Abandonment and Opportunity

We can’t have air in all our tires.

This has not been a banner week for transportation. Last Tuesday, one week in to a now two-week car repair, I was riding my bike through the South East Lake neighborhood when I turned left towards East Lake park and rode past a Toyota Camry with its hazards on. As I rode past it, I noticed its rear driver-side tire was completely flat, and almost as if the poor car had mechanical ESP, my own rear bike tire was flat by the time I crossed First Avenue North.

I considered my options — I had left my saddle bag back on the green plastic patio table in Kentucky; half-because I forgot it and half-because it was falling apart and I didn’t want to remember it anyways. The problem is the saddle bag was what I used to carry my tire patch kit, which is currently MIA and probably in the trunk of my car which has spent so much time up in the air of the mechanic shop it likely has altitude sickness by now.

I considered phoning a friend for a ride, but I knew I was only about a mile and a half away from home. The whole point of bike rides through South East Lake (other than its being quiet and flat and me being out of shape on my bike) was to snoop around to see what part of the neighborhood I would want to live in if I could someday achieve the mythical down payment and buy a house there. I decided to walk back on foot and suffer the scorn of people I hope will someday be my neighbors.

You really do get a different sense of a place depending on how fast you move through it. Those interstate lines that patter past your window are ten feet long, but you would never guess that unless you had the unfortunate experience of being on the interstate on foot. I guess sometimes when they’re building new interstate bridges they’ll let the public take a walk on them before they open; I’ve done it twice and both times I’ve been absolutely shocked with how big an interstate bridge is when it’s just you and no car.

I only knew Chicago by public transportation, biking, and on foot, and even those experiences were completely different in quality. On the elevated train, you just skim over the tops of neighborhoods, if you run it obviously takes longer; if you bike you might actually beat the train to where you’re going.
Bottom line is, I figured if I wouldn’t want to walk down a block with a flat-tired bicycle, I probably shouldn’t buy a house on it, either. So I walked down the street, making mental notes of each one. The blocks I would rather avoid are mostly the places where the majority of houses are abandoned. Some I would slow down my stroll and glance inside; others I was afraid to look and kept moving.

I went on another walk the other night during my break at work. I had about a half hour left, and I had been sitting all day, so I set my alarm for 15 minutes and went out in one direction until my alarm told me to turn around. Walking downtown also gives you a different perspective. If you just drive through you probably don’t notice how many buildings downtown are empty or abandoned.

We all know the words “urban renaissance” aren’t necessarily as meaningful as they are ubiquitous, like avocados or designer poodle mixes. Walking down the actual street at least confirms that for something to be reborn it has to be dead first.

It’s not that downtown isn’t lovely and full of potential. It has a nice line-up of big square brick buildings. There’s plenty of available square-footage; it just looks like there’s not a lot of takers just yet.

Near the farthest point of my walk, I had been in the process of a conversation with the Lord I had tried to have at work earlier and had almost answered the phone with the phrase, “Dear God…”, which probably would not have gone over well. Why do I still say “Dear God,” anyways? Is it because I’m trying to phrase my prayers like a letter? Is it because I want God to know how much I appreciate him? I suspect neither.

So I was trying to have a conversation with the Lord on my walk, and between being alert for my phone alarm and having just been visibly startled by walking past a homeless man sitting in one of the empty storefronts, I tried to pray but all that came out of my mind’s mouth was a half-exasperated, “What do you want from me?”

I had just been trying to figure out the normal things, like where my life is going and whether I’m doing it right, and if I’m going to be ok some time from now, and I just wanted some guidance, some direction, some sense of knowing that what I was doing was good and that it was what God wanted. Because sometimes I feel like a row of abandoned houses and I just don’t know where to start. Do I clear the yard? Do I paint things first?

And this was a conversation I had been having with him for the last few days, most likely affected by my transportation woes, and it wasn’t until the frustrated and honest question on the corner of 1st and 14th that I saw some light.

My alarm sounded, and I headed back toward the office on Morris. As I walked down the old cobblestone past several rough-looking people sleeping on the grass (or passed out; I was afraid to look), I imagined how Jesus would respond to that question.

At some point he said, “I just want you.”

On the corner of 18th and Morris I saw a bright, blank, white wall; five stories high and the whole block wide. Not abandoned, but clear and ready for someone to make something beautiful on it.