This is an article I originally wrote in 2012, but decided to resurrect for today's post, because we've been been going through, lately, and it reminded me of how very good that is.

103 degrees. 105 degrees. 103 degrees. Days and days of these three digit temperatures, stringing together the hottest, longest heatwave in Indianapolis history, or so they say. The heat hasn't even really broken in the evening. Hours after the sun goes down it's still like trying to breathe through wool outside. In the middle of it all, our car with air conditioning broke, leaving us with the car that has no AC, and which goes about as fast as a lawn mower.

And I confess, sometimes driving around in heat so oppressive that I could barely breathe, where even having the windows down was like sitting in front of a blast furnace...sometimes it made me really angry.

Until last week. Last week we drove by Davidson St. There, under a bridge is a small nation of men. You can see them if you go. That day they looked like a still-life. Men sitting and laying in front of the sea of cardboard and red tent vinyl, motionless under the stifling weight of the heat 

If you're from Indianapolis you might know that the encampment on Davidson is of one of the largest homeless camps in the city. 

Knowing and understanding are two different things

Suddenly, all I can think about is the fact that I get to go home to my air conditioning and my ice water. I may have to suffer a short amount of time in the heat (in my working vehicle, lawnmower-esque or otherwise) but then I get to escape it. And even if I had been at the bottom of my luck, I have family and friends that I could go to, people who would shelter me from the harshness of unfortunate circumstance. Escape for me, but not for them. Those men have no real escape. This year there has not even been the kindness of night to cool them. Have you ever tried to sleep when it's hot?  It's miserable.

So, riding by those men in my blast furnace lawn mower car, louder than the irritability from the heat, or the wind in my face and even louder than the sound of the car body slamming onto the chassis where the struts had broken, feeling stirred with sadness for the men in the heat with no escape, came this thought about my life and the things I've called hardship . 

Maybe, given the option, few and fewer would choose to walk in the lowest valleys. I confess to having been content to stare into them from afar. Over the edge and from my high places, looking on with a mixture of self-preservation and pity. Not many choose to slide down the sides of the mountain to walk hand in hand with the low. 

But the footfalls of the proud are never stable, and slide I did. 

My hardships have been times when we didn't know where the next thirty dollars to go to the grocery store would come from, much less the next mortgage payment. There was the winter when I had no heat in my car and more than one Summer with no air conditioning in the house. There were times when we seemed all alone, removed from everyone. Times of illness, and of longing, loneliness and despair. Times which seemed utterly purposeless. 

There. There in the underfoot lowlands I learned what its like to need. To wait in desperate hope for the improbable and invisible. I learned to look around and to look up but most especially I learned the joy of looking up and finding Jesus standing there ready to walk with me, bag packed full of all the the provision, the love and the joy that a person needs to go through the valley. As if he says "If you're going, I'm going too. Don't worry, I came prepared"

"yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil. For you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me." 

The hot air rushed in the car window as I thought these things, but I breathed it in deeply as if it were a more precious breath. These ideas about what it means to go low, to endure, clarifying at a thousand miles an hour. My heart was on fire.

Hardship. My training ground.

Hardship. My miracles.

Valleys. My sacred places. 

Had I wanted to go back to my air conditioning? Suddenly I wondered why. I have only just now escaped from the apathetic and irreverent walls of comfort, outside and into the world. Finally free the small enclosure of myself and my comfort. My hardship and poverty, such as it was, sent me clumsy and foolish to a place where you are no longer ignorant of need. It is a place which draws a clear line between knowing and understanding.

In truth, I still live on the mountain. To say that I didn't would make a mockery of the true poor. For as low as I've been, the depths never cost me more than I was able to bear. Aaron and I have spoken often about giving up comfort, willfully running headlong into the deeper places, forgoing our own ease. But sometimes we wonder why

Why, when we won't be able to change the circumstances, fix the addictions, or heal what has broken.

Our culture always wants to know the point, where the point is calculable and the results are measurable. 

We want to say "I took 7 people from homeless on the streets and put them back into society like the rest of us, with a house and a job and a car". Or in other words "I took them from something I can't relate to and inserted them neatly back into something I can"

And when there is no formulaic way to do that ....when, sometimes the problem has metastasized from one root into many parts we look at the problem and say "I cannot solve that, so what's the point"

I answer myself by remembering this; 

When my mother was dying, Aaron was there. 

He listened to me as I ranted about this thing that was happening, outside of my control. He held me when I cried. He stayed up in the hospital room all night, watching over mom, when we needed to get some sleep. Him assuming a portion of the weight is the only reason I wasn't utterly crushed.

And this is the kicker.

Aaron wasn't able to fix the problem I had. He wasn't able to cure the cancer that was raging in my mom. He wasn't able to keep her from slipping from this world.

But he slid down into that filthy, brokenhearted valley with me as if it were the only road in the world. He made my valley, his. He said "If you're going, me and Jesus going too. Don't worry, we came prepared"

I realize there is a world of people out there, everyone of them with a valley of their own to walk at some point. Some of them know Jesus goes with them and some of them need Jesus' followers to go running headlong into those valleys like it was the only road in the world. To dig into the long, tedious trenches and not look for escape back to comfort. To clear paths forward when people get too weak to keep going, to listen, and sometimes to just to spare someone the bitter cruel sting of going alone. To say "If you're going, I'm going too. Don't worry, I came prepared"

This is how we point people to the love of Christ. This is why.

This is why living with hardship, with the heat is a salvation and not a curse. The heat lights a fire, and the fire burns and there is no place better for it than the cold, dark places.  It teaches me that I'm not above the valley and neither is anyone else.

I love my little lawnmower car. Because it meets a need, but mostly because it is part of my hardship

It is my sacred place.

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