"God knows why"

Last night we found out one of our guests has had alcohol problems, when she got some bad news about her kids and had too much to drink (after a month of sobriety). Heather and I ended up driving her to her sister's place, because she wanted to get out of the house, and it was raining and dark and we were worried she would go out walking alone.

On the hour-long drive she started singing softly. A favorite of hers, by Kid Rock. These words caught my ear:

People don't know about the things I say and do
They don't understand about the shit I've been through
Its been so long since I've been home
I've been gone, I've been gone way too long
Maybe I've forgotten all the things I miss
Oh, somehow I know there is more to life than this

...So I think I'll keep a walking with my head held high
I'll keep moving on and only God knows why
Only God, Only God,
Only God knows why

Man has places in his heart which do not yet exist,
and into them enters suffering in order
that they may have existence.
-Leon Bloy

the weak response

Sunday we went to church at New Covenant Fellowship again. And during the song "We Exalt Thee" I started crying. I didn't know why, and that scared me; was I getting overwhelmed already, after only a month?

Later I thought over some of the scenes from this past week:

Hearing that the couple that just moved out of here, who we congratulated and rejoiced with, is now doing drugs in their new apartment.

Talking with the woman with two children and finding out her sister had pushed them out of the grandmother's home onto the street, and seemed to be trying to get custody of the kids.

Bringing out some food and blankets for Dan and his dog, and listening while he explained how his van (his only home, with all his belongings) had been towed in a random sweep to discourage football fans from parking in a McDonald's parking lot during games.

Seeing Willy again, who had been injured in a fight on our porch, now in a neck brace with ugly red scrapes on his face, sitting in our kitchen after receiving food and blankets again--and calmly saying he might try to sue us.

How do you respond to this? I've heard some volunteers say, "It's no big deal, I've seen this again and again; you better get used to it." That's said easily, but I think the path to that answer is a hard and sad one. Then there's the tendency to just slam the door. Another volunteer spoke of that. When there's just too many people asking for things, too many hard-luck stories, too many to keep the door open because they just keep coming in. But how often can we slam the door before we just keep it shut?

Then there's the weak response. Tears. I think they scare me because in situations with so much need, tears feel like giving in to helplessness. They feel like a collapse. And if we're crying, who's answering the door?

But after pondering that all day yesterday, I believe that tears may be exactly what is needed. Because it's not us who are responsible for holding things together. It's God. What we're asked to do is try. And to care. And weep with those who weep. Even if we trust God completely so that we do not despair but fully believe that all things work together for good, we can still cry for the suffering and confusion of those we meet. If we really love them, we will cry.

I shouldn't be afraid of facing the next person because I might cry. I should be confident that I can face the next person because I might cry.

"I Want You"

The pizza was good last night, then for entertainment we chased a squirrel out of Mary's room.

Squirrels can be pretty scary when cornered, I found out.

Later a woman called, trying to find a place to stay for a woman with two young kids. I said we didn't have a room available. Then she got agitated, because she had called several places and they all said they were full. What was this woman to do, she demanded. Why wouldn't anyone help? I said we had couches available, but that wasn't a good place for children long-term, with all the people that came here for the soup kitchen. The woman became impatient and indignant, she even threatened to "write the editor."

That's when I started to get irritated. "Your indignation won't get you anywhere," I said. "I just can't believe that no one will help," she persisted. "Why don't you take her in," I asked. She paused then said, more quietly, "I don't know her."

I don't accept the idea that it is the "job" of charitable organizations to take care of people in need. Maybe people can take that attitude with social service organizations, run by government employees with tax money, but not with places like this, where everyone is volunteers and the money comes from personal donations. And Jesus' story of the Good Samaritan makes it clear that caring for people in need is not something to be delegated but should be done by us personally, when we encounter the need. This woman seemed to think that she was doing her part by giving money to charities (and demanding services for the mother and children). But what was needed last night was not money or anger but a place to sleep.

The woman's "righteous" indignation drained away when I pointed this out and we began to talk about a way to help. We finally agreed to let the mom and kids sleep on the pull-out couch last night and then try to find another place for them today. The woman seemed relieved and grateful.

And, after a pancake breakfast this morning, we did find another place. Those kids were beautiful, with bright smiles and curly hair. And they warmed up to us quickly. When we dropped them off, the little boy asked Heather, "Can you come with us?"

don't forget the cheese

Tonight I'm making homemade pizza, like I used to do every Friday night back at Reba Place. I found a huge cache of pepperoni in a freezer, green peppers and mushrooms came in the grocery donation yesterday, and this morning a volunteer happened to show up with a big bag of cheese. Our hope is in you, Father, who richly provide all things for us to enjoy.

Heather's day

Here's something Heather just wrote, a description of a day last week. I wrote about some of these incidents already (and this is pretty long), but I like Heather's perspective...

My alarm wakes me up at about 6:15; I hit the snooze once, and the second time it goes off I scramble out of bed and into my clothes in the dark; my roommate Katie (who's moving out tomorrow) is still asleep. I make it out the door just a little after 6:30, when Paul was supposed to meet me in the living room, but he's not there.

Paul sleeps in "the Big House," where the guests live. (These are the homeless folks staying with us; we call them guests as part of our ethos--that this is hospitality in the biblical sense rather than an efficient social service.) I sleep in the little Annex, where only volunteers live. They're on different streets connected by a shared, unfenced backyard and just to be safe we've decided Paul would come get me in the mornings instead of my walking alone.

I wait for Paul, and do the Annex dishes while I wait. He hasn't come and it's about seven, so I decide that just this once I might as well go ahead;. Turns out Paul was there at 6:30 but left again; he thought & hoped I'd slept through my alarm, thinks I needed it. We sit down on the couch in the office, where he sleeps, and have a shortened devotions together; I'm tired so I just listen to him chant a psalm & then read the Gospel reading out loud, then we chant the Magnificat together. Hoefully tomorrow there'll be time for more prayer. By this time the guests are stirring: I say good morning to Jeanine, off to her new temp job very early, and it's seven thirty, time to wake up Heather who's sleeping on the living room couch. I wake her up, ask her a few questions about how things are going; she's fairly new. She's a more middle-class type about my age, fallen on crazy problems involving a pot-smoking roommate who aggravates her asthma & can't be made to respect her needs; she just needs a temporary bed until she can get it worked out. She has a concern from yesterday; she was in the living room in the morning and one of the volunteers who come in to cook for soup kitchen was watching her like a hawk, making her uncomfortable. (She's not used to being a Homeless Person; any of the other guests would have known what that was about, though they'd have felt no less disrespected.) Sorry about that, I tell her, it's just that sometimes people are scared when they don't know who someone is; next time try introducing yourself and explaining your situation.

I go back into the kitchen to make my breakfast, say good morning to Tyette who's passing through, chat a little with Darcy as we get coffee: how did she sleep? Better than she had in days, with the cooler weather. But her husband Robert, who sleeps at the Salvation Army shelter and just got a roofing job, wasn't able to work yesterday because of the rain. Robert and Darcy came here from Indianapolis; they felt they needed to leave town because the relatives they were living with were getting involved with drugs. They are very determined to get on their feet.

I make oatmeal and sit down with Paul to eat it; the doorbell rings. It's a man wearing a look I know well; it's a look that says, "I just need this one thing. Please, please help me get it. If I can't get help I don't know what I'm going to do." We see that look around here plenty, and having worn it before myself, I tend to move into quick action mode at the sight of it. He needs a bus ticket to Danville; they've changed his court date, he just found out today, and if he can't get there they'll issue a warrant for his arrest. He doesn't know where else to go to get the money for the bus ticket; please. I call over to the Annex, since I'm not yet a signer on the Emergency Assistance account, and Florence informs me that a ticket to Danville only costs about $10 and yes, she thinks we can provide that. I run over and after a little confusion, we end up waking Andy (since Florence isn't a signer either) and getting him to sign a check. I leave my oatmeal in the fridge so that it's out of the way of the soup kitchen volunteers, as Paul and I walk with our new friend Charles down to the bus station; we talk about Jesus some--Charles tells us how he thinks ministers should come out and talk to the people where they're at instead of just telling them to come to church; sometimes they don't even have the transportation to get there. (As we well know.) Jesus, he says, went to where the people were, he walked around everywhere and didn't wait for them to come to him. We agree. Later we get on the topic of money. All these people, says Charles, gesturing around at the street, are just "chasing the dollar bill"; you talk to them about Jesus they won't listen, but you talk to them about money and they're all ears. He used to be like that, but he's trying to get straightened out. We get to the station and buy him a ticket with the check, and he thanks us; his bus leaves at four so he says he'd like to come back to the soup kitchen around noon when we're there (we eat at the soup kitchen too, and chat with the guests; over seventy of them, mostly men from other shelters, eat there daily) and maybe pray with us before he leaves. Yes, we'd like that.

We get home and I grab my oatmeal and take it over to the annex to eat it out of the bustle of soup kitchen preparation. A different team of volunteers comes in every day; on Fridays it's us live-in volunteers. Other days we might pitch in if they're short-handed, but otherwise we get out of their way. I sit down in the living room with the Jacques Ellul reading we've been handed out by Katie, who's organizing an all-volunteer discussion about it this afternoon. It's nice to sit down. I'm learning to use the hours that are normally work-hours for rest, writing, or personal errands--since most of my actual work seems to cluster around mealtimes and evenings. Another thing I'm learning is that I need to keep some reserve energy for the emotional work--communication, peacemaking, being able to summon the right reactions when a guest starts bad-mouthing another volunteer to me or when I hear that a guest has been stolen from.

I walk down to the bank before lunch to deposit a check. I've made a miscalculation & overdrawn my account. I walk home stressing; the fee is going to eat a large chunk of the monthly stipend I share with Paul, and if I'm going to lose money I'd rather give it to someone who needs it, not BankOne. I run into Robert and Darcy in front of the house and chat, and when they ask me where I've been I tell them the whole thing because it's weighing on my mind, and they're sympathetic. I walk away meditating on how it really does feel right, somehow, for us not to have that much more money than them. This is part of the ethos as well; this is voluntary poverty.

Paul and I hang around on the porch with the men waiting for their lunch; we check inside once or twice to see how long the line is, and to see if Charles is there. The line is really long, and he isn't. We chat with the people on the porch a little; how's the food today, etc. Finally we decide it's too crowded today and we don't want to take someone' spot, so we go back to the Annex and put together some leftovers, then come back for soup-kitchen closing time--we try to always be there since an unpleasant incident between a guest & a volunteer; we're there as a buffer, basically, because the guys know us better.

Paul tells me, as we walk back, that one of the regulars, Grace, an older Korean lady rumored not to be quite "all there," had her lost purse returned to her and counted its considerable financial contents in front of everybody. One of the guests told him people were watching that money like a hawk and maybe someone should walk her home. I agree heartily; there she goes, let's follow her. I run in and grab an umbrella (did I mention it's raining?) and we follow her down Springfield Avenue, "shadowing," feeling like a couple of spies. We're not sure how she would take it if we said, "Mind if we walk you home?" But we do catch up with her eventually, offer her room under the umbrella, and walk her within a few blocks of home.

We go home. I sit down in the Annex living room and finish the reading (almost) and then we have our discussion. It's an interesting discussion, stimulating; it's also a good point of entry to talk about faith with my co-workers, who are all Christians in one sense or another (and whatever the "sense," do take their faith in Christ seriously) but with whom I'm still feeling out to know how much common ground we have. (Incidentally, our current guests are all Christians & Paul and I may end up going to church with Robert and Darcy.) The reading is about "the sacred," a word Ellul uses in a social sense: what is this society organized around, what cannot be questioned? What is the idol that holds the tribe together? (He does include religions under this--as organizing principles for societies--but he sets Christianity apart, as something people have sometimes made into a "religion" but which isn't supposed to be, being true.) He sees technology (or "technique," the technical ability to manipulate matter in general) as one of the chief things our society (Western society) holds sacred. As a new idol, in fact. Interesting.

We get done with the discussion and it's 4:30, the time the Big House opens again. (We close it from 1:30 to 4:30 & everybody leaves.) Paul and I are "on the House" tonight: it's our job to cook supper, take care of whatever comes up, answer phone & door & requests, and close up at 9:30. Actually someone else is coming over to cook supper; how lucky we are.

Paul reads in the office; I sit in the living room with my mending, a donated down coat with a rip in it, and chat with the guests about their day. They're in a good mood today, much better than I expected; they tease each other and laugh. Darcy offers around a box of Runts and a box of Nerds she bought today; I say, "I like Nerds" and she cracks, "Yeah Heather, we noticed that already." We all laugh. Melvin, Tyette's husband, says that whoever gets that coat I'm mending better appreciate it. We start talking about what we're doing after supper and Tyette coughs into her hand "TV! TV!" We decided in the last house meeting that on weeknights we'd watch movies (borrowed from the local library) only if the idea had general consent.

Then Peter Woods, friend of the House, shows up to cook dinner just as we were discussing whether he really existed, declines any help, and twenty minutes later calls us all in for spaghetti. We eat, ask him about himself (all the volunteers that know him are somehow absent), then discuss the night's activities ("TV! TV!" Tyette coughs again) and settle on a movie called "The Glass House." I start the dishes with a guest, Vickie; she's a recent arrival and so shy (she's just come out of a hard situation) we haven't even had a chance to brief her about the house yet. She seems more expansive tonight so I start explaining a few things as we wash, then Florence comes over from the Annex and takes her into the office for a longer chat, along with her four kids for whom she provides toys that were stashed under the desk.

The dishes are taking too long. Paul and I are in the kitchen doing them and I'm supposed to be out there, it's pulling at me, I feel like a hostess who needs to entertain her guests, keep the atmosphere pleasant. Paul doesn't want me to leave him with all the dishes. Finally I just go to check on the guests and they're sitting in front of a dead TV; Melvin says, "Hey, are you guys coming or what? We're waitin' on you." "We're not done with the dishes yet." Shock. They had no idea we'd been stuck with them, they thought Vickie was helping; Melvin and Robert jump up and come back with me to the kitchen, and polish those pots off in no time flat. Paul is glad.

We start the movie, but immediately there's another problem: Sidney and Kris, Vickie's seven- and ten-year-olds, have settled down on a blanket on the living room floor, but The Glass House appears to be a fairly disturbing movie. I go to the office and ask Vickie whether she has preferences about what her kids watch. To my great relief, she says she's "kind of picky" about their movie viewing and comes out to call them away--and they come without protest. I breathe a thank-you prayer; I've really been worried about the kids & movie situation. Florence pulls out some games and sets them up on the dining-room table and shuts the door to the living-room: perfect. Looks like it's not movie night for me tonight. I spend the next hour playing with the kids, and in my mind laying plans to somewhere find a board game more appropriate for poor kids than Monopoly.

It's done; it's over; Kris helps me put away the game without even being asked (Glory! Hallelujah!) although the four-year-old has a hard time relinquishing the little silver Monopoly car he's been playing with for the past hour. I go back in and watch the end of the movie, in which good triumphs over evil and the young woman runs over the bad guy with a police car (hmm...) and we briefly discuss whether another movie is a good idea. I stress a little and emphasize that we need to be closed (which means husbands out) by 9:30, so we'd better start it now. They start it and I go back and forth from the TV to the clock in the office a few times, and finally calculate that it might be about quarter to ten when it's done; I stress, but the rules aren't inflexible, it's our call when we're on the house, and we decide to see how it goes. I never, as I've told the guests, watch two movies in a row, so I sit on the office couch with Paul, reading Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison. After a long while things get really quiet. It's 9:30 by the clock; Paul says he thinks he'll just go close the door now at least. He returns with the news that the movie is off, and everyone's clearing out; Melvin's already sacked out on the porch, Robert's off home to the Salvation Army, and everyone's getting ready for bed.

Wow.

We sit and hug for a minute and are glad together. It's been a long day, but a good day. Better than most, even a lot better; there's been a lot of conflict in the house lately, and an evening like this is a blessing from God. Paul walks me home, says goodnight at the door, and "Sleep well." "I will," I say with conviction.

But of course, Song of Solomon is so good that I sabotage my next morning by reading it until midnight.

Good night.

"for us to enjoy"

Heather and I went with Andy to some local grocery stores this morning, to pick up their day-old bakery items and other food that they were going to discard. Those things we couldn't use we then took to another soup kitchen (that makes soup with their leftovers and gives some back to us). And a big food bank delivery came in today as well. So the pantry is overflowing.

It made me think of this prayer for meal times, inspired by 1 Timothy 6.17:

Our hope is in you, Father,
Who richly provide all things
for us to enjoy. Amen.

in the cracks

The night before last there were a couple of guys that showed up on the porch late, very drunk, asking for some blankets and pillows. As I went to get them, one of the guys opened the door and came into the house and I had a hard time getting him to leave; he was ungrateful and angry and aggressive. But I finally left them outside with bedding and locked the door again.

Just I was getting into bed, one of the women started yelling that there was a fight. I hurried to dress and went out. And the belligerent guy was lying in the driveway beside the house, unconscious and bleeding from the head. He had apparently been thrown over the side of the porch by the other guy and fallen about ten feet to the pavement. Someone called 911.

Paramedics came quickly, and also the police. There were sirens and flashlights in our faces and many questions; the police were suspicious of everyone, including me. Then the injured man, Willy, was taken to the hospital and the other man, Kenny, was taken by the police. Everyone was shaken by the experience.


The next morning, Heather and I took a walk, trying to work out some of the tension of the previous day. We climbed a tree in the park and sat together. Heather cried.

Then I said I thought our love was especially important here. I said it was like a flower that grows up between the cracks in the sidewalk in a rundown neighborhood. That flower is precious. It is a sign of hope. Heather said she loved seeing flowers growing in the cracks.

I meant our love of each other, but also the love that comes from God for everyone we meet. It's really a tender and fragile thing. Easily crushed, if we let it be. And often overlooked because of the harshness and brokenness all around. But it is life. An inspiration to anyone who notices it, a gift of God to remind us that he can reach us anywhere.

To tend that precious, tender, fragile flower in the cracks. That is my most important task here, I think.


I have to remember to call the hospital again today to check on Willy.

john

John was sleeping out in the back yard when I got up yesterday morning. His power wheelchair was plugged in, recharging, as it often is when he's here.

The first thing you notice about John is that his legs are missing, just below the knees. He has prosthetic legs that he can walk on, in a kind of lurching way that seems uncomfortable for him. I don't know John's story, but I've seen him here often, helping out at the soup kitchen, cleaning up and mopping. Friday he was clearing the table while I ate. But he didn't have his legs on. He was moving around the table on his knees, taking people's plates when they were done and wiping the place clean for the next person. Quietly, on his knees.

How's that for servanthood?

K

I've been reading and liking The Brothers K, by David James Duncan. It's about the crazy family of a minor league pitching coach. Here's an interesting piece from the book (slightly edited):

K (kā) verb, K'ed, K'ing. 1. baseball: to strike out. 2. to fail, to flunk, to fizzle, or 3. to fall short, fall apart, fall flat, fall by the wayside, or on deaf ears, or hard times, or into disrepute or disrepair, or 4. to come unglued, come to grief, come to nothing, or 5. to blow your cover, blow your chances, blow your cool, buy the farm, bite the dust, only 6. to recollect an oddball notion you first heard as a crimeless and un-K'ed child but found so nonsensically paradoxical that you had to ignore it or defy it or betray it for decades before you could begin to believe that it might possibly be true, which is that 7. to lose your money, your virginity, your teeth, health or hair, 8. to lose your home, your balance, your friends, 9. to lose your happiness, your hopes, your leisure, your looks, and, yea, even your memories, your vision, your mind, your way,

10. in short (and as Jesus K. Rist once so uncompromisingly put it) to lose your very self,

11. for the sake of another, is

12. sweet irony, the only way you're ever going to save it.

Though, actually, Jesus didn't say "for the sake of another," but "for my sake" (Lk 9.24). A significant difference, I think...