know I haven't posted in quite awhile, but the truth is that I just haven't had a whole lot to write about recently (or have been writing a ton for other classes and nothing creative is coming at the moment).

In any case, I should have something up tomorrow or the day after, depending on how the critiquing session goes tomorrow.

Upon Introspection

It just blows my mind to think that God loves me and actually chooses to uses me.

Thoughts from the Christian Youth Film Festival

It is my pleasure to announce that Seeds--a film in which four friends and I wrote, filmed, acted in, edited, and produced--won Best Picture at the Christian Youth Film Festival Sunday night. In addition to this award and its $543 cash prize, Seeds also captured the distinctions of Best Editing, Best Cinematography, Best Screenplay, and People's Choice Award. Naturally, we were pretty excited about our success. It was great to see weeks of brainstorming and preparation, four days in the desert, and hours upon hours of editing finally come to fruition. But as I look back the event, my expectations beforehand, my actions at the event, my attitudes afterward, I found pride, and lots of it.

Lately, my small group at college has been talking about prayer and about what real, heartfelt, caring prayer requests and prayers themselves should look like. One thing that immediately came to light is how you respond when someone asks how he can be praying for you. Often, it seems, we pause in thought for a moment, then respond, "pride."

Right, everyone struggles with pride. It's easy to say "yeah, I've been thinking I'm really something special. I haven't put God first as I should." No, of course you haven't, so where's the risk in that. Is pride really what keeps you up all night? Have you been going through a particularly prideful spell? Do you always pray that God would take away your pride? Maybe you do, and that's great, but the point we tried to make in small groups is that oftentimes "pride" goes up as a smokescreen, to disguise what we really are struggling with: things like sexual lust, gossip, hatred, or gluttony. I think that is a great point, everyone can say they're struggling with pride, there's no risk in saying that to anyone. It's much harder to say "Look, I'm having a hard time loving that guy," than, "Yeah I've been 'struggling' with pride."

The point of this post, though, is that pride is real, and it can be a dangerous issue because it manages to worm its way into almost everything. After all, it is ultimately from pride that all sin stems, from the desire to be in God's place and actually be worshiped ourselves. It never ceases to amaze me how, even at a Christian film festival where everyone will admit that these films really are for God's glory, pride is always there to sneak in. You're sitting there repeatedly saying to yourself, "This is all about God, this is all about God, I couldn't have made this film without Him." When in the back of your mind you start to wonder, "Hmmm, why didn't he or she give me a compliment on my film? I only made the best movie this festival's ever seen! Goodness, we better win that award."

In light of the film festival, pride will no longer be a smokescreen when I ask someone to pray for me. It's a horrible vice that clouds my thinking and grossly defames the Sovereign Creator of the universe. The thoughts that I actually generated something of worth on my own or that I actually deserve something are wicked absurdities, and when those thoughts pry their way to the forefront of my mind, I can only sigh, shake my head, and ask God's forgiveness. Praise Jesus Christ that he died not only for the big things, but all that pride as well.

The Last, the Lost, the Least: Part Four

For the rest of this series, go to part one, part two, or part three.

His image shown where we give our lives, our time, our own to feed, to clothe those in His image we have left alone. We all, we all wear dignity. God help the blind like me. Finding at last a voice we cry and see with clear, unblinking eyes.

The last organized activity of the week featured a walk to MacArthur Park. We started off midway through the morning, headed—thank goodness—in the opposite direction down Pico Street that Tony had driven us. I left my sleeping bag back on the church, betting on the chance that Jon would decided to end the poverty simulation before nightfall. I ran my hand through my greasy hair and patted my empty stomach, only partially satisfied by the bowl of Fruit Loops a few hours ago. He’d better end it soon.

When we arrived at the park, Jon sat everyone down and spoke of the city. In the bible, the city is portrayed as a place of refuge and safety. Clearly, this is how God intended people to live together. After all, heaven, God’s very dwelling place, is a city. I thought of all the news stories we hear about Los Angeles. Over on the sidewalk, a homeless man peddled his bike. This park used to be the drug capital of the city, so Jon had warned us to watch were we sat. How could things have gone so wrong in this place? Why are all the seminary grads going to small town churches in the Midwest? Why do we so quickly brush off the inner city? I shifted uncomfortably as Jon detailed our final task: to walk around the park and talk to people. Everyone divided into twos and threes, and we split up. Lee, my companion, was a heavyset freshman from Colorado. Neither of us spoke acceptable Spanish, and neither of us possessed exceptional social skills. We walked around the park silently, sizing up the various people seated around the dirty lake in the middle of the park. Other groups of students had started talking to people. My heart began pounding out of my chest and my mind went blank. I tried to quickly formulate a few conversation starters in my mind. “God, I don’t want to do this, I can’t. Please, help me.” A middle aged Hispanic woman—everyone was Hispanic—sat alone under a tree on our left. I nudged Lee, “What about her?”

“Okay,” he murmured. I tried to put on my most innocent and disarming face as we sat down next to the woman.

“Hi there, can we sit here and talk to you for a few minutes?”

“No English.”

“Oh,” I sat for several lengthy seconds, vainly attempting to recall something from my three years of high school Spanish.

“No hablo mucho espanol…Adios.” We stood up abruptly continued on, walking slowly along the edge of the pond for several minutes before I pointed out another person, this time a man who appeared to be in his twenties.

“May we sit here?” He nodded.

“So,” I began, “um, you from around here?”

“No speak English.”

“Hmm.” This time we waited for a minute or two, staring out across the park, before getting up and moving on. Three more times, Lee and I tried to engage people, but we faltered at the insurmountable language barrier before firing a proverbial shot. Did anyone speak English here?

Dejected, we eventually wandered back to the group’s meeting place. “God, I tried. I really did. Can You ask more than that? I accomplished nothing!” I tried to throw myself into His arms and rest in His sovereignty as the other students gradually strayed back, “No Lord, you don’t ask more, and you don’t need results. All you ask is that I show some love to these people.”

The walk back to the church took too long, and I pondered the day’s events as everyone around me talked about all the great experiences they had. “I want You to use me God. I won’t look at the poor the same way again.” The more I looked at the situation inside myself, the less room I found for depression and self-pity. “Somehow, someway, You used me this week, and You’ll use me again.” I had come face to face with reality today, and resolved not to forget it.

My mouth watered in anticipation as I surveyed the backyard of the Nehemiah House. Just a few minutes ago, Jon Freiberg had officially terminated the poverty simulation. Forty or so chairs sat around five or six tables in the middle of the lawn, enough to seat our entire group and the house’s residents. To my right, everyone had begun to line up behind a table crowded with carne asada, beans, rice, salsa, and tortillas. Some had already made it through the line and were crossing over to the drink table, where several sodas and an ice bucket rested in a beautiful array. Just a few feet away from this, Jon Freiburg stood behind the barbecue, flipping several pieces of thinly cut steak. The smell drifted over the lawn, teasing those who had not yet gotten their food. I could hardly stand it. Two solid meals over the past two days had taken their toll, and while not physically starving, I was hungry. I fumbled with my plate and utensils in my haste to pile on the delicious food. Beans splattered across my plate and rice fell down on to the table. I grabbed one of the pieces of meat from my steaming heap and shoved it my mouth, filled a cup nearly to the brim with orange soda, and sat down at a table across from Peter. I paused for a moment in reverence and thankfulness,

“A fitting exclamation point to the week!” I grasped a tortilla, carne asada, beans and rice spilling out both sides in torrents, and shoved it in my face. As the meal progressed, we tried vainly to capture the experience with words,

“Absolutely amazing.”

“Mmmmm…wow. I mean it’s just…wow.”

“Later generations will sing of this meal someday.”

Half an hour later, I leaned back in my chair and moaned. “Not only will I never look at the homeless the same again,” I thought, “but I’ll never look at food the same again. I guess it really is true that you never know what you have until it’s gone.” I glanced at the students seated around me—Peter, TJ, Marcus, Lee, and the others. A bond had been forged between us, something almost supernatural, perhaps the first strands of a cord that would be finished in heaven.

Despite the cold, my mind drifted over the past week, gradually returning to the present meal and moving on into the future. The normalcy that was The Master’s College stood as a banner of comfort, security, and good against the background of no showers, Hispanics, and empty stomachs. “Friends, warm dorm rooms, challenging classes, my ‘real’ life…it’ll be nice to get back to that…” I opened my eyes and stared at Jon as he closed the barbeque and started cleaning up. A solid education from Master’s, and he had come to spend the rest of his life here. Images of Ike and the fat little boy at 12^th Place appeared in my mind. “No, Master’s isn’t real life for me. This is real life. The past three days was the world—all the brokenness, ugliness, oppression, and ungodliness that the United States had to offer.” I thought of the way people had looked at me on the street, of reading a book to an innocent little child, of tossing and turning on cardboard all night, of the young man on the park bench who spoke no English. I couldn’t just walk away from all that and get my degree. They needed love and grace every bit as much as I did, and that was the only difference between us. I sighed, searching for something appealing, for joy, for a steady stream of compassion and love. “God, please give me Your grace, I want to love these people…I…I do love these people, and I can’t go on living like this.” Several long days had passed, but I could finally see my world beginning to turn upside-down. No, there would be no going back now. The song I had listened to before the start of the trip began to play in the back of my mind. Yes, the very image of God shines in these people—however marred and clouded it may be—in even the last, the lost, the least.

The Last, the Lost, the Least: Part Three

For the start of this series, go to Part One or Part Two.

Step into a spacious place where pride and right will give way to the least of these to know the face of who a man can be.

I woke to the sound of voices and footsteps. Someone had turned on the light in the sanctuary, but it still looked dark outside. Rubbing my eyes, I groped for my cell phone and flipped it open—four fifteen! I stood up and stumbled toward the middle of the building where several guys had gathered.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

John Freiburg, the assistant pastor at First EV Free, walked in the door.

“Come on guys, get up! We’re going on a little field trip.”

“Field trip?” I thought, “What? It’s four in the morning!” Gradually, people began to dress and make their way outside, so I changed my pants, donned a hat and sweater, and headed out to where cars had started to line up.

“You’re going to be driving around Los Angeles.” I heard John addressing several students on the sidewalk, “You won’t have to worry much about traffic. Just follow the instructions on your paper. Think about the situation there, and spend some time praying there.”

I groggily stumbled into the last car with an open seat, full of three girls as providence would have it. In a few moments, we were speeding down the 110, headed even deeper into the city.

I glanced out the window warily, a mix of fear, apprehension, and repulsion in my face. To our left and behind us stretched Skid Row—several blocks of downtown Lost Angeles set apart as a place for the homeless, insane, and outcasts. Here lived the dregs of society, and here came the regiments of The Master’s College First EV Free outreach team. The paper instructed us to get out, walk around, and pray and talk with people. Everyone in the car stared out the window at the dark and mysterious street, hesitant to get out. People trudged along the sidewalk in various directions, void of any urgency or purpose; others sat on the curb and smoked. Most were black, and dressed in a hodgepodge assortment of dirty clothing: sweatshirts, beanies, old tennis shoes, frayed pants, even a leather jacket once in a while. Their faces looked blank and empty, staring towards the ground or out into space.

“Do we really need to get out?” Kammy, the girl next to me, asked.

“I don’t know, why don’t we just pray?” Offered the girl driving, “Wait, look!” Kat’s group had parked near us and started crossing the street. We sprung out of the car and called out to them.

“Hey, can we join you guys?”

“Well, it’s better with smaller groups,” Kat replied, “but come on.” She led us to the curb opposite where we had parked. A black man with short hair and a scraggly goatee stood there, wringing his hands and staring out across the street.

“Hey there,” Kat said, “how are you doing sir?” The man turned as if seeing us for the first time, then broke into what I assumed was a smile.

“Well I’s doing just fine, thank you. You here to give me stuff or convert me or something?”

“No,” she answered, “We’re just here talking to people. I’m Kat.”

“Ike, nice to meet you.” he said simply, shaking her hand, and we all introduced ourselves to him.

“Do you sing?” The question caught us off guard. Kat looked around at us, smiling shyly.

“What do you guys think? We can certainly try. What should we sing?”

“Uh, amazing grace?” TJ, who had been in Kat’s car, offered hesitantly. Enough of us seemed to know it, so we circled around the man and started singing a cappella, quietly at first, but growing in confidence.

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me…” Ike closed his eyes and raised his hands, swaying gently with our off-key voices. We made it through the first verse well enough, but started fading out after “Twas grace that taught my heart to fear.” No one could remember the exact lyrics. I thought I knew them, but had no intention of carrying on solo. As our voices stopped gracelessly, Ike took off his glasses and wiped his eyes.

“That was beautiful. You know these past weeks been difficult for me, being sick, no job.” I could only stand there like a statue, listening as he started to pour out his life to us, and trying to bring some form of comfort through my presence.

“Would you like to pray together?” Kat asked after several minutes,

“Yes please.” Ike raised his head up to heave and held his hands up. “Oh mighty father, we come before you now, humble, Lord. We come to ask for forgiveness, because of Jesus Christ…” I listened to his words as best as I could. The prayer was actually pretty solid, but I couldn’t help but question the legitimacy of his faith. Did God even hear and heed the prayers of a rebel like Ike? Was the Holy Spirit present in anyone here but our little group?

Eventually we left Ike with a blessing and moved on down the block towards a line of people waiting for some kind of medical assistance from a local rescue mission. Within minutes, Kat struck up another conversation, this time talking to a white man with a ponytail and baseball cap. A few feet away, TJ had also started speaking with a grizzled old man with glasses. I stood close to Kat, silently trying to take in my surroundings while keeping up with the conversation. The place reeked of urine, alcohol, body odor, and cigarettes, only narrowly failing to merit the adjective: “overpowering.”

“You should come to our church sometime,” Kat was saying.

“Eh, what kind of church is it? Methodist, catholic, protestant, Lutheran?”

“It’s, an evangelical free church, that’s a protestant domination.”

The man paused in thought, then started musing, “Catholic, evangelical, even mormon or Buddhist. I don’t know why people get so uptight and fight about it. They all lead to the same place. Yeah, I’ll try to check it out. Sunday at 9:00? Where did you say it was again?” I bit my lip and fumed in silence, resisting the urge to blurt out “You’re wrong!” and lay down a theological beating on him. Where’s the love in letting someone go on believing in that? The conversation meandered on, until finally Kat glanced at her watch. The church wanted us back by 7:30, so we bid farewell to the people in line, returned to our cars, and drove away—silenced and sobered by the morning.

“You are no longer students of The Master’s College,” Jon Freiberg’s voice shattered any further meditations I had about Skid Row, “as of now, until an undeclared time, you are all single mothers here in downtown LA.” I giggled at the thought of playing the role of a mother, but Jon was not joking. “You no longer have any of your possessions. We have ‘money’ for you with which to buy new clothes, housing, food, and transportation. Some of you will get more than others. I also need two people to be homeless.” Immediately TJ and Marcus raised their hands, and Jon laughed at them,

“Okay, you guys don’t have anything. Not even clothes, you’ll have to beg it off of other people.” He walked around the circle our group had formed in the church’s basement and handed out a small envelope of monopoly money to each “mother.”

“It will cost you twenty dollars a day for rent, three for transportation. Clothes are five dollars per article. Meals will cost you seven bucks. You get to keep two personal items from what you’ve really bought.” Blank faces appeared on everyone for a moment.

“Wait, you’re serious?”

Jon looked at the girl who had asked the question and smiled mischievously, “The goal is to get a taste of what it’s like to be poor. Welcome to the First EV Free Church Poverty Simulation.”

Four hours later, I found myself on the streets of Los Angeles, sporting tan khaki pants rolled up to the ankles, a brown and off-white striped collared shirt, and a sleeping bag slung over my shoulder. Peter walked at my side, studying the list for our scavenger hunt. A few feet behind us followed two girls named Ellie and Analisa. Our mission: to spend three hours traveling around the Pico Street area, engaging in activities normally associated with the poor or homeless. This included a bus ride, collecting cans and bottles, finding food, and acquiring money. We certainly looked the part, with our sleeping bags, plastic bags, unkempt hair, and plain clothes. I looked down the street, with its hole-in-the-wall shops, cracked sidewalks, and Hispanic population. Behind the shop, a homeless man dug through a dumpster. I couldn’t bring myself to ask these people for money or help, I just couldn’t.

“Okay, keep on the lookout for cans and bottles. Where should we go first?”

“How about we find out where we can get free food?” Peter said. That sounded good to me; even though I had no idea where to begin. Thankfully, Ellie had grown up as a missionary kid in Panama, and spoke fluent Spanish. We stopped the first Mexican woman we passed and—I assumed—asked her where we could find a place with free food. There was a soup kitchen on Pico and Alameda, the woman thought, and it was only a few blocks away. Ellie thanked her and we moved on, stopping at every trash can to see if we could find anything salvageable. In English class last year, I had read an essay about dumpster diving, and was determined to put the tips I had learned to go use. Nothing trustworthy emerged except for a few pieces of celery, one of which I ate only so that I could say I had eaten out of a dumpster. Occasionally, we tried to go into a bakery and beg for food, but to no avail. The owners of every store we entered glanced at us skeptically, and the people on the street shunned us, refusing even to make eye contact. I tried to put myself in their shoes looking at me; how would I have responded to the sight of myself like this on the street?

After several minutes of walking down Pico, a gray SUV drove by and stopped at a stoplight not far ahead.

“Hey! Need a ride?” The man driving shouted back at us.

“Yeah, we’re looking for Pico and Alameda.” Peter replied, pointing down the street. “I think it’s that way.” The man pulled off onto a side road, and we ran over to his car.

“Pico and Alameda?”

“Yeah, a lady told us we could find food there.”

“Uh, I’m not sure, I know there’s an Alameda that way. You guys out here on your own? Get in, we’ll see if we can find it.”

Peter and I shrugged, “Okay.” Throwing our bags in the space behind us, the four of us piled in the back seat. The man extended his hand,

“I’m Tony, nice to meet you.” He had short gray hair and a goatee, and his teeth were crooked and discolored. “Tobacco stains?” I wondered.

We drove under the freeway and passed the Staples Center. As soon as the stadium faded out of sight behind other buildings, the city quickly began to degenerate. Street vendors crowded the sidewalks, and one or two intimidating thugs leaned against the wall in nearly every alley; I saw no white people.

“I don’t know what exactly you’re looking for, but I hope it ain’t down here. White people come down here, and they don’t come back out. Yeah, you’d get f***ed up in a hurry here.” I winced, “Oh Lord, what have we gotten ourselves into? Is this were it all ends, on Outreach Week?”

“Alameda…does it even connect to Pico?” The man continued talking as we drove on, block after block, farther away from the church and what relative safety the opposite side of the highway afforded. He went on to explain—in colorful language—how he was on probation for drug use, but had been clean for a long time.

“You like hard rock?” We shrugged, so put in a mixed CD that was just out of my personal taste range, and continued talking. He had acquired the SUV thanks to clever use of the welfare system and genuine work. The farther we drove, the more he expressed his doubt that this food place at Pico and Alameda actually existed, and the more he tried to get to the root of our alleged predicament.

“Alright, you’ve been pretty quiet back there. What’s your story, come on, out with it.” I glanced at Peter. The poverty simulation worked far too well. This guy actually thought we were runaways.

“Well,” Peter began hesitantly (he would go on to assume the role of our spokesperson) “I turned eighteen, and decided to just leave. My dad had had enough of me.” I nodded in agreement. Yep, we had “left” home alright.

“We came down from Santa Clarita, and are just out here to find what we can. Kinda start afresh.”

“Just had enough with you pops, huh?” Tony appeared to believe us, “I don’t know about this Pico and Alameda sh**, but I can take you to another place a few miles from here. They’ll take you in, give you showers, lunch, but you have to be in before 4:00. If we go now, you can probably—” he stopped as a sign ahead read “dead end.” So much for Pico and Alameda.

“That’s it, I’m taking you guys there.”

“No, no! We’ve, uh, got some friends back where you picked us up. We said we’d meet back up with them. Can you just take us back?”

“You sure, I know what I’m talking about. They’ll do you up nice at this place.”

I leaned over to Peter, stomach churning, “Should we tell him?”

“No,” He spoke up in response to Tony, “Just take us back to where you found us. We really appreciate all you’ve told us though.”

“Okay, but be sure to check it out. Here’s the address, when you find your friends, be sure to go straight there.” He wheeled the SUV around, back through the ghetto. “And be sure to stay off drugs, kid. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but just don’t go there. Good luck.”

My heart beat did not begin to slow down until we were safely out of the car and watching Tony drive off. Later on, I would discover that our paper of instructions had specifically forbidden hitchhiking. I felt sick.

“Pete, I think that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

After a dinner that failed to compensate for the breakfast and lunch I had missed, the poverty simulation continued into the night. No one had the “money” to afford a room indoors, so we laid down what few blankets and sleeping bags we had in the front yard of the Nehemiah House. Throughout the trip, our group had often spent time hanging out, eating, and praying at the Nehemiah House, but we would find no such luxuries there tonight. Instead, I and a student named James decided to unzip our sleeping bags and share them with Marcus and TJ, who had nothing besides the clothes on their back to keep warm. Marcus fished several pieces of cardboard out of a nearby trash can, and we laid them out as bedding. I rubbed my hands together and shivered. The two days before were quite warm, but a cold front had hit the city just that afternoon. I laughed dryly—perfect timing. Curling up under and around a few meager feet of my sleeping bag, I tucked my shoes under my head and tried to find a comfortable position. For a few minutes, I tried to avoid contact with TJ, who was tightly packed within the four of us like cordwood, but eventually gave up and rested my body against his. Warmth ranked higher on my list of priorities than awkwardness.

Despite the long day that started at four in the morning and ended after midnight, sleep was slow in coming. I tossed and turned, trying to keep my toes warm and my head comfortable against my rough canvas slip-ons.

“TJ, I hope you don’t mind if I, uh, put my leg here.”

He twisted around and patted me affectionately, “It’s okay Andrew. We’re homeless, remember?”