D.L. Mayfield

living in the upside-down kingdom

Filtering by Tag: suburbs

hometown

 

 

We moved. Across the country. We packed up the house and gave away most of our earthly possessions. We kept the clothes, books, blankets, and art. It was 91 degrees and dark and stormy and humid as we scrubbed down the walls of our little dollhouse. How did we live for three years in that city? How did my baby girl grow up there, how was my little boy conceived and born there? How did we manage to live in the Midwest yet not in the midwest, how are we to carry on back to our hometown when we have been irrevocably changed by this place?

I feel poor in spirit, these days. I sit in a backyard surrounded by my mother and father and sisters and babies. I sip iced coffee and eat tortilla chips and feel the warm, dry heat and smell the pine trees of the northwest. I can tell I am older now. I notice the smells of the trees. I need more time to sit and catch my breath. I cry at all the worship songs, even the terrible ones. I just want to go on walks and sometimes I feel tremendously sad but there are several lives all tied to mine and we all need to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

How do you explain poor in spirit? I think it means people who have been crushed by the world. This has happened to me, just a little bit. I feel guilty for even typing that out, because I know so many who have been crushed by so much more. My daughter loves that we are spending the next few weeks at her Mimi and Pop-pop’s house, surrounded by chickens and treehouses and fire pits. She tromps around in boots and garden gloves, taking wheelbarrows of sticks and twigs somewhere important, she runs around and waters the plants, plays with the kitten, practices her ABCs. She is having the kind of childhood experience that up until now, she has never had. She is free. But the other day she woke up sad, and it just never went away. I rocked her and rocked her and rocked her, because it is so hard and confusing to be sad in a place where there is also so much joy. 

We still don’t have jobs, we are still waiting on an apartment. I’ve had mostly good days here but a few very sad ones as well. Sometimes it is hard to drive the car, leave the house, talk to anyone, not crouch in a ball of fear and anxiety. I have eaten a lot of blackberry pie. I have tried to sit in the backyard and be grateful for a time of rest. The word Sabbatical has been tossed around. I alternate between wanting to sit in the sun for the rest of my life and rushing into helping save Portland as quick as I can. There has never been very much gray in my life.

This is my home, yet I don’t know it anymore. I don’t know what is good about this city, I don’t know all of the problems. So many people want to tell us about both of them, but we are pretty tired. We are moving slow as molasses these days. Give us a year, maybe, give us some friends who grew up in our new neighborhood or give us friends who moved there involuntarily, give us the newly arrived refugees and immigrants, give us those whose incomes and livelihoods and families depend on it, and then maybe we will know a little bit. We spent the past three years undoing our school book days, we spent the past three years being emptied. And of course we were filled up, but only for that day, that moment, that season. There was no scarcity in the kingdom of God, but there was no hoarding either. 

It’s a new season. I drove past the neighborhood where we will most likely be making a home, on the suburbs of Portland. It’s where the poor have to live now, in so many cities, the very outer ring. It has its problems—lack of walkability, social services and grocery stores, fewer bus lines—and it is, quite frankly, ugly and bleak, full of apartment complexes and shuttered businesses and precious little else. A far cry from our beautiful, old, tree-lined inner-city neighborhood in Minneapolis, a public park every few blocks, the diversity stunning and breathtaking and a gift to all. I try not to mind, but I do. 

Still, I get the sense that it is home. We know who we are a little bit more now, so we know what we need. We don’t need to live in one of the craziest apartment complexes in the city, nor do we need a gorgeous old house to rest our souls in (though we have enjoyed our time in both of those). We need a place to be together in the midst of many, we need a diversity of experiences and languages and countries. We found an apartment complex with 188 units, most of them refugee families. It is the kind of place where it will be very easy for me to be a mom. It is the kind of place where we will be blessed. It is the kind of place where one can be poor in spirit, for as long as they need be. 

Until now, I thought I was rootless. I was born in California and raised all over the western side of the map: Alaska, Wyoming, Oregon, Northern California. I moved away to the Midwest but in reality I was in a microcosm of East Africa in a diverse urban settlement, a culture within cultures. Now I am back, have been here for a few days and my heart relaxes just a tiny bit as I run trails through the bark dust and green ferns, the old-growth forests pressing down on me in comfortable silence, the days hot and the nights cool. I am from the northwest, it is in my bones, I belong here and yet so many are not here. I miss them.

It is the part of being crushed that I try not to mind as much. To love and be loved means to be changed and damaged and strengthened. I feel it in my legs as I run up the small mountains that surround my parent's house, feel how my body has changed due to kids and illness and time. They are going to be stronger than they ever have before I think to myself, and I know it is true. I will run harder, and faster, and push myself because I wasn't swallowed up, because there are new mercies and new trails to be discovered this very morning. 

I am back in my hometown, and it is a very mixed bag. But underneath all the crazy-making of the past few months of anxiety and transition, I see the roots of the future spreading out. I am so poor that I can only catch a glimpse of it, in my spirit. But when I do, I see us all becoming old-growth forests for others, to seeking the stability and peace of the neighborhood, whichever ones we might be in at the moment. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Downward Mobility Interview: Suburban Edition

My friend Stina (hey, remember her? She blew up the internets with her "I'm a Downward Mobility Dropout" post) asked me if she could interview some friends of hers. I said yes, of course (and I would love to have a few more interviews like it!). Matthew and Diana's story is very encouraging to me, and I resonated with so much of what they had to say about joy, community, and sustainability (and bedbugs and expensive rent). Actually, it made me miss our apartment complex in Portland something fierce (currently, we live in apartments where there is zero community space and very few families due to the small sizes of the apartments). I just adore these pockets of kingdom people and kingdom communities, which are all over our cities and suburbs. Let's keep sharing these stories!  

 

Downward Mobility Interview: Suburban Edition

Interview by Stina KC.

Matthew and Diana Soerens and their daughter Zipporah live at Parkside, a low-income apartment complex in an affluent suburb of Chicago, Illinois. Diana worked as a public high school teacher for seven years and is now working part-time at their church, Church of the Resurrection in Wheaton, Illinois.  Matthew works as the Field Director for the Evangelical Immigration Table, a national coalition of faith-based groups seeking to encourage changes to U.S. immigration policy consistent with biblical values.  He's also the co-author of Welcoming the Stranger: Justice, Compassion & Truth in the Immigration Debate (InterVarsity Press, 2009).  Matt and Diana met while both students at Wheaton College, and they held their wedding reception in the courtyard of their apartment complex in 2011.

Stina KC recently interviewed Matthew and Diana about their downward mobility journey in Glen Ellyn, a wealthy suburb where the median household income is nearly $90,000. This interview was edited for clarity and length.

Q: Tell me about your experience with downward mobility. Why did you decide to move into Parkside?

Diana: I spent six months in a rural village in Mexico and I loved the simplicity of that lifestyle. I took a lot of joy in doing things slowly and in the relationship with other women in the village. I wanted to go back overseas after college but the doors were shut firmly so I started getting involved with World Relief, a local refugee resettlement agency. Our church was helping a refugee family and they were resettled in the Parkside neighborhood. I started coming to Parkside all the time and hanging out with Matt because he lived here. His roommate Jonathan had a vision for an intentional community and they recruited me to move into the neighborhood. Then I married Matt! And we never left.

Parkside reminded me about everything that I loved about living overseas without having to leave the suburbs. I loved the neighborhood, I loved that there were people outside all the time, and I loved the hospitality of the neighbors. It was the culture I was searching for, the place I was looking for. It was home.

Matthew: That’s an important point for us. We don’t live here because we want to make some kind of virtuous sacrifice. It’s not that we are focused on living in the most low-income place; we just love living here. If we are going to live in the suburbs of Chicago, this is where we want to live. The culture here is different from the suburbs, it’s much more community oriented and this is where we want to raise our daughter.

My story is somewhat similar to Diana’s. I had come back recently from living overseas for six months and I was living in this really nice house in Wheaton but it was killing my soul. I have been here for a long time, over seven years now.

 

Q: What is the structure to your community? Is it just the two of you or are there others living at Parkside who are there for the same reasons?

Diana: We do Bible studies with the middle school kids. We do basic discipleship with them. I’ve been meeting with the same group of girls for over two years now. It has been great to see how they’ve grown.

Matthew: We have a community meal on Monday nights, which is mostly our intentional community. There are about ten people in our community who live at Parkside who, like us, went to Wheaton College. We have a rotating meal, which is an opportunity to host outsiders and entertain guests. We also have a community prayer time Monday through Thursday evenings.

 

Q: Why do you continue to choose to live at Parkside?

Diana: It would be easy to live in the suburbs and never leave my Christian bubble. I could go to moms group at church and just hang out with my church friends. One reason is to interact with a diverse population and get out of the white Christian bubble.

Only one in ten immigrants have ever been welcomed into the home of an American and I find that really sad. I want to change the way immigrants are received into this country. Being hospitable to our neighbors and receiving their hospitality in return is a big value I have.

Matthew: This is important for me because my job is focused on immigration policy issues. I fly in and out of this community way more than anybody else who lives here; I’m not a typical resident. I work with pastors and politicians, so it’s important when I get home that I am still interacting with immigrants on a relational level.

 

Q: What do you does “downward mobility” mean to you?

Matthew: We aren’t downwardly mobile as much as not upwardly mobile. We haven’t consistently downsized; we just moved into a bigger apartment. But we have stayed in the same apartment complex and don’t plan on leaving. Mobility implies a direction and I don’t think we are systematically becoming less affluent or consumeristic, but hopefully we are capping where we’ve reached.

 

Q: How has your experience with downward mobility changed since becoming parents?

Diana: I have a lot more street cred as a mom with the other moms at Parkside. It opens up a lot more doors for relationships. I love staying at home with my baby here. I think I would go crazy if I lived in a big house; I would die of loneliness. One great thing about living in this neighborhood is that I don’t have to be lonely if I don’t want to be. There are always neighbors to talk to, I can go and knock on somebody’s door, there are kids playing outside all the time.

The most difficult thing is bedbugs. They are horrible and drive you crazy. They have bitten my five-month-old daughter. The level of infestation in the complex means we’re never going to completely get rid of them.

Matthew: It’s difficult because the best way to get prevent getting more bedbugs is to not to let any of our neighbors into our apartment, which defeats the purpose of living here. We have a bunch of kids in here twice a week and after they leave we say a prayer over the space to try and keep the bedbugs away.

Besides the bedbugs I feel like we are doing downward mobility lite, or at least incarnational living lite.  We’re in the suburbs. We don’t have a lot of crime. We don’t live in a food desert; we can walk to four different grocery stores. We have friends who are living in desperate urban areas where there are shootings and crime. We don’t have to worry about getting shot.

Diana: Also, rent is expensive here. I struggle because we could be paying this much for a mortgage and building equity. That responsible financial thinking starts: “Maybe we should buy a house because we’re in that stage of life.”

 

Q: What did your friends and families think when you decided to live at Parkside? Did you get pushback?

Diana: Yes, from my parents. They were scandalized by how much we were paying for rent that goes toward a crummy apartment. And they said, “You’re going to walk out to your car and find it on cement blocks! They’re going to steal your tires!”

And the truth is there is no real crime at Parkside. It has had its fair share of issues in the past, like gangs and drugs and prostitution, but the neighborhood has cleaned up since World Relief has been resettling refugee families here. Our neighborhood is really vibrant and safe and family friendly.

 

Q: Do you have any words of encouragement/resources/advice for people considering downward mobility in a suburban context?

Matthew: There is cool downward mobility, and then there is halfway downward mobility where you live within walking distance of a Starbucks. No matter where you are, in a rural context or suburban context or urban context, there are communities like the one we live in. There are almost certainly people in your neighborhood who are living at or beneath the poverty line.

Diana: I know it sounds cliché, but we receive more from our neighbors than we ever give. Even if you don’t live in a diverse or under resourced area, get to know your neighbors and build a community.

Matthew: I don’t want people to feel guilty, like they have to live in a neighborhood like ours, because we are living here because we want to. I think if more people tried it they would discover that they really love it. I’m not saying it’s necessarily a better way to live, but for us it’s a better way to live.

 

 

Thank you, Matthew and Diana, for sharing your story. Feel free to ask more questions in the comments!

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Accidental Simplicity : Guest Post by Micha Boyett

I met Micha through the community at A Deeper Church and I am so glad I did. She exudes grace in her writing (much more difficult than you might think in our current online climate). She is a bone-deep thinker, with the heart of a poet. When she said she had a few words cooking on the topic of downward mobility, I was thrilled. I identify with this piece on so many levels--just this past week I realized my child was fascinated by COWS IN A FIELD (eesh. we need to get out of the city more). But really, Micha teases out all those tiny transformations that are changing us all the time, in her usual lovely way. You can find her blog here and her twitter handle here

 

 

 

 Accidental Simplicity : Guest post by Micha Boyett

 

 

We lived in San Francisco for almost two years, from the time my oldest son was fifteen months old until he turned three. We did laundry in our building’s shared laundry space, sticking quarters in and moving our underwear before the neighbors did. We kept the stroller in our tiny hall closet and my husband’s bike in the hallway.

Raising a toddler in the city was doable. My son was young so he didn’t know the difference between his life of walking ten minutes to the park and his old life of stepping outside the back door to play in his own yard. He didn’t notice the scope of his closet-sized bedroom that hardly fit his crib or remember the big, sunny playroom in the house we left behind in the Philadelphia area. But I did. I remembered.

I loved a lot about living in the city for those almost-two years. I loved the energy. I loved the restaurants and the beauty of the bay, just blocks from home. I loved the mosaic of so many types of people and languages, all smashed into a few square miles.

I also loved our church. It was the sort of church that never assumed that every one in the pew on a Sunday morning was a believer. It was the sort of church that existed because the city forced it to exist. It had to engage doubters and pursue justice. For the first time in my adulthood, I felt understood at church. And I knew it would be rare to ever find a church like that outside of urban life.

But when it came to my toddler, who screamed at the sight of a fly, I felt guilty. I felt like I was stealing the outdoors from his life. I felt like he needed space to play and explore. He needed a yard, a house, an affordable pre-school. The price of living in San Francisco felt unsustainable. (How would we ever save money for our kids’ college?) I longed for something easier.

When we had the chance to get out, to move on to “normal” life, we took it. My husband started a new job for a company headquartered in the Bay Area, but opening an office in Texas. We moved to a smaller, more residential city, where we could afford to rent a three-bedroom house with a lovely backyard and a two-car garage. Our son got a bike with training wheels and a bug collecting science kit. We had friends over for dinner and sat outside under the stars to eat it. We sent our newly three-year-old to preschool for a third of what it would have cost us in San Francisco.

And we were happy. Life was easier. We had a wonderful year in that yard. I wore sundresses and grew tomatoes. We saved money and bought outdoor furniture.

Then, one year later, my husband’s company changed their plans, closed his group’s office in that city, and gave us eight weeks to move back to California. Just. Like. That.

His new office would be an hour south of San Francisco. It made sense that we could move back to the Bay Area, but this time settle near his office. After all, our son would be starting Kindergarten in one year, and the public schools in that area were top-notch. South of the city, the weather was always ten degrees warmer than chilly, foggy San Francisco. We could have a house, which, though it would be a million times more expensive than Texas, was more affordable than an apartment in the city.

The downside? That year in Texas, for all the sundress wearing, outdoor eating, and preschool bike riding, my husband and I had felt the lack of diversity in our lives. All our friends were white. Almost all our son’s friends were white. We missed the simplicity of walking to the grocery store and seeing the same people at the park everyday.

And I realized that though I often claimed to care about pursuing justice for the oppressed, though I often talked about diversity and buying my food and clothes in an aware, compassionate way, it was so much harder to do so in my “easier” life. I had so much space in my closets, just begging to be filled. I had a Target two minutes away full of pretty gadgets that I was sure I really needed. I struggled to practice what I claimed to believe.

Somehow, after those eight weeks of praying and searching for a plan, my husband and I found ourselves downsizing to an apartment in the city, this time with our two kids. It wasn’t because we were super spiritual or even because we were set on taking steps toward living more simply. It really came down to community. We chose the city because we loved our church, because we loved our friends there. We chose San Francisco because we wanted to live among people who inspired us to do more than use the city for our own benefit. We wanted to engage the city for the sake of a holistic gospel: to make the public school system stronger from the inside, to participate in the art and food culture and all the searching souls within it, to strive for justice among the neglected and disenfranchised, to walk among both the poor of the city and the intellectually elite.

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This first year back in San Francisco, I’ve wondered, What are we doing here? I’m raising two boys in an apartment, even though I know we could spend the same on a big house in another part of the country. I drive as little as possible (parking is difficult) and when I do, I cram my car in the world’s tiniest garage. (I’ve scraped it about forty-five times in the past ten months.) I’ve had to simplify my wardrobe and keep it simple. (My petite closet demands so.) Fog or sunshine, I’m forced to get my kids to the park in order to burn off their energy (and then forced to get to know the people around me on that playground, doing the same thing). My son has Korean friends and Chinese friends and Jewish friends and he and I have had a lot of conversations about race and beliefs. I live above neighbors who don’t have kids, who don’t like noise, and I have cried tears over our situation with them, but I’ve also been forced to have compassion for them, respect them, and work towards peace with them. In other words, this city is refining me. Challenging me. And in some ways, accidentally turning me radical.

And also? My kid still hates bugs, even after that year with a yard.

Yes, my husband commutes an hour to work. Yes, I’m not thrilled with the school where my son is starting Kindergarten.  But, I’m confronted daily with severe beauty and severe brokenness. In the city, I can’t pretend that the world is a simple place. I can’t pretend that we don’t need God.

It’s refining me. But it’s not refining me alone. I’m surrounded by friends who remind me that living in the city with kids is not only possible, it’s good.

Did I choose Downward Mobility? No. I think it chose me. I chose the yard and the two-car garage and the pleasant life on our cul-de-sac. God placed me in the Inner Richmond, where the fog hits first before it rolls into the rest of the city. And I’m beginning to find the fog beautiful, like every other difficult thing about living in this city.

What I’m saying is sometimes you fight against the downward motion of simplicity. Sometimes you fight how it hurts you until you realize that it’s been healing you all along.

 

 

 

ImageMicha (pronounced MY-cah) Boyett is a youth minister turned stay at home mom trying to make sense of vocation and season and place in the midst of her third cross-country move in three years. On a slow journey of learning prayer with eyes open and arms deep in sticky dishes, she blogs at Patheos about motherhood, monasticism, and the sacred in the everyday. Her forthcoming memoir will be released in 2014 from Worthy Publishing. She lives in San Francisco with her husband and two sons.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For the first post in the Downward Mobility series, click here.

For all posts, click here.

 

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