The Ground Is Level at the Foot of the Cross

It’s been 15 years since I sat in chapel at The Foundry Rescue Mission and Recovery Center. Fifteen years since the day I learned the ground is truly level at the foot of the cross.

I was visiting The Foundry as a consultant, and my visit happened to bridge Thursday night — chapel night – for homeless overnight guests and recovery residents.  I found a seat near the front and was quickly surrounded by homeless folks, men, women, a few kids.  The music began, a pretty good worship band made up of various volunteers, staff and residents.  Led by a guy in a UPS uniform, we rocked the chapel, clapping, shouting, raising our hands and faces to the ceiling and beyond to God’s ears.

It was April … the Lenten season … and Rev. Bill Heintz, the executive director of The Foundry, got up to preach.  I settled in to hear an Easter message, typical for a rescue mission, and usually followed by an altar call.  I checked my watch and calculated the minutes it would take to complete the whole chapel process, get a bite to eat and finally settle into my hotel bed with the remote control.  If all went well, I’d be watching ER in a couple hours.

But Bill Heintz is a “preach it!” preacher.  It didn’t take long for my ears to lock on to the rise and fall of his voice.  As I listened to him create a picture of Christ’s stumbling struggle to Golgotha, I became completely caught up in the story … a story I’d read, heard, taught myself, a hundred times.

For a moment, my thoughts were captivated by my own struggles: a gut-wrenching divorce and the overwhelming pain my children and I were experiencing; my own sinful, fear-swept reaction to what was happening to us; worst, the loss of trust in my own ability to make right decisions, to be a decent mother, provider, spiritual leader in what was left of our family.

Then Bill caught my attention again.  He had come from behind the pulpit and was standing, head bowed and silent. Seconds passed and then!  ”He … Died … For … YOU!”  Punctuating each word, he thrust out his left arm first, then his right.  As he said “YOU!” he raised his head sharply and stood as though crucified for several more seconds.

I tried to regain my mental footing, but my tears and heart had leaped ahead.  As Bill offered a place at the altar for anyone who wanted prayer, my pride said, “You don’t have the problems these folks around you have.  They are homeless, addicted, they’ve lost their families, they have nothing.  Don’t take away the time they need before God.  Don’t take up someone else’s space at the altar.”

Then thankfully, the voice of God’s spirit broke through: Who are you kidding?  Are you better than these people?  Do you think you can fix this on your own.  What separates your loss from theirs?  What makes your pain more bearable? Who exactly do you think you are?

And it hit me: There is no difference between the addict, the drunk, the prostitute, the abuser, the gambler, the unemployed, the destitute, the low-income, the middle-income, the housed and the unhoused, the divorced mother or father, the physically sick or the heartsick, the mentally ill or spiritually proud.  THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE.  I DIED FOR YOU.

He died for me.  He died for you.  He died for all.

Fifteen years ago, I learned to kneel at the altar, broken and bare.  Free to “come before the throne of grace with confidence.”  Free to acknowledge the ground is level at the foot of the cross.  Thank God.  Praise His Holy Name.

It’s a Wonderful Life

“Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives.

When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?”

My favorite movie of all time has got to be It’s a Wonderful Life.  Last Saturday evening it was showing on TV and like every year at Christmas, it was on at my house.

When I was growing up I didn’t really enjoy the old black and white version, it just seemed so old and boring.  But when my college roommate dug the VHS tape out of his collection, we sat down and watched the whole thing from start to finish, and my love for the movie was born.  There were times where I would watch the movie multiple times in a week, feasting on chips and salsa, mesmerized by Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed.  On other occasions my roommate and I would have it playing in the background while we finished school work or folded laundry.

What was so enticing about George Bailey and Clarence his guardian angel?  Why did we revere the story then and why do I still enjoy it immensely now?

I believe the message of the movie is summed up by Clarence in the quote above.

George rescues his younger brother from drowning in a pond when they’re kids.  He saves his town on multiple occasions from being bought up by Mr. Potter, an ambitious entrepreneur.  He unknowingly touches the lives of everyone with whom he comes in contact.  George has had a bigger impact on his world than he ever dreamed and when Clarence uses his heavenly powers to remove George from the world, he finally realizes the truth.  He has made a difference in the world.  His life matters.

Personally, I’ve never directly saved anyone’s life (as far as I know!), but I am curious as to what kind of impact my life has had on the world around me.  Positive or negative, or some of both, the people I grew up with, those I encountered in college, and now in the working world and at the Mission, what has my life meant?  What difference have I made in the world?

Many of the homeless men we serve at the Kansas City Rescue Mission are transient, and we often don’t get to see how their stories end.  Some of our clients find work, get into housing, and are totally transformed.  Other men seem to return to the Mission every few months, back to their old habits and friends.  Many disappear and are never heard from again, moving on to a new life somewhere else, for good or ill.  The difference that we made and the changes that occurred are often difficult to see.

Sometimes I feel like George Bailey and wonder what the world would be like without me.  Unlike George, I think most of us are just going to have to wait until we get to heaven to see just what kind of impact we made.  Still, it’s so nice when a former client returns to the Mission, not for a bed or a meal, but just to say thanks or to give back.

One of our long-time clients, Art, has decided to give back.  He used to be a regular at the Mission, homeless and hungry.  Our case manager, Sarah, helped him find a steady source of income and housing in Kansas City, KS.  That was about three years ago.  Now, every Wednesday night, you can find Art down at KCRM.  He’s not here to eat or sleep.  He’s in the kitchen, preparing and serving the evening’s meal for our overnight guests.  He’s saying thanks and giving back.

Art’s story and others like it remind me of the impact we are having on these guys lives.  Change is possible and happens all the time.  And I’m a part of it.  You can be, too.  Our volunteer coordinator, Juliann Hansen, is always looking for ways to use volunteers in meaningful, impact-ful ways.  You can reach her at jhansen@kcrm.org or call (816)421-7643 and ask for Juliann.  Or you can give on our website.

In big ways and small ways, KCRM is making an impact in the world.  No question about it.  No need to check with Clarence!

Thanksgiving, Family and Some Homeless Guys

When 27 members gathered in my kitchen last Thursday  for a Thanksgiving brunch, I insisted that, for the first time, we do the BIG thing — the uncomfortable thing.  After a prayer of Thanksgiving and before we dug in, we each had to say what we were thankful for in three words or less.

It turned out to be easy, because 75 percent of us were thankful for the same thing: the family that stood in the circle.  Family, family, family, family … tears sprung up as we reaffirmed our love for one another again and again.

Sometime during the night, I woke up with the realization that most of the homeless guys I work with at Kansas City Rescue Mission were estranged from their families.  Of course, I’ve known this for years.  I’ve interviewed hundreds of homeless men and women, gathering stories for the letters, newsletters, magazine articles, etc., that go with writing for rescue missions.  And, I’ve heard countless times, “I’ve burned all my bridges with my family.”  Or, “Even my mom has given up on me.”  Or, “My brother told me don’t call home no more.”

If so many had been loosed from ‘the ties that bind,’ what were they thankful for?  And just how hard would Thanksgiving be to bear?

When I returned to work on Monday, a bunch of guys in the Mission’s Christian Community of Recovery (C-COR) were smoking in the parking lot.  One homeless, these men had chosen to join the Mission’s recovery community to find “freedom from the past and hope for the future.”  As I crossed the lot toward my office, several called out some version of, “Mornin’ Julie.  How was your holiday?”

My first thought:  The guys are always so polite.  My second: Why do they care?   My third: Answer them.  ”I had 27 people at my house for Thanksgiving brunch … an amazing spread … and we had a blast!”

From each face, a congenial smile.  They seemed sincerely happy for me.  I heard: “27!  Wow!”  ”All your family?”  ”Did you cook for all of ‘em?”  ”Well, that’s just great.”

(I dearly love these guys.)

“Yes, it was!” I said.  And after a long pause, I asked, “Did you all hang out here?”  Of course, for most the answer was clearly YES.  There was no family home to go to.  Or for some, the bridges had been so effectively burned, their families might as well have been a thousand miles away.

Then to keep the conversation going, I asked, “Did you have a good Thanksgiving?”

For a moment I wished I hadn’t asked.  I wondered if I’d backed them into a corner of small-talk responses designed to hide how they really felt — you know, “It was fine, just fine.”

One by one, each guy responded:
“A couple from my church came to get for dinner at their house.  It was great!”
“We ate pretty good here at the Mission — the kitchen served Cornish hens.”
“I was just thankful I was here at the Mission and sober!”
“Hah, I’m glad I made it through Thanksgiving and I’m still here and sober!”

So here I am thankful again for family.  The folks who extend theirs to include a man or two from KCRM.  The ones that come Thanksgiving Day to fix enough Cornish hens to feed 100 hungry strangers living in a rescue mission.  And the “family” created at the Mission itself, made up of a bunch of guys smoking in a circle and the staff who stop to chat with them.

A Christmas Call

For Timmy*, a homeless guest at KCRM, Christmas Eve was an anniversary of suffering. It had been years since he’d had the nerve, much less the money, to call his daughter who lived several hours away. And, there was no way he was calling collect, enduring the shame of her rejecting the call or, worse, asking what he wanted from her.

On this particular Christmas Eve, Timmy sat in KCRM’s dayroom wishing the holiday season was over. That’s when two brothers from the Herring family walked in, and offered each homeless guest there a chance to call loved ones on their personal cell phones. “It’s become a Herring family tradition,” a family member says. “We do it to give back.”

Timmy decided to chance his daughter’s anger and give her a call, and it turned out to be life-changing! “I hadn’t seen her in 20 years, but there she was on the other end of the line forgiving me and telling me she loved me,” he says. Timmy learned that despite hardship, his daughter had just graduated from nursing school and was now an R.N. “She even set up a time for us to get together in the next few days!”

We’re grateful to the Herring family for establishing a Christmas tradition of caring at KCRM. A simple act of compassion — calls from a cell phone, a batch of decorated cookies, a homemade greeting card, a game of chess — means so much to the homeless men who seek shelter at KCRM. For some, the gift can be life-changing.

soggy cheerios

My 10-month old son recently discovered the joy of Cheerios.  He can’t get enough of them.  He eats them with breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  He eats them in the car, he snacks on them between meals.  He eats them fresh, he eats them stale.  He eats them crunchy, he eats them soggy.  He eats them in his bowl, on his tray, from his lap, off the floor.  Would he, could he in a boat?  Would he, could he with a goat?  Yes, he’ll eat them here and there!  Say, he’ll eat them ANYWHERE!

It doesn’t matter if the Cheerio is broken or mangled, soggy or stale, dirty, dusty, dry . . . he loves them all.  He doesn’t care where the Cheerio has been in the past or what path it took to find him.  His joy at finding a Cheerio in the last corner of his tray is as exciting and overwhelming as his joy at picking up his first Cheerio of the day.

He loves Cheerios.

Cute, but what’s the point?  Well, I think we’re a lot like Cheerios.  Yes, I know it sounds silly.  But I think we really are.  Some of us are dirty.  Some of us are broken.  Some of us feel stale and dry, worn out, old.  Some of us are young, new, fresh out of the box – innocent, pure.  Some of us are soggy, saturated by the noises and voices of the world.  Some of us have lots of stuff, some of us have little or nothing.  Some of us live in big boxes, some of us live under the stars.  Some of us have traveled far, some of us have never gone outside our comfort zones.  Some of us are loud, some of us are silent. 

But in spite (and maybe even because) of our differences, we are all loved.  God sees beyond the differences.  He sees us as we truly are, and He loves us anyway.  God, who is holy, set apart, wholly other, loves us. 

Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, atheist, agnostic, midwesterner, New Englander, Californian, Michigander, Texan, New Orleans-ian, Bostonian, Canadian, British, Russian, South African, Guatemalan, Sudanese, Chinese, Columbian, Australian, Haitian, White, Black, Hispanic, tall, short, loud, fat, thin, rich, poor, Democrat, Republican, liberal, moderate, right-wing, left handed, famous, infamous, amateur, professional, student, white-collar, blue-collar, no collar . . . God loves us all.

Why do we have such a hard time loving each other? 

 “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.  He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.  If you love those who love you, what reward will you get?  Are not even the tax collectors doing that?  And if you greet only your brothers, what are you doing more than others?  Do not even pagans do that?  Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” – Matthew 5:43-48

Me, I’m just a soggy Cheerio who is loved more than he deserves.

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(My wife: “So God is a big toddler sitting in the corner eating Cheerios?”

Hey, it’s not a perfect metaphor.)

Works in Progress – September 3rd

September 3rd, Kansas City Rescue Mission joins the Crossroads Art District for First Fridays with our Works in Progress Art Show.  This event will include work from 15 different local artists, raffle drawings, live music from Light Walker and HymNuts, refreshments and off-street parking.

For the kids we will have face painting, a clay sculpting table, a leather working table, free art lessons, a moonwalk, a drawing table and caricature sketches.

The event will be held in KCRM’s courtyard at 1520 Cherry Street and will go from 6:00 to 9:00 p.m.  This is an alcohol-free event.

Come on out, have some fun and enjoy Kansas City’s First Fridays at the Crossroads!

Corner Quandary – How Should We Respond?

My 16-year-old daughter, Hannah, and her friend stopped to talk to a woman standing on a corner holding a “Homeless, Please Help!” sign. When my daughter told me about it later, I had all those “Dad” thoughts about why that was a bad idea…you know, the whole don’t talk to strangers thing. But I have come to realize that she will most likely talk to strangers her whole life. I can give her advice and ask God to watch over her but she is going to talk to people. It’s who she is.

Hannah is a pray-er. Bad hair day? Pray. Too many cars in her merge lane? Pray. Someone looks like they’re having a rough day? “Hi, I’m Hannah, may I pray for you?”

She also has what I would call a gift of mercy. If you want to touch her heart, tell Hannah about someone who is hurting. So when they encountered that woman on the corner there was no chance they would just pass on by.

Hannah and her friend pulled over, approached the woman and asked if they could pray for her. Her response was enthusiastic. Yes! They prayed an equally enthusiastic prayer for her, handed her $5 and watched her walk away yelling “Hallelujah!” and waving her hands.

Hannah was sure the hallelujah was because of the prayer. I was silently convinced it was because of the $5.

We are often asked at the Kansas City Rescue Mission about those people on the corners with the signs. And our response is almost always the same: Don’t give them money!

You see, we know the statistics that the vast majority of those hapless faces peering at you at intersections aren’t quite as desperate as they’d have you believe. Some make a pretty good living at those corners…one study found Kansas City panhandlers can make as much as $300 each day…and they even compete for the best intersections.

The reality is there is no reason for anyone to go hungry in our city. No one HAS to stand on a corner begging for money to eat because there are many resources for free meals and even free groceries throughout the city. Often the man or woman you pass at the side of the road is standing only a few steps away from a free meal.

KCRM’s strategy for responding to the panhandler you meet on the street or outside your car window can be found here: http://www.kcrm.org/newkcrm/Help. You can download a Free Shelter Ticket that you can give in lieu of money to someone who approaches you.

So, yes, that would be my advice. Don’t give money to a person on the street claiming to be homeless. Don’t put yourself at risk. Support ministries like KCRM that are equipped to help the homeless person’s needs, both critical and ongoing.

But, that being said, I don’t want to douse Hannah’s flame, either. I love the courage she has to pray for anyone at any time. I’m proud of her! And I have to trust that God has some heavenly bubble wrap around my baby to keep her protected out there in a dangerous world.

So to all the Hannahs out there, let me say this: Be careful! But if God says pray for someone, give to someone, reach out to someone…then by all means, do it!

Where’d You Put Your Peace?

My grandson Tyler can’t keep track of his shoes. Almost daily he tells his mom (and my daughter Laurel), “I can’t find my shoes.” And daily, her answer is the same: “Well, Tyler, where’d you put them last time you wore them?”  Usually, after a minor tussle, Mom wins out and Tyler begins retracing steps he took the day before.  And, because he’s 9 and can’t leave home without his mommy, and because the shoes are somewhere within the confines of the house or yard, Ty finds them, sticks them on his feet and is ready to go.

Laurel, her husband and our five grandsons are  living under our roof for awhile, so we watch the “shoe incident”  play out regularly.  Since it’s been a few years since we’ve raised our own three children, we’ve been a bit judgmental about this daily exchange  (and a few other things, too, I admit) and have offered really good, unsolicited, graciously rejected advice more than once.

So it must have been on my husband’s mind when our daughter Andrea recently dropped by in tears.  In the midst of fighting a month-long battle with a staff infection after giving birth to our granddaughter in May, Andrea had learned she’d need daily IVs delivered through a port that would be installed under her skin near her heart.  ”And I have to wean Ada,” she wept.

A long hug was in order.  Some coffee.  Sympathy from me.  Empathy from my husband who’s had a lot of experience in the overcoming-physical-suffering department.  ”I know the Word says God gives us only what we can endure,” Rob said.  ”But I’ve told him more than once, Your confidence in me is almost breaking my back.”

“I just need to find peace,” Andrea responded. “I just wish God would give me peace about this whole thing.” Rob nodded then reminded her of John 14:27: Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.

“You know what God tells me when I pray for peace?” Rob asked, then pretended to search his pockets and look around the room.  ”He says, I gave you peace … so where’d you put it after you used it last?”

Rob continued to mime a search throughout the room.  ”Retrace your steps; remember His peace.  He left it with you last time you needed it … He gave it to you for keeps.”

“You’ve been through so much,” Andrea said.  ”Yet you seem so calm about it all.”  ”That’s because I’ve seen what God can do in the middle of the mess,” Rob said.

As Andrea and Rob continued to talk, fear changed to challenge; “Why God?” became “How can I use this for Him?”

Later, Andrea and I headed for the grocery store.  ”It’s amazing what a change in perspective can do,” Andrea said.  ”I’m not afraid anymore.  I’m kind of excited to see what God’s going to do through this whole situation.”  She smiled, “I think I remember where I put my peace.”

Often those who’ve suffered most seem most at peace.  ”I wouldn’t give up a moment of pain to know what I know now,” my husband has told me time and time again.  He admits he still has to retrace his steps at times to find the gift of peace God gave him in the midst of almost impossible pain, but, he says, it’s always just where he left it last time.

Remembering Who She Is

She is his daughter.  She isn’t his mother, his wife, his nurse, his social worker.  But it’s been years since she’s been just a daughter.  It’s been years since he’s acted anything like a father.

When she was 8, she became aware he was different from other daddies.  He was gone a lot.  He laughed too hard and at all the wrong times.  He always carried a bottle in his hand.  He never  came to school plays, never drove her to McDonald’s for a treat, never told her she was good at softball.

When she was 12, her mom said enough was enough and suddenly he wasn’t there at all.  She realized she missed him sometimes — discovered there were little things about him she’d never really thought about.  Like the way he always had a stick of gum for her in his pocket; like his silly grin, his spiky hair.

When she was 17, she got a job at Sonic.  Within a few weeks, he started coming around — usually drunk, smiling, hungry — looking for a free meal.  She would grab a break, bring him a hamburger and ask him where he had stayed the night before. She began to worry.  She and her mom sat together during the 10 o’clock news on channel 9 each night just in case…

When she was 18, it finally happened.  Stumbling along a busy street just after dark, he lurched into traffic and was hit by an SUV.  The driver waited with him until the ambulance and police arrived.  ”He came out of nowhere,” the driver said.  She and her mother saw the newscast and wondered as usual.  The police knocked on the door minutes later, directed by a phone number crumpled in his pocket.  He is alive, the cop told them, but he is seriously injured.  The two women prayed it was the wakeup call he needed.

When she was 21, she stopped believing his life would change.  She was deep into her junior year of college  — a major in social work, a minor in criminal justice — and didn’t want to think about him anymore. For a year after the accident, he’d been in rehab, trying to hold his memory together in a skull that was broken into what seemed like puzzle pieces.  Then he got kicked out of rehab for drinking and had circulated through a series of recovery centers, more for the warm bed and food than to overcome his addiction.

He showed up at Sonic one night, and she watched wearily as he crossed the parking lot, weaving and waving in her direction. She fed him a hamburger and watched again as he drifted back to the street.  Later she heard he was at a mission downtown — Kansas City Rescue Mission.  She shrugged and thought, “Here we go again,” and turned her attention to school.

When she was 22, she learned her dad was graduating the Mission’s recovery program.  She battled skepticism, and opted for hope.  ”Maybe it’s real,” she thought.  She watched his progress from a distance, then closed the distance mile by mile as her hope grew.  She stopped worrying about him and began to talk to him … about sports … about school … about God.  She hugged him.

When she was 23, she counted two years of sobriety then swept away her last dusty thoughts of worry and wonder.  He told her he was fine and screwed his face into a look of disgust when she asked him if he would ever drink again. As he prepared to leave KCRM and move to his own place, she hoped it would be close to the home she shared with her mother — maybe he’d could come for dinner once in a while.

He is still broken in so many ways, but she wants to be near him.  He has spiky hair and a silly grin and gum in his pocket.   He loves her and worries about her.  How is school? he asks.  Are you dating?  Is he good to you?  This is how she remembers and she thinks to herself, I am  his daughter.

MO