Rejection

 "The need for volunteers is great, but we don't want you."

It's not an exact quote, but it's close enough.

The calling seemed clear. Hasn't my heart been aching to help foster children in our community? The need was communicated clearly in the interest meeting I attended over eight months ago. Over 300 children alone in Guilford County need representation in court. Children are hurting. Adults are needed to step into the gap.

It seemed so obvious for me to be a voice for a vulnerable, underserved population.

I didn't just step- I leaped. I dove headfirst. 

But no.

Weeks after my interview I received an email with a clear message. I was not wanted. 

Devastation hit me and rejection felt like a gut punch.

"I thought you wanted me for this, Lord." My thoughts raced. "Wasn't I qualified? Wasn't I enough? Those kids. God, those children need someone. I thought you wanted me to do this."

I wept. 

"It is a highly needed volunteer position and they don't want me." Clearly I missed something.

Then a thought stopped me. "That was Christ."

In our broken humanity, God saw our depravity. He saw our complete inability to remedy our eternal separation from him. His plan was and always is Christ. 

Christ stepped out of heaven and into our muck of a world. A world full of brokenness, sorrow, hate, guilt and longing for more- for a savior from ourselves. He volunteered knowing the end would mean rejection. He knew all along what he would encounter at the cross and he did it anyway.

I felt called to be an advocate for a child in court. Jesus takes it a step further. 

He is more than our advocate. He offers to take on the punishment we deserve. He gives us hope and life. Christ has plans for us- plans he knew before we took our first breath. He says we become a new creation in him when we choose him and place our faith in him. When we repent of our sin, our old life is passed way and we become new. We can rest in his promise that he is more than our advocate. He is our payment.

"Everyday he is still rejected. It wasn't just at the cross." 

The gut punch of rejection I felt? It was checked.

Jesus volunteered and is rejected everyday by millions of people with eternity at stake. I was broken deeper for his love for us- for me. The rejection I felt compares nothing to what he feels over and over again as people choose their way over him.

There are no feelings I have, including rejection, that have not been felt by the Creator of the world. So, I hand him my rejection and find rest. 

Walking in Love

Life's been busy. This weekend I attended two baby showers, one of which was for a woman who attended the parenting class that I voluntarily teach at the Greensboro Pregnancy Care Center (GPCC). She is due in six weeks and is SO excited about being a mom!

It was about three months ago when I met her. She and her boyfriend attended the eight week class faithfully and they were so engaged in the class as they always asked questions and soaked up the information I threw at the attendees. About the fourth week of class, the mom-to-be (I'll call her Ashley) stayed after class and told me a little of her story. I always love when I hear peoples' stories and I was blessed to hear part of hers. You see, Ashley is in college and is a junior. She never thought she'd be able to get pregnant due to health issues she's had. So, she was surprised when she got pregnant, but she was also scared. This baby was unplanned. Her boyfriend (I'll call him Jay) was pressuring her to get an abortion. He too was a student in college and not "ready" to be a dad. So, Ashley went to a clinic in Greensboro that administers abortions. She told me that she got a pregnancy test there that confirmed her pregnancy and got the information about an abortion, but she didn't feel peace about it. 

As God would have it, she called and visited the Greensboro Pregnancy Care Center. She met with a trained, Christian counselor who spoke with her about her pregnancy and offered HOPE. Ashley left the Center feeling uplifted and encouraged. She now saw this baby as the miracle it is. She spoke with Jay and they decided to keep the baby she was carrying!! It was a few weeks later when I met them both in class. When I met them, I had no idea of their history; their excitement at becoming parents was all I saw.

What a blessing and honor it was to attend the co-ed shower they had yesterday. Mom-to-be was glowing. Dad-to-be was sporting a shirt with his daughter's name on it (I love it!!!). God is so amazing and is working every day at the Greensboro Pregnancy Care Center. I can't help but wonder who this baby will be and what she will do. Will she be a great physician, a teacher, a mom herself or perhaps an author who inspires other with the words she writes? Maybe all of those?!

I share this story with you so you'll catch a glimpse as to what the GPCC is doing. I am participating in their upcoming Walk for Life, where we are raising money and awareness for an organization that is standing in the gap between LIFE and death. Between HOPE and discouragement. Between JOY and guilt. GPCC offers free classes, free ultrasounds and STD testing, counseling and material resources for men and women facing an unplanned pregnancy. They are even unveiling a mobile unit that will be traveling in Greensboro and the Triad area to help those who don't have transportation to the Center!

I hope you'll be touched by what I've shared and will consider supporting my fundraising efforts here. My goal is to raise $3000 and I'm halfway there thanks to generous supporters! ALL of the proceeds will go directly to the Center where people like Ashley and Jay will be impacted and babies will be saved. Will you consider an investment in the people of Greensboro? How about in the next generation??

ANY prayer and/or financial support is welcomed. Thanks for making a difference in our community and world!

"And this is love: that we walk in obedience to his commands. 

As you have heard from the beginning, his command is that you walk in love." 

- 2 John 1:6

Jury Purgatory: The Final Chapter

On my fifth and last day of serving duty, I was denied a position on the 16-person jury. As explained to us by Judge Leon, there would be 16 people chosen: 12 regular jurors and four alternates. On the final day, after an estimated 4-5 weeks of service, the alternate jurors would be told their true roles. The other 12 would deliberate and conclude the trial. Judge Leon explained the reasoning behind not letting the jurors know who is "alternate" versus "regular": the alternates will pay as much attention the whole case as their "regular" colleagues. If one knows he is an alternate, then he won't pay as much attention than if he knows he's a regular juror. Ahhh... (nods) makes sense.

In the last two hours I was there, the remaining 75 (approximately) of us still awaiting our fate filed into Judge Leon's courtroom. We sat before the defendants, the prosecution and the defense. The judge sat before all of us, in his elevated and comfy swivel chair. His gavel sat near him and his papers were stacked in front. We were seated by juror number, which wasn't necessarily in any numerical order, in the section of the court where an audience would watch the proceedings. I'm not sure how they "ranked" us, but I was 20 people from the front.

We were told to file into the juror box 16 people at a time. When the box was full, no one else entered it. The remaining jurors to be evaluated stayed in the audience section of the courtroom.

The two sides, the prosecution and the defense, looked at their notes from the past four days and looked at the box of 16 faces. They exchanged notes with one another and then with the opposing side. The purpose was to pick people with whom both sides agreed that they wanted on the jury.

I watched as the people before me were dismissed one by one. The opposing sides would chat and then take some juror numbers to the judge, who would announce the juror(s) that were dismissed. No explanation for dismissals were given. Simply: "Juror number 0249, you are dismissed." The "cut" juror would grab his/her things and leave the courtroom.

Finally, I was called to join the box. I sat down in the cushiony chair that was bolted to the floor and couldn't help but think, "this is the kind of chair you need if you're going to be listening all day."

I looked ahead at the prosecution and the defense. I was one of three white women in my age bracket- you know, the 25-35 block. I felt like my odds were pretty good for being chosen to stay. I was thinking about my high odds when I saw it. One of the attorneys for the prosecution had a juror seating chart in front of him. Even from eight feet away, I could easily see the layout and identified my chair. Number seven. Then, as quickly as I'd identified my chair I saw the strike of his pen. He met my eyes and quickly looked away. I was out.

I watched the prosecution give their notes to the defense. The defense reviewed them and said something in a whisper back to the prosecution before both parties approached the judge.

Judge Leon, after hearing the new numbers, called out two. Mine was the second. I had been dismissed. My chair barely warm, I gathered my things and left the box. I exited the room and walked through the hall, rode down the elevator and breezed out into the sunshine.

While I'll always wonder what life may have been like for those weeks, I am not disappointed that I wasn't picked for the trial. It seems like it may have been emotionally taxing and (at times) boring or overwhelming. I'll follow the news as a verdict is made. I won't hear it announced from a jury box or hear juror arguments in a cramped boardroom behind a judge's chamber. Rather, the verdict will likely be read from the comfort of my home, where I can only guess at what the jurors learned and speculate as to how I may have been changed from it.

(Now that the "picking" is complete and I am not serving on the 16 panel jury, I felt free to do some digging of my own regarding the case that would have been my other full time job for 4-6 weeks. If you're interested in reading a snippet, then you can click here.)

A Second Job: Jury Purgatory

Last week, when I reported for my federal jury duty summons, I was bright eyed and full of wonder at what I would learn about our judicial system. Turns out, it is pretty incredible. After waiting about an hour, I was whisked away with about 100 other potential jurors, all being vetted for the same case.

We were all shuffled into the federal courtroom that sits in a stone building in the heart of downtown D.C. We filed into the rows where an audience would observe a case. Paintings of robed judges hung on the walls. Besides the paintings, the walls were a pristine and a boring white. They rose high and met the ornate ceiling. We potential jurors were introduced to the lawyers, the clerks, and the defendants. Then, when the intros were complete, the judge entered the room. We rose and watched him saunter to his seat. He read us the basics of the case and reminded us that the accused are innocent until proven guilty.

What a concept. I'm so happy to live in a country where we uphold that basic right.

When we potential jurors had heard the facts of the case and familiarized ourselves with the players, we were then asked to fill out a 20+ page questionnaire pertaining to the case and our opinions about general concepts (think: immigration, gangs, and crime). The judge, lawyers and defendants left us to our questionnaires. Only the clerks remained and in that brief moment I thought how it must be such a pain for the lawyers and judge to come in only for those brief moments. I bet they get sick of those tedious appearances over and over again. Then I remembered their salaries and didn't feel as bad for them.

After completing my questionnaire and handing it to the clerk, I was then given a piece of paper with call back instructions. Little did I know that paper I would become best friends over the next week+.

I left the court and was greeted by the sunshine. I wondered how many people had gone into that building and left with their lives altered completely by a sentence handed to them. Freedom felt really good.

As I walked to the Metro, I passed by an early voting location and cast my ballot, beating most of my fellow DCers to the polls. I watched my ballot go into the machine and noticed that only 14 other people in my precinct had voted prior to me. That was enough to push me over my patriotic edge! Jury duty and voting- all within the same day? It felt good!

Three days later, my Thursday was a different story. I literally sat all day (with the exception of a lunch break) in the jury holding room until they called my number at 4:30. I walked to the counter, where I met the woman who held my fate. Would I be back? Had I been selected? Could I go about my normal life again?

She handed me a paper with a number on it- the same number I'd seen before. She crossed my name off her list with her highlighter while simultaneously saying the same instructions I'd heard her tell the person in front of me, "call this number after 5 tomorrow for your instructions regarding Monday."

Tired from doing nothing and listening to CNN all day, I begrudgingly took the paper and walked myself out of the stale room.

Fast forward again. Today was a little different and way more entertaining. Sure, I spent half the day in jury purgatory. I waited in the room, endured CNN's stories, and knocked out some of my real work via the internet. But then... a break in the monotony! My number was finally called (along with the remaining eight others left in the room that holds about 300+ people). We followed the clerk to the judges chambers, where he left us in a small Board room with no instructions. Everyone was silent, but I could tell that they (like me) were just happy to see another room.

I broke the ice, "well at least we have a change of setting!" That seemed to make a few people chuckle, then everyone settled back into silence. A couple minutes went by with no clerk. Papers and blackberries came out. I pulled out an Express and made it three pages before the clerk returned. He called only my number and I followed him to the courtroom, leaving behind my comrades. I entered and there were all the players again: the lawyers, more clerks, the defendants, and the judge. I was shown where to sit- in the witness box. How exciting!! I felt like a little kid and a foreigner to the process. Keeping myself together, I looked at the judge for an explanation.

He explained that I had been called to expand on some answers from the original questionnaire I had completed. He held it up and we dove into it. He asked me about three of the questions and I answered. After each answer I gave, the judge nodded and turned to the lawyers to ask if they had "further questions?" There was only one instance where I had to answer another question posed from one of the lawyers. Overall, it was pretty awesome- no lie.

I go back again Tuesday (today) to find out more about my role in this case. Who knows what will happen? I feel like I'm in purgatory- waiting in limbo until I find out if I'll have a second job for the next 4-6 weeks (yes, that's how long the case is estimated to run).

One Story

It had been a long day and though it was only Tuesday, already the week's activities made it seem more like a Friday. Rachel and I sat facing the empty lobby of the Pregnancy Center. It was 8:30 pm and, likely, no one else would come this evening. The weather was cool; the first break in the summer heat, and often people will skip their appointments when it's not a sauna outside. Similarly, the rain was threatening. When the clientele relies highly on buses, the threat of rain and standing at a stop while buckets drop all around will keep some inside.

It seemed that way tonight. It was dead in the Center. I was mentally wrapping up my day and simultaneously vegging out in the DC Express. Rachel is a natural introvert and I know this about her. Better to let her read (as she was doing) than to force conversation. Sometimes it's nice to just sit with someone and each read. So, we did. Happily.

It was her turn to see the next client, but she'd gotten up to use the restroom and was in there when the bell rang. I closed my Express and listened for Rachel's footsteps. There was only silence.

Guess I am on duty.

I answered the door and in came Marta. Only, I didn't know her name yet. I checked her in and by the time I pulled a new chart Rachel had returned.

Since I'd already greeted Marta and didn't mind one last client before the night ended, Marta and I left Rachel to her book and went to a private room so I could learn just part of her story.

The Pregnancy Center is a nonprofit Christian organization. It offers a plethora of services: classes (parenting and childbirth), counseling (post-abortion and general), education (sexual health), material resources (i.e. items like clothing, diapers, car seats, etc.), Bible studies, and free pregnancy tests. The Center is an organization that gives what it receives. The donations are often given by local churches and neighborhood ambassadors who want to help others in their community. There's nothing fancy about the Center. Once it was a local grocery store, but was converted decades ago into what it is now- an organization that helps women (mostly) and men in need when they fall on hard times. I've been a volunteer there for four years and never hear the same story.

Marta sat across from me. She was articulate and, despite her strong accent, I could tell she'd been in the States for a while. Her English wasn't very broken and there was little "interpretation lag time" where she internally translated my words before responding externally.

She looks tired.

I always try to put my clients at ease early in our conversation and Marta let me. Though she seemed a bit nervous at first, she soon relaxed and we settled into our time together. She wasn't that young. The average age of the clients I see is probably about 22. Marta eclipsed that age by two decades. She was an experienced mother with four children. It was her latest, Marvin, who had been the surprise. He had arrived 11 months earlier and eight years after his closest sibling in age.

Marta is married, which is also not the norm for the women I see. Her wedding ring is simple and gold. I barely see it on her folded finger. You can imagine my (slight) surprise when she tells me that she lives with just her sons.

I pause at this fact, but wait patiently and then dig a little deeper. Within a few minutes I learn that she and her husband, Carlos, are from Honduras. They moved to give their kids a better life. She was a few months pregnant when he was found working illegally and deported back to Honduras. He'd not seen Marta, baby Marvin, or their three other sons since his deportation. Baby Marvin just learned how to walk.

As she shared her story, I found my eyes welling as my heart broke. Yet Marta stayed strong. I guess when it's your story and you're living it, tears aren't always an option- at least not when you're sitting in a foreign place and speaking with a stranger. Marta is proof of that.

Without a job, she'd lost their home and the safe nest that she'd built with her husband. Their house had been foreclosed on because Carlos wasn't there to work and pay their growing family's bills. Marta was pregnant and then raising a newborn alone. Her partner had been stripped of her and her three eldest boys were relying on her. She took them to a shelter, even baby Marvin, when their house was foreclosed. At only a few months old, Marvin was seeing the inside walls of a community shelter, a place that the majority of Americans will never see themselves, let alone live.

There were no painted walls with family pictures hanging on them. No comforting sofa or inviting bed. Only a foreign mattress, empty walls and a community of strangers beyond Marta's small family.

Marta has received help from DC nonprofit organizations similar to the Pregnancy Center and she's found solace at a local Catholic church. The organizations helped her with her health care and given her advice on next steps. Her priest has offered her a shoulder and probably some needed hugs. Still. It's tough and I see it in her eyes. Nothing has been easy and some steps only lead her backwards. Depression has taken its toll on her. She tells me that at least she doesn't cry all day anymore. My heart aches and I share her burden, if only during our time together.

Keep it together, Meredith. I feel my throat tingling. The tears are welling and my face flushes. Listen. She needs someone to listen.

So I do.

She sits before me and tells me of her hope- a class where she can get become certified in nursing and hopefully find a job to support her family. Once certified, the program helps its graduates find work. Ana's eyes light up as she talks about it. I realize it's her ray. It may be her only sunshine right now. Then the clouds return. The class is $200.

It's not much, but the woman is sitting in front of me and hoping I'll give her $12 worth of diapers and some gently used clothes. To her, $200 is unreachable. She pauses and I pry more. The organization will let her begin the three month program in good faith that she'll find a job within the duration and be able to pay. She tells me that she's scrounged up $50 to show them she's committed. Marta sees it as her only option.

Marta will begin her program tomorrow. The program will provide a babysitter for her boys each night as she works on securing their future. While she listens in the classroom, the boys are a few doors down. In better times, the boys would have been at home at that hour and playing in their rooms while Marta and Carlos talked about baby names.

But these aren't those times.

Marta and I wrap up our time together and my mind is racing, my heart is aching and my spirit is mourning what she's lost. We pray together and I take comfort knowing that the Holy Spirit intercedes for me. My words seem like a scratch on the surface.

Marta's story is one of hundreds that I've heard. No two are alike. No stereotype exists within the walls of the Center. Politics fall away as faces and stories prevail. The night ends and the doors are locked until tomorrow when new stories will fill the Center's walls.

I can't leave untouched and I thank God that I'm not.

(*names have been changed for privacy reasons)