"You Got Your Own Life," Said Littl'un

It was an emotional morning at the food ministry today.

It seems the two people in charge always find new ways to belittle and dehumanize the people they are serving. Soften their hearts, Mighty Lover

I saw an old friend there, today: Littl'un. He just got out of prison for a DUI, he told me. At first, I thought he was a little drunk, but as the conversation went on, he seemed sober enough. However, people who drink as much as he does seem to hold their own when intoxicated.

We caught up a little and near the end of the conversation, he complained and badmouthed some of the men who live at the shelter. I always listen, but I am often uncomfortable when men from the shelter speak poorly of one another.

At one point, Littl'un asked me if I had been at the shelter or had plans to start working or volunteering back there. I told him I hadn't been there and would like to go over there again, but I would be inconsistent. He responded with words he has uttered to me many times before: "Well, you got your own life."

He cannot know the pain those words cause me. God forbid my life ever excludes helping people. My "own life," as Littl'un puts it--my goals, my ideals, my pursuit of happiness, my searching for God and searching with God--is the reason I went to the shelter in the first place. It is the reason I go to the food ministry, the reason I get mad when the people at the church are belittled and dehumanized.

It is the reason I wrestle, the reason I write, the reason I seek God, the reason I seek with God.

God, bless that man for caring about me and wanting me to be "successful," even if that success means I do not help him or others. What a wonderful thing he wants for me. What care he has!

But God, please, please help me give away my "own life." Prompt me to offer it to others, lead me from the temptation to keep it or take it back once it is given. I'm at peace with my relationship to the shelter and the reasons I left. Thank you for giving me opportunities to continue relationships made there, although I hope many of those relationships will end, because those men will cease to need meals served to them, will cease to need an awkward friend like me.

I want to be like you.

Amen.

Called Through Change & Tears

This story contains a reflection on call as a part of a homework assignment to describe my call to ministry.

I experienced a call to ministry today. It happened today, September 9, 2010, between noon and 12:30 when I made a 54-year old man cry.

It happened before then, actually, when this same man waved at me as I was leaving the food ministry at Shelby Presbyterian Church. He waved and I stopped to ask if he wanted a ride somewhere. He got in the car and told me he wanted to go to "some store."

We joked a little bit about how I called him the wrong name when I saw him that morning. It was the first time I had seen him since summer break. I called him Robbie and he didn't correct me. As he was finishing his lunch, I went over to him and apologized for calling him Robbie as I had randomly realized his name isn't Robbie.

He gave me directions to a certain store and he reminisced about the textile industry that once made Shelby an industrial city. He told me he loved working in the mill and wishes he could work again, maybe washing dishes. He said even those jobs are hard to find when you're in your 50s. He didn't say so, but I imagine it is even harder when you're 50 and homeless.

He asked me for some change at some point during this trip. I handed him my cup-holder ashtray and told him he could take whatever he wanted. Over the sounds of the shifting change and my car engine, he told me not to give him that option.

The conversation quickly changed and I thought about another man who asked me for change earlier that day. I had just pumped 12.52 gallons of fuel into my car. At $2.559 per gallon, my tank of gas cost me $32.04. When I got back in my car, it wouldn't start. My car has a security system on the fritz. As a result, sometimes my car thinks I'm stealing it and shuts off the gas flow to the engine for about ten minutes. During this ten minutes, a man walked by and caught my eye. He was going to see his grandfather, an amputee I had been watching who was sitting by a trash can in front of the store. The man who walked by asked me for change and I planned to give him all the change in my cup-holder ashtray. However, the container was full and I thought it would be burdensome to give the change to this man, not to mention the man's trouble in carrying it. I took about half of it and dumped it into his cupped hands.

While thinking about this man from earlier, I continued conversing with my friend. We neared the gas station and as the car slowed to a stop, he again asked if I could give him some change. He handed me the change and I proceeded to dump it into his cupped hands.

He began to cry as the coins began to fall out of his hands, onto his lap, and then onto the passenger seat. Twenty cents, to be exact. He told me he only wanted enough for a beer. Through his tears he then said, "You know I'm going to buy a beer with this?"

"I know," I replied.

Then he repeated a phrase he had said two or three times since he first embraced me that morning: "I love you, Trevar. I mean it."

Behind my sunglasses, my eyes reached that pre-tear state where they appear glossy, but the tears never fell. I moved a switch and my left-turn signal began to flash. I pulled away from the store and drove down the street to the grocery store, spending $21.92 on low-fat, organic, and natural foods. I saved 20¢ as an Ingles Advantage Card member. I paid with my debit card and received $20 back, bringing the cash value inside my wallet to $22: two ten-spots, and two one dollar bills. I wanted the cash to buy apples from a local farm stand.

The monetary contrasts of the day stood out to me. The numbers stuck in my head. I spent over $50 on food and gas and took $20 out of my bank account to spend on more food. In between my spending, I spent time with those who didn't have enough money to buy food. I probably didn't even give him $2. Estimating on the high side, I might have given away $5 in coins. My friend left 20¢ on my seat and I "saved" 20¢ at the grocery store.

In retrospect, it is the numbers, circumstances, and God that called me to ministry today, just like other days. I was called to give myself away--to be like Christ. Today I fulfilled that calling by giving away change and a little more than change. Tomorrow I hope I give more. One day, I hope to give away everything. On that day, I might be miraculously multiplied like the body of Christ and the loaves and fishes. But even if my God chooses not to multiply what I am giving away, I will give nonetheless and find the giving worth it. It is my calling.

Funny the Way It Is: Two Homes & Two Homeless Men

"Funny the way it is, when you think about it," sings Dave Matthews on his bands' newest CD. The chorus goes on to display the contrast between how one person can be enjoying a blessing that is related to someone else's sorrow. Kids might be playing outside, enjoying some of the most spectacular weather while the same sunny skies shine on someone's house burning down; "one kid walks ten miles to school, another's dropping out ... somebody's broken heart becomes your favorite song."

A friend of mine called me the other day--the tattoo guy. I like to use the word "friend" to describe him, but I am not naïve enough to think our relationship is a friendship. Perhaps we might be acquaintances, but mostly, our relationship is based in resources. We shoot the bull and catch up with each other, but only when he needs something or sometimes I feel guilty about not reaching out to him (hopefully I don't always reach out in guilt). Not the healthiest relationship, but it is a relationship nonetheless. We're trying, at least, and when at our best, we might fool ourselves.

I set myself up for this relationship. I gave him my phone number one night after he left the homeless shelter and he needed some food. I told him to use my number if he ever needed something. I never promised help, but I told him he should try and be persistent. He sends me text messages most often when he wants a ride to recovery meetings. He has also sent a few messages asking for financial help. Sometimes I can help him out, sometimes I can't. It was rough for me the first time he wanted a large chunk of change for his phone bill and I said no. I thought that might be the end of our relationship.

But it wasn't. He called me early this week. He told me things were bad. He had been staying with his girlfriend's family. And this friend of mine--I can imagine him being hard to live with. He has quite the temper, is vulgar, and doesn't seem to care too much for the lives of others. He told me the family was yelling at him and he couldn't take it anymore, so he left. I have heard this story before, just with different people yelling at him.

He was staying at the place where the recovery groups meet, because he has a key. His girlfriend showed up soon after. I don't know if he intended for her to come or not. He might have meant to leave her.

She is pregnant. Very pregnant. I wouldn't be surprised if she had the baby since I spoke with him earlier this week. He said she couldn't go to the homeless shelter, because they feared the baby would be taken away.

He never asked for anything from me during this conversation. I think he intended to ask, though. It doesn't matter either way. I was just glad he called and opened up to me. When I mentioned I was in West Virginia for the summer, he said, "Oh, shit, well," and then continued talking about how he didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to do either. Perhaps I should have called DSS. Who am I to say the child will live a better life adopted or in foster care?

After speaking with this friend, I thought of another guy I met at the shelter. I've mentioned him before, calling him Romeo. I sent a text message to Romeo to check up on him. He said things were going so great for him. He had moved to South Carolina where he was living with his new girlfriend.

I was happy for Romeo, but unnerved by the contrast between him and my other friend. Over the next couple of days Romeo continued to send me text messages. The relationship became rocky. I got updates of ups and downs, so many that I stopped responding. I wasn't annoyed, but I simply had nothing to say. Today I learned he is back in town where he started. He goes back and forth on whether or not he'll be with this woman again, a lot depending on "when she finds herself." He thought he had a place lined up to stay. The last message I got said he has nowhere to go. I suggested the shelter, but he thinks he has too much stuff with him to go to the shelter.

I have an apartment on campus at Gardner-Webb University in North Carolina. Right now only my fish and cactus occupy it, because I am living in a trailer Fayetteville, WV for a summer internship. I have two places to live and I know three people (maybe three and a baby) with no place to live.

Funny, the way it is.

Well, I'm not sure funny is the right word to describe it.

I'm an Enabler

This morning I may have encouraged people not to go to church.

It started when I went to the homeless shelter in Shelby to volunteer. I have not been to the shelter in a few weeks and the only person expecting me was the night worker. I was met with mixed reactions to my presence Sunday morning.

A few of the men were excited to see me. A few ready to leave for church were confused about why I would come in on Sunday morning instead of Sunday afternoon. Another couple expressed they were no longer planning on going to church, since the shelter would be open. In the past, one of the men told me I enabled the men to not attend church. That morning, I wondered if this enabling was good, bad, or even true.

After a few hours, one of the men came to the office to talk to me. This man is changing because of his homelessness. He is losing hope, he is getting angry, and he is turning somewhat neurotic from living in the shelter instead of a home. He told me he plans to go sleep under the bridge, expecting the streets to be more favorable than the shelter. He said he is thinking about returning to smoking marijuana and drinking, because life is too much.

Somehow the topic of church came up. When he goes to church, he goes because of a few people. I remember he used to attend one church religiously because of a family that was sharing their meals, transportation, family, and home with him. The family was a married couple and their few young children and they shared their lives with the late-20s, homeless man.

He went to church with them, because they went. He did not go to church because he liked church. He summarized for me what he heard from preachers and churches in general: “It’ll get better.” He heard this message continually and was continually sent on his way, with the exception of this one family. One day something happened between that man and the family and I never discerned what, but their connection and their shared lives were severed. He was once again sent on his way. But, it will get better. Right?

I was uncomfortable with the idea of being the man enabling people to avoid church. That is, I was uncomfortable until that last conversation. Instead, I was uncomfortable with the church.

How can anyone ever say something will get better without trying to make it better? Perhaps some things a person cannot impact, but Christ’s followers are called to be Christ’s body. When I pray for God to do something, I often expect God to move through me, to perfect the divine strength in my weakness.

And what was I doing for this man? I was providing shelter for him at a time when most small-city, Southern places are closed. I was saving him from the broken gospel of so many churches. I was an ear, listening. But I still felt so impotent. I still feel so impotent. I never want to work against the church, for we can find power in community and numbers, especially when it comes to problems of poverty and homelessness.

I wonder where the church was that morning. I could have left the shelter and passed a lot of steeples with a lot of cars surrounding it. But I wonder where I would have found the church. The church is not me. One young man can neither be nor know the church. I might not know what the church is or where it is, but I know I have yet to experience its fullness.

I do not know what to expect for this fullness, either. I hope it involves a spectrum of generations. I hope it involves things getting better, because the whole span of the generations are committed to making things better. I hope it involves love and care of the body and love and care of those outside the body. I hope it realizes and balances love of God, love of neighbor, and love of self in a way I cannot even begin to comprehend.

Easter 2010: Serving Instead of Attending a Service

This past week, I started making plans for Resurrection Sunday. To a friend, I mentioned a desire to eat with a few formerly-homeless people I know. I wasn't sure if everything would work and this friend noted we could make food for the whole shelter.

Come Sunday morning, instead of getting up early, dressing to the nines, and going to some sort of "service" in which I wonder who exactly is being served, I played the harmonica in a rocking chair on the porch before I started peeling potatoes.

Instead of going to a service, we served. We cooked a few hams; three, large green bean casseroles; around 15lbs worth of mashed potatoes; 10lbs of carrots; corn; and rolls. Well, we didn't make the carrots, corn, and rolls, but we did prepare them.

After the food was ready, we delivered and shared in a meal with the homeless people (due to the nature of the women's shelter and our demographic, we only ate with the homeless men, although we delivered food to both). What joy! The men are such a pleasure to visit with--I wish more people would experience the joy of their company.

In essence, we shared the Eucharist. Earlier in the day, three of us had wine and bread, remembering Christ in cultic repetition, symbolizing our unity with Jesus and each other in suffering and resurrection, becoming the body and blood of Jesus. But at the shelter, we also had Eucharist, although there was certainly no wine involved.

Although we did not consume the elements, we were the elements. We thank God for that communal experience, embodying the word "eucharist," which means "thanksgiving." Not only did we give thanks, but we gave a reason for others to give thanks--taking a blessing and making it a blessing for others.

This Easter was the best Easter I've had since I spent part of the day as a quadriplegic when I had my bout with thyrotoxic periodic paralysis 10 years ago.

Living the Gospel in Different Places

I helped a friend move into his new apartment today. I saw him at church on Thursday morning. He was there to be served a meal. I was there to volunteer my hands and ears. He asked for my ears first.

He excitedly told me he finally got his apartment. He had been talking about this event for a while and it was finally here. He is no longer homeless. He is another of the wonderful men becoming "(un)sheltered," moving from the shelter to a shelter of his own.

A few weeks ago he moved out of the shelter, because his time was up. He could have come back on the winter nights program, but he reaped the generosity of one of the other men who recently moved out. So, he became the Parson's roommate for a while. After he left the shelter, I offered me and my car to help him move things.

We had put his worldly possessions in a storage unit. It was probably a 5' x 10'. I saw all of his worldly possessions fit inside a storage unit, and with room to spare. A lot of room.

Last month I helped a friend of mine move from North Carolina to Washington state. She and I probably have a similar amount of possessions. I watched her sell things, give things away, mail multiple boxes, and then purchase a roof bag so the two of us could cram into the car with all her earthly possessions (excluding her cats, which flew separately) for the cross-country trip.

We really packed things into her car. I consolidated boxes, making as much room as possible. We stuffed items around her spare tire. We piled items high, giving us barely enough space to see out the back window, and the roof bag was far from empty.

When we we moved Romeo's stuff in the storage unit, there was no art to it, no skill needed. We took the trash bags full of his belongings and tossed them randomly into the 5' x 10'. His clothes on hangers remained on hangers and were laid on top of a box. He didn't even cover the bottom of the unit. He only took a few changes of clothes with him to Parson's. When we moved him into his apartment, we haphazardly filled up my back seat and put a few items in the trunk, leaving probably half of his possessions in storage.

His apartment is a two bedroom. I only saw the downstairs, which consisted of a barren kitchen and a living room with a pull-out couch he sleeps on, a coffee table, some sort of table with cabinets, and a chair. I didn't think about what the kitchen cabinets and refrigerator looked like on the inside. I assume Old Mother Hubbard would feel right at home though.

I offered him an egg crate cushion a friend gave me to offer one of the less-fortunate people I encounter. Then I saw a twin-size comforter in my trunk and he received it, noting how he had been wondering what he would do for a blanket. I had taken the blanket when school ended last year and one of my residents apparently decided he didn't need it and it would do well to be in the trash. He noticed a roll of toilet paper cluttering the floor of my back seat and sheepishly asked if he could have it.

While at the shelter later that night, I compared the carloads of my two friends: one a formerly homeless, white male in his forties; the other a 25-year old, single, white female with two master's degrees. I don't think either of them are where they wish they were. They probably never hoped they would be where they are today.

Was one in a better situation than the other? Which one am I more like? Where will I be when I graduate with my two master's degrees? Where will I be when I am in my forties? Where do I hope to be in either of those situations?

Then I reflected on my purchasing habits. My kitchen cabinets are full of food. If I am in the mood for fruit, I'll buy a few cans of fruit along with some fresh fruit. The fresh fruit goes bad, because my fruit mood doesn't last long and the cans stay in my cabinet until my next mood swing. Now I want vegetables and rice, so I buy all kinds of frozen, fresh, and canned vegetables. Then I want pizza, so I buy frozen pizzas. Cereal is next. Toast. Sandwiches. Casseroles. Pastas.

I don't feel like Jesus when I'm home. I felt like Jesus when I was giving away a blanket, since I have more than I need. I was living the Gospel in that moment. How often do I live the Gospel when I'm hungry or at the grocery store? Just before writing this reflection, a resident came to my door highly upset and in need of things I could not offer, something he knew too well. I had no clue what to do. I wanted to embrace him, but I didn't know what he wanted. He was scared for a loved and for some mistakes he made the previous evening. Did I live the Gospel then? And now I sit here, on my new, university-purchase furniture, full on cereal, writing, thinking, and praying, not that I can necessarily delineate between those three occurrences at the moment.

Can I live the Gospel at home? Do I go check on that resident? Do I sit by myself and surf the internet more? Could I do my homework? What if I read my Bible or a novel? Can I socialize and live the Gospel? Can I drink? Eat?

It is easy to live the Gospel in the face of need. A man needs a blanket, so I give him one. Another needs medication and has no chance of getting any help until Monday, so I buy it for him. Easy. But how do I imitate Christ and honor the imago Dei when I'm face-to-face with no one other than myself?

Making Truth Beauty and Beauty Truth: Thoughts Away From the Shelter

In the. city, you see a lot of diversity. In Seattle, I saw people in business suits; in chic jeans and fancy shirts; in tight, tight clothes; people in lots clothes, people wearing barely enough to keep warm; lots of tattoos, lots of piercings, and lots of dyed hair--the "acceptable" kinds and the stick-it-to-the-man, counter-cultural sort. I bought sushi from an Asian woman named Penny who spoke perfect English with an American accent and a vegetarian-style hot dog from an older Russian lady who expected me to know the soundtrack to a "classic S&M" movie.

Cities house diversity.

This (un)sheltered human kept noticing an underside to even this diversity, greatly influenced by the thought of my friends in the shelter. Amidst all this diveristy exists a sameness (indeed, all diversity yields some sameness somewhere, however minute or near-meaningless). The sameness I noticed was privilege. No matter the race, the gender, the style, or the language, the people I described earlier had some level of privilege.

They bought their clothes. They had a home. They chose their hygiene products, even if they had to keep their belts a little tight. And Ifit right in amongst this diversity and privilege.

The city also houses the other side of this privileged diversity: the very poor and the homeless. They drew my gaze, but not because they were the other to my level of privilege, the hungry to my full, the cold to my warm. No, they demanded my gaze because of their beauty.

Sometimes their beauty contrasted starkly with the city's beauty. An intriguing statue of Christopher Columbus stood over the jacket of the homeless man sleeping behind it, beauties of two different kinds, beauties that, perhaps, don't belong together.

I watched a bag lady pushing her cart slowly around town, aimlessly wondering for lack of anything to do, anywhere to go. The lines on her face made her look old, although she may have weathered more years than she's lived.

An old man in the Seattle Center sounded like he was coughing up his lungs as he sat next to his hiking backpack. He sat in the empty chairs of the mostly closed food court. I wonder when he was kicked out, forced into the cold rain.

I passed by a man on the street corner with a sign stating his predicament: a homeless man in need. I was on my way to find the vegetarian hot dogs. I stopped in front of a place that sold cookies for three dollars each. Looking at the cookies, I could only think of that man on the corner. I didn't buy any cookies.

All three of them were beautiful in their own ways. All humans are beautiful, all humans carry the image of God. I think society could benefit from looking away from their own beauty, turning from navel-gazing to gazing upon the beauty of the Other, of all others. When our gaze turns from ourselves, we can appreciate the other's beauty and complement it with our beauty, the beauty of our creative powers to take the beauty of others out of oppression.

And we can take them out of oppression if we can break the bonds of guilt and fear.

Shake off guilt. Replace it with acceptance of what is and a desire to change it. To make truth beauty and beauty truth.