Umbrella Covers + Muddy Patches

It's a rainy day here in Chapel Hill.

I love rainy days because they force us to slow down and give us time to think. That and we just get wet.

But, really, rain is a renewing force. Both metaphorically and physically. In fact I was just thinking on the bus yesterday about how in our time of drought in the Southeast, rain is particularly meaningful because it is a tangible sign of grace and relief. Like Jennifer Hagin said this weekend, water is such a significant image in the Old Testament because so often the people and the ground lacked it.

Instead of contemplating the intricacies of rain, though, this morning I was rushing to get to my 8 a.m. class and I dropped my umbrella cover in the middle of Raleigh Street.

Without time to go back for it, I continued on to class. On my way back to the warm haven of my dorm I thought about what I would do if the umbrella cover was still somehow in the middle of the street. It didn't matter that it was gross and muddy now that cars had run over it, and that people would see me picking it up - I was going to pick it up and claim it for my own.

I think that picture of the umbrella cover and my reaction to losing it is a lot of what it means to "own" something. Often I shy away from the concept of ownership because I see it easily corrupted (individualistic, territorial, materialistic). As humans we latch onto things to call "ours" in order to somehow define ourselves. So Jane owns an iPod, a MINI Cooper, and a Northface jacket. Michael owns a Zune, a Volvo, and a Land's End parka. We try to find our security in the things we have instead of who we belong to. But maybe ownership is more about love and investment.

In fact, the umbrella cover reminds me a lot of the way we must look to God. While most people would like to fancy themselves as clean and collected, I think in reality we are very much the dropped in the street, run over, wet, muddy umbrella cover. In the presence of such Perfection, how are we anything but?

Yet the beauty of it comes in the fact that God isn't repulsed by that. Instead, he willingly stoops down and picks us up, bringing us inside to become His. We are His. That is what ownership means - to care for something, to love it.

In stark visual contrast to this sense of ownership affection stands the ground outside of Carroll Hall.

Once upon a time (a year ago) this patch of ground used to be vibrant with green grass. Students would sometimes cut across this grass for a more direct entrance into Carroll, especially when running late. So, there was a small dirt path wearing through the grassy area, but it was still livable.

Fast forward to today. That same plot of land is a muddy wasteland. Construction takes up the rest of that quad area, forcing heavy foot traffic over the ground and effectively killing the grass.

It always used to bother me in a quirky way that people didn't respect the grass enough to walk 5 extra steps around it and stay on the sidewalk. The way no one valued the grass. And now I realize that value is linked to "ownership." Will I "invest" or give up 20 more seconds of my life in order to protect this thing that I value - a beautiful green patch of land?

So here is what I'm saying. A sense of ownership can be really good in that it makes people care about something enough to protect it. We belong to God. The grassy patch belongs to me (and 37,000 of my closest friends). But please hear this, too. Ownership is NOT individualistic. Do I, Liz Hundley, really own the grassy quad? No, but I, along with everyone else who traverses that path, do have an interest in its survival, and that sense of ownership and care for this space should be what motivates us to protect it.