Like most Americans, I've been bombarded by commercials, junk mail, mass-forwarded emails, and overaly verbal co-workers who have all tried to convince me to vote in a certain way for this year's election. Someone even changed the street sign near my house from Bush Street to Obama. Very clever.

In the past, I would get so overwhelmed by the amount of information on who to vote for and which propositions to pass, that I would rely on a voter's guide and let someone else do the thinking for me. I know this sounds like a cop-out, but I'll be the first to tell you that I'm no expert when it comes to politics.

But this year I decided to do things differently. I wanted to make an informed decision. I even wanted to think outside the party lines and to view the issues as Tony Campolo describes in his book, Red Letter Christians: A Citizen's Guide to Faith and Politics. (Red Letter Christians desire to live out the red letters of Jesus' words in the New Testament.) So, how did I make a more informed decision? I attended a Proposition Party. A group of  us met up at a local pizza place, prepared to share our research on both sides of a proposition we had previously selected. (In San Franciso, this was no small task as there were propositions from A - V!) Each person had 4 minutes to present their proposition, and 2 minutes to help answer any questions. Someone managed the time with a stop watch so we could keep things moving and not get too hung up on just one issue. It was a mixed group, made up of men and women, married and single, straight and gay, church-goers and agnostics. This only added to the lively discussion as well as to the diversity of viewpoints shared. I left feeling more informed than ever before and ready to go to the voting booth.

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I have a confession. I’m a speed walker. If you’ve walked slowly in front of me in the past, you’ve probably heard an impatient sigh in your ear or you’ve suffered a flat tire on account of me. Please accept my apologies, but I really can’t help it. It’s in my genes.

 

Seriously.

 

My mom is a speed walker. My grandpa is a speed walker. And I’m sure there were many more speed walkers tucked away in my family tree. It’s how we’re wired. If we’re going to get somewhere, we’re going to get there fast. We don’t have the hip swivel, arm-pumping thing down (which I duly took note of while watching the Olympics this year), but our feet move just as fast.

 

Growing up, I’d watch my mom sprint from room to room while she cleaned the house and vacuumed, all so she could get it done faster. My grandpa has been known to leave shorter-legged people in the dust, with his mind set on his destination. And me? Well, some of my friends have vowed not to walk in front of me anymore. Their Achilles tendon’s are still recovering from the flat tires I’ve given them.

 

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I've learned recently that living in intentional community means that we need to peel back the layers, be real with one another and be there for each other. This can’t just happen while you brush your teeth before crashing from an over-worked, over-scheduled day. Caring requires time.

I made this mistake the other day. After a tiring commute, I raced into the house to scarf some leftovers before meeting a friend for coffee. I barely noticed my housemate who was moping around in her room – far from her usual demeanor. Being the allwise-one I gave her a quick solution so I could get on my way. So just how helpful were my trite remarks? I’ll let you guess. What she needed that evening was for me to listen, and to just allow her to be sad for a while.

At times caring means entering into another’s pain - just sitting there in the midst of it.

I may be vocal in some areas, but when it comes to confrontation with friends, my family or my housemate, I’m the tall, silent type. I let things continue to roll off my shoulder and not bother me until my right shoulder is so askew that I’m in need of chiropractic services. There are definitely those times when we don’t need to create drama over the small blunders and quirks. But when that issue, whether it’s an ongoing, sarcastic remark about you or a consistent disrespect of your stuff, it’s time to get the courage and confront.

That said, I’ve found myself living with the opposite extreme of avoidance – one in which my housemate thrived on confrontation. I’d literally dread seeing her car in the driveway when I’d come home, wondering what I had done wrong this time.

I often act as though everything and everyone should answer to me. My world is nice, neat and orderly. Just the way I like it – a low-fat cappuccino with lots of foam and crystallized sugar on top. Living in community brought this falsity to the table rather quickly. While I wouldn’t go quite as far as professing to epitomize Webster’s definition of “anal” I will admit to presenting as borderline at times. I’ve actually been known to refold my roommate’s towels a time or two so they match mine. True confessions.

 

Compromise means letting go of my unreasonable standards. It also means not getting annoyed when someone doesn’t fold hospital corners on their bed. It asks that I acknowledge that I’m not always right, I don’t always have the best ideas, and that I need to let someone else take the lead and to do things differently.

We all have our stories of living with the obnoxious, quirky orclingy housemate. One especially memorable experience left me feelinglike I was living on an episode of Animal Planet when their cat assumedthe disguise of a jungle tiger and decided to mark his territorythroughout the house. Yet another classic moment unfolded, with adifferent housemate, when I came home to find the milk in the pantry,the tortilla chips in the fridge and the leftovers in the Tupperwaredrawer (her scurried attempts at “cleaning up”).

In Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller devotes an entire chapter tothis subject. It’s called, “Community: Living with Freaks.” The titlealone made me laugh out loud. Yet as the text played out, he hit anerve. While living in community, my mindset has often attached itselfto what Miller admits to: “Life was a story about me because I was inevery scene.” In the “me-focused” world in which all of us dwell attimes, how do we successfully live in intentional community?

I’ve come to realize that living in community is messy. To do it wellmeans that the morning-breath, cranky me I hide from co-workers or afirst date needs to rear its head more often than not. Likewise, I needto allow my housemate to do the same, and not get freaked out by heridiosyncrasies. It demands an authenticity that allows us to know allsides of each other. And, I’m not the only member of this cast.Community involves caring for another person in a place of mutualsubmission while living out life alongside each other. But how do weget there?

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“I’m so over you Sarah Marshall.”
“You do look fat in those jeans, Sarah Marshall.”
“My Mom always hated you Sarah Marshall.”

I’ve been seeing these signs all around town – on the sides of the MuniBus, on top of taxi cabs, and on billboards. I started wondering, what did thisSarah Marshall do? She must have really been a heart-breaker. Imean, for a guy to go to such efforts to buy up all of the advertisingspace in the city to get back at his “X.” I was quite impressed withhis revenge tactic (although I’d love to hear Sarah Marshall’s side ofthe story). I don’t think any guy would think about dating her afterreading all of those signs. I decided to google it, and I soondiscovered on www.ihatesarahmarshall.com, that the ads were some sortof guerilla marketing tactic to plug a new movie. The website is set uplike a blog, and details the poor guy – Peter Bretter’s - break-up.Quite clever.

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Now that I've moved to the city, my '95 Jetta has been relegated to the curb with an occasional jaunt to a different side of the street to avoid the infamous street cleaning ticket. My dream has finally come true... well, partially. I am now driven to work. Not by my personal chauffeur (as in my dream) but by the San Francisco Municipal Bus Driver. Muni for short.

Each morning you'll find me either breathing in the crisp morning air Pollyanna-like as I wait patiently at the bus stop, or shifting side to side as I stare at the Muni schedule every 5 seconds wondering why it hasn't arrived yet, or you'll find me racing down the hill in hopes that the bus driver will offer me some grace and slow down so I can catch up to the next stop. I haven't quite figured out the protocol on whether or not to chat with the bus drivers. It was just a few weeks ago that I realized that the sign "Information Gladly Given But Safety Requires Avoiding Unnecessary Conversation" was not a sign for me to not talk to strangers. It was a sign to let the bus driver do what they were paid to do - drive. So, I've kept quiet and obeyed the signs with a quick "thank you" as I exit the bus.

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