Kayaking on Currents of Compassion

Eric and Joe launch their kayaks from Kaw Point at 7:30 a.m. May 17.

Kayaking on Currents of Compassion
by Eric Verbovszky on Friday, May 27, 2011 at 11:59am

The sun was nearly gone, setting behind two weary kayak paddlers only partway into their long voyage. There were clear skies all around, yet in front of us I could see the blue sky fading into the inevitable darkness that slowly crept closer to Joe and me. The moon was slow to rise tonight; I hoped we would not have to wait long for the light of the full moon to guide us down the now quiet and peaceful Missouri River. Thankfully there was no cloud cover; we still had the faint glow of the stars to provide some ambient light as we floated in the current on our way to the small town of Miami, MO.

Months ago, I brought this idea to the development team at the Kansas City Rescue Mission for a potential fundraiser. In previous years I had already completed a few journeys via kayak. Upon graduating in 2009 from my alma mater, Dickinson College, a friend and I paddled from central PA to about halfway down the Chesapeake Bay. Later that summer, I completed the Missouri River 340, a kayak race from Kansas City to St. Charles and one of National Geographic’s 50 top adventures in the United States. Earlier this year, I journeyed to Texas to race in the inaugural Texas Winter 100K, a 62 mile race starting in Austin. But with this Missouri River trip, I decided to challenge myself to reach Jefferson City, MO, a distance of 223 miles on the muddy river, within the span of 36 hours. More importantly however, I wanted to use this trip to benefit the homeless and poor that the Kansas City Rescue Mission ministers to. Currents of Compassion was born.

Finally Tuesday, May 17th arrived. In addition to the local CBS news affiliate providing live coverage of our launch, several of my friends and coworkers from the Mission were there to provide support, encouragement, and prayer as we set out. One other brave soul, Joe, would be making the trip with me in his kayak, a Huki S1-X surf ski. I was using my Wilderness Systems Tempest 165 Pro sea kayak. Mentally, it would have been a much longer trip had Joe decided not to come. With the morning sun rising above the distinctive skyline of Kansas City, Joe and I set off from Kaw Point in Kansas City, KS. The clear blue skies were truly an answer to prayer.

Years ago, Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark of the U.S. Army made their camp at that very point in their exploration of the American Northwest. While Joe and I were heading in the opposite direction, we too would be making our own expedition down the same river that has had such historical significance to our nation and the midwest.

….

There is something almost other-worldly about paddling on the Missouri River at night. With the golden glow of a rising moon comes the descending silence of the landscape. Occasionally we heard the rising turbulence of a boil or whirlpool as the trees cast their wide shadows over the river banks. The silhouette of a floating log or branch had the potential to play tricks on my eyes. There were a few times when I wondered if one might have been a coiled water-snake, ready to strike. While in the back of my mind I knew that scenario was not the case, I steered wide of anything that looked suspicious.

After getting about one hour of sleep, Joe and I departed from the boat ramp in Miami. The temperatures in the low 40s were unexpected; although as we continued to move I stayed just warm enough in my fleece. Occasionally the wisps of smoky vapor would rise into a column of looming fog, making it even harder to see in the darkness. Turning on my spotlight only made the river blindness worse. It was slow going in the early morning hours as Joe combated fatigue and exhaustion with caffeine while the mid-May temperatures only seemed to fall. We relied on the faint view of the banks to our left and right as we could only now listen for any impending boils or whirlpools. I continued to check my watch to see how much longer we would have to wait for the rising and warming sun.

We made it to Glasgow, MO by about 7:00 am on Wednesday, May 18th, where Brooke and Roland met us with much needed coffee and breakfast sandwiches. Joe and I had paddled our kayaks 141 miles within the first 24 hours of being on the water. While Joe caught up on some rest for the next hour, I discussed the trip with my two friends.

Later that afternoon we finally passed under the I-70 bridge in mid-Missouri. I could tell Joe was losing energy but we both made it to Cooper’s Landing where Joe decided to stop. He made the right decision; he believed it was unsafe for him to be on the river given his condition. With a river that can be tricky like the Missouri, it is much better to be safe than sorry. I’m grateful he was able to accompany me for the first 197 miles. With just 26 miles to Jefferson City, I was focused and determined more than anything to finish on time. Under an overcast sky with rain in the forecast, I forced down more energy gel and took off. Keeping an eye on my distance and speed with the GPS helped the final 3 hours go by much faster. I took a short break after 11 miles, took one more energy gel with some water, did another 11 miles, and cruised in under a steady rain for the last four miles.

I finally made it to Jefferson City! Juliann’s husband Larry pulled the boat out of the water and I stumbled out. I hadn’t used my legs in 12 hours and 82 miles. After a short interview with the local CBS news affiliate, the kayak was loaded on top of the Xterra and I was ready to get a shower, some real food, and sleep. My diet for the previous day and a half basically consisted of Advil, GU Energy Gel, Granola Bars, a few sandwiches, water, and Gatorade. My stomach yearned for a steak.

….

The man interviewing me on the boat ramp in Jefferson City asked me if I had any regrets about this trip; I did not. I would gladly do it again. Even just one week later, I have already started to forget about the sore muscles and pain in my body as a result of the journey. I had the opportunity to raise money and awareness for the Kansas City Rescue Mission and bring attention to the issue of homelessness that affects so many people not just in Kansas City, but also in our nation. While I may have suffered and tested my body’s limits for a day and half, I still had a home to return to and recover. Yet there are so many people wandering the streets searching for food, a home, and a loving family to be with. They are still walking through that cold and foggy darkness that Joe and I encountered in the early morning hours as they wait for the sun to rise in their lives. I continue to pray for God’s blessing over them.

I am thankful to God that I was able to use one of my passions to help the ministry at the Kansas City Rescue Mission. I am thankful for the two day window of perfect weather and river conditions that God provided, and I was grateful to only have to pass one barge on the river. I am extremely thankful for friends like Brooke and Roland who had their own adventures meeting Joe and me at boat ramps along the river. Finally, I am thankful for Juliann and her husband, Larry, along with the other staff in the development office: Paul, Julie, Gil, and Chris. Their coordination, support, and prayer, along with everyone else’s encouragement was invaluable. Thank you to all who made a donation to support this ministry as well!

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!

Dee’s in the Hospital — Safe for Today

This morning I got a call from Dee Dee. She has been in the hospital since Friday — the day she was hit by a car as she crossed the street.

My guess is that Dee’s eyes were down — she probably didn’t look both ways … didn’t notice the light was red … didn’t hear the car coming because she is half deaf.

The doctors kept her for several days because she suffered a head injury (the first of many in her 62-year life). They also noticed the highways of painful varicose veins that crisscross both legs. They checked her from head to toe — I know she hated that! — and gave her pills and vitamins and instructions and encouragement.

Today she will check out and go to a local shelter where she can recuperate. After that, she will return to the airless, filthy apartment she calls “the dump.”

Dee Dee and I think the few days she spent at the hospital were pretty good days all in all. Three hots and a cot, people checking up on her, smiling, plumping her pillows.

It’s sad to think the hospital was more “home” than her own home. My own hope is that KCRM’s new women’s center becomes home for the women like Dee — whose eyes are turned downward, whose thoughts are confused, who can’t always hear or see the hope ahead.

Women Who Can for Women Who Can’t

Dee stands only four feet and a few inches tall.  At 62, she looks like a small, very grumpy bulldog, with a deeply lined face, military-cut hair, and eyes she tends to keep fixed on the ground.  Dee nervously picks at her fingernails and face — sometimes until she draws blood.  She walks for miles each day, and the veins in her legs are criss crossed and painful.  She keeps her eyes to the ground when she walks, to avoid peoples’ eyes and to look for money, doodads and other cool stuff.

Dee has been diagnosed with several mental disabilities, but she is incredibly street smart. She’s had to be to survive a hundred harrowing experiences that range from having her children taken from her at birth to simply walking the wrong KC streets late at night.

Though she usually has her own apartment, she is often driven out by her own paranoia to stay in shelters or abandoned buildings.  No matter where she lives, she insists someone is trying to break in, to molest her, to take her things … no place feels safe.  No place feels like home.

Her response to all this is to sabotage her housing — fail to pay her rent or utilities, pick fights with other residents, get thrown out.  Last year, she spent five months in local shelters, under bridges and in abandoned buildings.  ”Dee, did you feel safer under a bridge than in your apartment?” I ask.  ”Well, yeah,” she says.  ”Better’n gettin’ broke into.  Or gettin’ messed with in my sleep.”

Staying in shelters where there are children is a struggle for Dee.  Her paranoia, hearing loss, abrupt and abrasive responses, and fear of being touched conspire with her sadness at the loss of her own children, making her seem freakish and dangerous.  (She is neither.)

Dee has been my good friend for 28 years.  We’ve had a rollicking strange relationship; sometimes we come out swinging, but we own too much of each others’ hearts to let go for long.

I believe that KCRM’s women’s center will be a place of refuge for Dee and for women like her.  Women who’ve suffered unimaginably; who don’t look like “us” or behave very well at times.  Women who just, for whatever reason, can’t make life work.

In the coming months, as Kansas City Rescue Mission pulls together the resources to open our new women’s center, I want to call on “WOMEN WHO CAN” to be there for “WOMEN WHO CAN’T.”  To be there financially, with volunteer time, with hours of prayer, with hands that cook, decorate, sooth, clean, love and encourage!

If you can love the Dee’s of this world, you are a WOMAN WHO CAN.  And KCRM needs you as never before.

 

24 Hour Run for the Homeless

From 6 p.m. on Friday October 29 to 6 p.m. Saturday October 30, 2010, “Barefoot Rick” Roeber will be running barefoot for the Kansas City Rescue Mission to benefit the homeless. The location for the event is Lee’s Summit North High School, 901 NE Douglas Street in Lee’s Summit, Missouri.

When asked why he would put his body through such torment, Rick responded with the following.

“Our Pastor shared one of my favorite stories yesterday. About the first Moravian missionaries that left Hamburg Germany in 1732. These two young men had sold themselves to a wealthy plantation owner in the Caribbean. This landowner swore that no missionary would ever come to his island. Well, these young men sold themselves into slavery so they could minister to those 3,000 souls on that plantation. When they were asked “why” would they do this, one shouted from the deck of the departing ship ‘May the Lamb that was slain receive the reward of His suffering.’
 
You may have heard that story, but I believe that the men at the mission are SO valuable. They have been dragged down by hell itself because the devil saw something in them of such intense value that he felt like he must throw all hell against them to keep them down. Jesus is worthy of these lives. We must reach them.”

It’s a mind-boggling perspective.  What if the homeless we serve at KCRM and those we see on the streets of Kansas City are so cherished by God that the devil has decided to throw everything he has at them?  What if these are the ones who the devil has picked out to personally destroy because of how much God loves them?

As Rick put it, “Jesus is worthy of these lives.  We must reach them.”

Click the link to learn how you can support Rick and learn more information about the upcoming 24-hour run.

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.

Through the Eyes

Through the Eyes of a Volunteer

I see the sprawl of guys waiting on the street as I turn the corner and approach the Kansas City Rescue Mission.  Forlorn looks, pleading eyes, distant gazes, challenging stares, numb faces . . . I see all of these and more as I steer my car through the gates.  Some of the men are dirty and disheveled, some are surprisingly neat and trim, some sit quietly and watch the others cautiously, some march around loudly parading for others to see and fear.

I park my car and head towards the Visitors Entrance.  A few men stand around outside the door smoking.  At first glance they seem a bit scary, but then one grabs the door for me and gruffly welcomes me to his home.  I mumble my thanks and continue inside.

The door closes behind me and I am greeted with near silence.  There is a front desk with men huddled around, apparently praying for the evening.  One of the men leads, asking God for safety and a smooth check-in process this evening.  With the final ‘Amen,’ the man behind the desk turns to me and says, “You here for the kitchen?”  I stammer affirmatively and he points around the corner.  One of the men graciously offers to guide me to the kitchen and I am grateful.

As we walk, the man introduces himself to me.  His name is Eric.  He’s been staying at the shelter for three months on the recovery program, C-Corps he calls it.  (Later I learn it is C-COR, the Christian Community of Recovery.)  I ask him how he came to be here and he eagerly tells me about his past life of drugs and women, losing his job and then his apartment — losing control.  Now, he says, everything has changed.  He’s a different man.  He’s studying the Bible, going to church, clean and sober for four months now, and looking forward to seeing his wife soon.  I thank him for the escort and story as he heads back to the front desk with a wave and a smile.

The dining room looks like it will seat around 100 come meal-time.  Tables and chairs fill the room, packing in as many seats as possible.  I am approached by a tall, thin African-American man wearing glasses and an apron.  “You my volunteer?” he asks eagerly.  When I nod, he tells me where I can get my own apron and plastic gloves.  He asks me my name and tells me his name is Michael; he’s the kitchen staff for the evening and, boy, is he grateful I’m here and … his enthusiasm is overwhelming and instantly contagious. 

Michael puts me to work preparing salads.  My job is to place a handful of salad in each bowl and spoon out a dollop of ranch dressing on each.  Another couple shows up and they begin putting bread in baskets.  We talk for a bit while we work and I learn they have been coming to volunteer at the Mission for just over three years.  I have never held a job for more than 18 months, so their level of commitment amazes me and I wonder what keeps bringing them back.  They tell me they enjoy coming down and serving these guys, many of whom they see month after month.  Sometimes, they explain, they even have the opportunity to sit down and chat with a guy, see where he’s coming from, what makes him tick, and offer some encouragement and understanding.  Sit down and talk with a homeless guy!?  That’s not something I’ve ever done.  Sure, I’ve passed out plenty of loose change and leftovers to guys on the streets, but having a legitimate conversation is definitely outside of my comfort zone.

As I begin placing the salads at each seat, the other couple finishes setting the bread out and begins to fill pitchers with water for each table.  A few more volunteers show up and begin setting out silverware and napkins.  Last on the to-do list is dessert.  I join a woman cutting and serving pieces of cake and pastries onto dessert plates. 

Soon about 30 “first-serving guys” file in and fill one side of the room.  Michael explains these men are part of the C-COR program and eat early so the Mission can welcome in as many overnight guests as possible for the second serving.  He asks for a volunteer to pray for the meal and one of the guys stands.  Hats come off, heads bow, and we all listen to the prayer for food, shelter, and safety.  ‘Amen’ is our signal to begin bringing the main courses, one in each hand, to the guys.  They graciously receive the delicious meal we prepared for them.  I hear many appreciative ‘thank yous’ throughout the process and in a very short time, all 30 men are digging in.

I feel a touch on my shoulder and a volunteer hands me a plate for myself.  “There’s plenty,” he says,”Here, join us.”  He is waving towards a half-empty table.  The other half is taken by three homeless men plowing through their meals.  I hesitantly sit down and begin eating my chicken, mashed potatoes and greens.  Uncomfortable at first, I quickly feel at ease as our conversation hops from weather to the Chiefs’ game to the latest disgraced celebrity.  One of the volunteers asks a C-COR member to share his story with me, as it’s my first time here, and he eagerly obliges. 

He tells me about his life before KCRM: how he was once a successful businessman, who spent time with his kids and his wife, and lived in his own house in the countryside.  Then he tells me how it all ended — how the alcohol he drank for fun became the alcohol he drank to escape and then became the undoing of his family, his house, his life.  He wound up on the streets of Kansas City and soon found Kansas City Rescue Mission.  It was a good place to find food and rest.  After a couple months of doing the homeless thing, he decided it was time for a change, so he signed up for C-COR.  Five months later, he is looking to graduate and begin searching for a job.

I thank him for his story as we clear our places and reset our silverware for the next serving.  ‘My pleasure,’ he says with a grin as he heads out of the dining room.

The “second serving guys” begin filing in through the narrow dining hall walkways.  After the last man takes his seat, I grab two plates and head for the first table.  Many of the guys are grateful, some will not look me in the eye, but I don’t mind.  One man calls for more water.  I take his pitcher and head back to the kitchen for a refill.  The evening is a little hectic, but not overwhelming.  Everything is orderly and the guys are well mannered towards us volunteers.

I learn men staying at the shelter for the night will clean up after the meal, so once everyone has been served, my job is over.  Michael guides the volunteers into an office, where we pray for the men and women served this evening, for their safety and health, and that they will come to know why it is we are serving them, because Jesus loves them and so do we.

Moments later as I pull away from the Mission I feel strangely refreshed.  I came to give love, but found myself on the receiving end instead.

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.

.

.

.

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

Hey, it’s not a perfect metaphor.)

Feels Like Coming Home

I took a walk Sunday morning.  I parked my car in an older residential area of North Kansas City near Macon Park, then headed west through streets lined with bungalows and old duplexes where families who’d skipped church (like I did) were out on their front lawns, mowing, throwing footballs and generally jawing the morning away.

Folks looked up as I passed by.  I could tell they were trying to figure out if I was a neighbor or stranger to their street.  After a couple blocks I crossed into a new section of housing — a beautiful development of apartments, condos, bungalows and larger homes, all carefully constructed to mimic the down-home, small-town feel North Kansas City has managed to retain despite the sprawl around it.

As I passed one of the larger houses, I noticed a 50-something couple drinking coffee on their front veranda.  ”Welcome to Pleasantville,” the man smiled.  After we exchanged a few more words of greeting, I asked how they liked living in North Kansas City.  Minutes later, I was taking a tour of their home!

As I followed the man through the living room and into the kitchen, I took in family photos, the smell of spaghetti sauce cooking, the laundry stacked neatly, the carefully made beds.  We made our way through several bedrooms.  I oohed and aahed at the whirl pool jets in the master suite’s bathroom.  We talked about kids in college, the advantages and disadvantages of the empty nest, the friendly safe streets of Northtown, and why we oughta move there someday.

As I shook hands all around and thanked them for their hospitality, the wife said, “Tell your husband we’re having homemade spaghetti for dinner tonight and if you show up, we’ll have plenty.”  I walked out of that house and back to my car still basking in the warmth of their welcome.

It doesn’t take much to make a person feel welcome in the world.

A few days later, I cross through the parking lot at the Kansas City Rescue Mission, past the residents in our Christian Community of Recovery who are smoking and soaking up the afternoon sun.  It’s been a chaotic day and suddenly I turn around and plunk down into one of the metal patio chairs scattered around the edges of the parking lot.

“Slumming?” says one of the guys.  He’s wearing a big smile under an even bigger mustache.  Pretty soon, we’re telling stories about being kids in the 60s and 70s, talking about who’s sick and who’s dying, shaking our heads about the guys who’ve left the Mission and shoring each other up with bits of Scripture and other words of wisdom.  Later, a sense of duty pushes me up and out of my chair and I head for my office. But I’m refreshed — still basking in the warmth of their welcome.

It doesn’t take much to make a person feel welcome in the world.

A Call to Pray for Terry Jones

Each time I read, see or hear the news story about Florida minister Terry Jones threatening to burn the Koran, I wait for the words, “He has come to his senses.” Each time, I am disappointed. It is nearly midnight, Wednesday, September 8 and I’ve turned from the 10 o’clock news astonished again that a church leader, a pastor, a minister of the Gospel, a father, an American would make such a senseless decision.

My son fought in Iraq, and my son-in-law and now my nephew serves in Afghanistan. I can’t fathom how this man arrived at the conclusion that burning a Koran to make the point that  ”something is wrong” is worth the danger he’s placed our soldiers in … or his own family for that matter.

But my greater question is this: How does a leader in the church of Jesus Christ conclude he is glorifying God … reflecting Christ’s love … exhibiting righteousness, discernment, goodness, the fruit of the Spirit … by burning the Koran?  As a believer, I have to believe the Holy Spirit is warring within this man day after day.  Why can he not hear?

I am calling on believers in Jesus Christ to pray for Terry Jones.  In Philippians 1:9-11, Paul writes:

“This is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.” (Phil 1:9-11)

Terry Jones, your intended action will not reflect the love of Christ or the fruit of righteousness that comes through Him.  Your action will not honor the God you say you serve, nor will it bring glory and praise to His Holy Name.  I pray you hear His voice and obey it in the hours ahead.  You CAN humble yourself.  You CAN turn around.  His mercies are new every morning.

death stings

“But I found out everybody’s different – the same kind of different as me.  We’re all just regular folks walkin down the road God done set in front of us.  The truth about it is, whether we is rich or poor or somethin in between, this earth ain’t no final restin place.  So in a way, we is all homeless – just workin our way toward home.”

And with these words, Ron Hall and Denver Moore close out their book, Same Kind of Different As Me.  I’ve been wrestling with Denver’s final words since finishing the book earlier this week.  Is it true?  Are we all homeless?  Is each of us working our way home?

Death has become a reality for me on a number of levels recently: family members aging, friends coming down with horrific illnesses, young lives cut short by automobile accidents.  When we are faced with our own mortality and recognize how short our lives are the differences between us quickly disappear.  No matter our ethnicity, our socio-economic status; no matter what work we do or how we’ve impacted the world for good or ill, when death comes knocking, we all answer the door.

With these thoughts swirling through my head this week, I started rewatching The Lord of the Rings movies with my daughter.  We watched the first movie and I again sat through Frodo’s anguished lament at the course his life had taken: 

“I wish the ring had never come to me.  I wish none of this had happened.” 

To which wise, old Gandalf replies,

“So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide.

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

Even with all of our advanced science, our wrinkle-free creams, our elite exercise regimens and dietary supplements, our lives are limited to the duration of these failing physical bodies.  Each day that we have we should live with the awareness that death is just around the corner – not with an attitude of worry and fear, but with an attitude of anticipation for the days we have.  We need to understand each day is a gift that will never come again and we must use each one to its fullest potential.

In addition, we believe that death is not the end.  Sorrow wounds.  Sickness hurts.  Death stings.  But death is not the end.  Death is the door that leads us home, as Denver Moore puts it.  Home.  What home?  Some people believe that home is a plane of existence or a form of reincarnation or a vast nothing.  As followers of Jesus Christ, we believe home is eternity spent with God.  We believe home is a place of safety and rest and hope.  Home is our final resting place where we will be reunited with those we love and cherish.

While we are in its midst, death can be a horrible thing.  Let’s call it like it is.  Death is awful and terrible.  And inevitable for us all.  So what are we going to do about it?  Do we shirk away and do all we can to avoid death?  Do we scream in defiance, pull out our hair, and spit in the face of death?

When death comes early and uncalled for, when crippling sickness takes hold, when sadness and depression invade, what response do we have?

We live.

Jesus, the homeless man

Listening to Rich Mullins’ The Jesus Record in my car earlier this week, I was inspired by his insightful lyrics yet again: “the hope of the whole world rests on the shoulders of a homeless man.”  The line comes from his song, “You Did Not Have a Home.” Mullins is referring to Jesus; specifically, Jesus, the homeless man.  That’s not something you hear preached from the pulpit most Sundays: Jesus was homeless.  He relied on the hospitality of others for food and shelter.  He wandered from place to place on foot (though admittedly, most people travelled by foot at that time).  He owned little more than the clothes on his back and the sandals on his feet.

How do we define homelessness today?  A person without a home.  A person without a job.  Someone who doesn’t know where his next meal will be coming from or where he’ll be sleeping tonight.  Someone who is dependent on others to meet his most basic needs: food, shelter and clothing.  Does this describe Jesus?

I suppose Jesus didn’t know where his next meal would come from most days, though I don’t imagine he was too concerned about it.  I can hear the disciples arguing over what they were going to do for dinner or where they were going to spend the night.  Somehow I don’t think Jesus worried too much about those basic needs.  It was like someone was watching out for him.  More to the point, he lived as if he knew it.

So what if Jesus, the homeless man, came into the Kansas City Rescue Mission?  Where would we find him?  What would he be doing?  Maybe Jesus would head straight up to the front of the chapel and start preaching and teaching.  He did a lot of teaching back in his day.  Maybe he’d slip in quietly, head to the kitchen, and start washing dishes or preparing salads.  He washed his disciples feet.  Maybe he’d kick in the front door and sweep the computer monitor off the front desk in anger and disgust over the way we’ve neglected the poor and suffering.  He overturned tables and whipped the sales people who’d moved into the temple.  Maybe he would enter accompanied by trumpets and choirs, hymns and choruses, a red carpet, cameras, the 5:00 news a la Palm Sunday.

I think if Jesus came into KCRM, he would probably walk quietly into the chapel.  He’d look around and figure out which guy in there was at his wits end, the guy who’d taken all he could, the guy who was suffering to the point of exhaustion.  I guess I don’t know how Jesus would choose.  He’d just know where His Father wanted him.  I think he’d sit down next to the guy, he’d put his arm around him, lean in close, and say, “I love you, brother.  Dad loves you, too.  You ready to get something to eat?”  Then he’d get in line for dinner, sit down with the least of these, say a blessing and dig in, delighting in those he loves most.

Oh, You did not have a home
There were places You visited frequently
You took off Your shoes and scratched Your feet
‘Cause you knew that the whole world belongs to the meek
But You did not have a home, no, You did not have a home

 And You did not take a wife
There were pretty maids all in a row
Who lined up to touch the hem of Your robe
But You had no place to take them,
So You did not take a wife, no, You did not take a wife

 
Birds have nests, foxes have dens
But the hope of the whole world rests
On the shoulders of a homeless man
You had the shoulders of a homeless man
No, You did not have a home

 
Well you had no stones to throw
You came without an ax to grind
You did not tow the party line
No wonder sight came to the blind
You had no stones to throw, You had no stones to throw

 
And You rode an ass’ foal
They spread their coats and cut down palms
For You and Your donkey to walk upon
But the world won’t find what it thinks it wants
On the back of an ass’ foal, so I guess You had to get sold
‘Cause the world can’t stand what it can’t own
And it can’t own You ‘Cause You did not have a home

 
Birds have nests, foxes have dens
But the hope of the whole world rests
On the shoulders of a homeless man
You had the shoulders of a homeless man
And the world can’t stand what it can’t own
And it can’t own You ’cause You did not have a home

- Rich Mullins, “You Did Not Have a Home”

The Light Behind the Cross

It has been a sobering day at Kansas City Rescue Mission. Now in the late afternoon, I walk around with a lump in my throat — all the pent up emotion of hard surprises, challenging questions, painful disappointments, moments of joy followed by wake up calls that touch and burn everyone involved. That’s a rescue mission for ya, I guess.

I walk out of yet another meeting toward my office and catch a glow as I pass the chapel. Someone has turned out all the lights following the Friday worship service, but failed to turn off the light behind the cross that hangs at the front of the room.  It draws me to it like a fly to honey.

I sit close — the first seat in the first row. The cross looks ethereal.  I look up at the light and say, “Jesus, I need you.”  I wait expectantly for a moment, then the words from Psalm 61 come to mind:

Hear my cry, O God;
listen to my prayer.
From the ends of the earth I call to you,
I call as my heart grows faint;
lead me to the rock that is higher than I.
For you have been my refuge,
a strong tower against the foe.
I long to dwell in your tent forever
and take refuge in the shelter of your wings.
Selah

Neither the light nor the psalm work the spiritual “yeehaw” I’m looking for.  I don’t feel instant relief. I am not transported to a place of peace. Instead I begin to name my “foes” — weariness, wrong perspective, uncertainty, impatience and the minute by minute grind.

I don’t want to be impaired by these niggling, grasping enemies. They take up my time. They waste valuable space in my mind.  They confuse me.   I can’t have them hanging around in there if I’m going to follow Him, do His will.

I get up and head out of the chapel a few minutes later.  The light behind the cross is very cool, but it’s not Jesus.   Jesus is the tower, the tent, the wings that cover me.  I’ve let my foes spread cobwebs in these protective places today and it’s time to clean them out.   Just acknowledging that helps me walk a little straighter, helps me think more clearly, helps me see His light in the people around me.

The thing is — and I have to bite down hard on this — is that I’ve let this happen before.  And, I’m pretty sure I’ll let it happen again before too many days go by. I just don’t always see my enemies slipping in because I’m busy moving too fast, calculating, talking, motivating, living toward my own direction.  I’m pretty sure God is aware of this, and though I may slow Him down at times, He lets me serve Him anyway.  God is good that way.

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.

The Hopeful Homeless

I’ve begun to see a three-stage pattern to homelessness among our clients at the Kansas City Rescue Mission.  This is by no means a scientific study, nor do I claim any special insight or wisdom, it is just something I’ve observed over the years.  It’s sort of a progression that most of our guys have to go through before they can emerge from the homeless trap.

The first stage is the “newly” homeless.  This is the guy who until recently was living in some sort of home, either with friends or family, in his own place, or with his lady friend.  Something occurs and he finds himself out of his home and with nowhere to turn.  This guy has the “I can’t believe this is happening to me” expression glued onto his face.  He wasn’t planning on being homeless, or on spending an evening in a dorm room with 61 other men, or on relying on someone else to meet his most basic needs: food, water, shelter.   During this first stage, he may speak as though this will all be over in a couple days, as though the predicament he is in is temporary and the solution within is within his grasp.  And for some it will be.  He’ll get the call from Mom to come back home or whatever the big misunderstanding is gets ironed out in record time or disability finally comes through along with two years of backpay; but for many this is only the first stage and there is a long road to travel before returning “home”.

The second stage is the “stuck” homeless.  After being newly homeless for a few weeks and months, a protective numbness begins to settle over many of our clients.  A sense of despair and hopelessness seeps into thoughts and actions and soon, nothing matters at all.  Being homeless becomes the beginning and end to life - just surviving, jumping through the hoops to get food, doing whatever it takes to scrape together some cash for some smokes.  Life beyond the streets and the shelters and the homeless services is a distant dream, a myth of how things used to be.  This stage is often characterized by blank expressions and uncaring attitudes.  Some of our clients try to cover up this stage using various masks: humor, a tough guy persona, an uncaring attitude, an untouchable front.  For the most part, these masks only serve to hide the truth – inside is a real, hurting human being.  Lonely, lost and confused, our clients in this stage don’t know where to turn for help or they may start to believe they are beyond help.  This stage can last for weeks, months, or even years in some cases.

Thankfully, there is a third stage.  I call this client the “hopeful” homeless.  He has spent considerable time in the first two stages when something finally changes.  It’s hard to nail down exactly what that something is.  It could be an external change in circumstances: a job opens up, a family member calls seeking reconciliation, a landlord decides to take a chance on a sketchy tenant.  Or sometimes something changes internally: rock bottom hurts more than expected, the idea that there is more to life than just scraping by finally starts making sense, a decision is reached.  Perspectives shift and attitudes alter.  This client is often seen talking excitedly about what God is doing in his life with staff, volunteers, and other clients.  A renewed sense of purpose and a drive to succeed mark the “hopeful” homeless.  He can see the light at the end of the tunnel, he can sense new beginnings on the horizon.  He hopes.  He believes.

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

day in the life

5:00 am    “Rise and shine.”  I wake to the smell of cigarettes and rotting teeth.  The face I see looking at me smiles, “Rise and shine.  Time to get up.”  I sit up in bed.  I am in a top bunk at the Kansas City Rescue Mission.  I am exhausted.  I stumble out of the bunkbed and make my way to the bathroom line.  Clean up a bit and head into the dining room for breakfast.  If we’re lucky it’ll be eggs and toast, if not, cold cereal.

6:00 am    Exit kcrm.  Walk on over to the drop-in center for a second chance at a hot breakfast.  Hey, you take what you can get, when you can get it.  It’s crowded.  The TV’s on too loud.  Get a bite and head out.

7:30 am    Walk down to the job center.  Wait for my turn on a computer.  After about 45 minutes, one opens up.  I get on and check my e-mail.  One new message in junk mail from a dating site.  Delete.  No new messages.  Look at job listings.  Nothing in construction.  Nothing new.  Nothing.

9:30 am    Walk across town to the library.  Hide my backpack in the bushes outside since they’ll kick me out if I bring it in.  I find a nice cubicle in a dark corner, put my head in my arms and instantly fall asleep.  Moments later my snoring alerts the security guard who promptly escorts me from the building.  I almost panic when I can’t find my backpack, but after a couple minutes of searching, it is there.  My most prized possessions are in that backpack.  My favorite book, my ID, a photo of my wife.  Haven’t seen her in years.

11:00 am    Head down to the church on the corner for lunch.  No need to hurry, there will be a line.  Lunch is pretty much the same ever day – a couple sandwiches, chips, cookies, and water. Sometimes they have tea.  I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong.  It just gets old after a while.  I stick around and help with the clean-up afterwards.  It helps pass the time, and the people there are real nice.  They give me an extra baggie of cookies on my way out.  I pocket them for later when I know I’ll be hungry.

1:30 pm    Walk back to the library.  The new security guard doesn’t know me.  I hide my bag and head inside.  I find a couple magazines and head to my favorite corner.  This time I am able to get almost an hour of sleep before I wake up to a commotion in the courtyard.  Leaving the magazines, I head out the door and retrieve my backback.  I need to be back at kcrm soon.

3:00 pm    Along the way I stop in at a local diner.  I ask about a job.  The woman behind the counter tells me they’re accepting applications but not hiring at this time.  It’s the same story everywhere.  I move on.

3:30 pm    Arrive at the kansas city rescue mission.  Sign up for a bed.  It’s a lottery system with tickets, so hopefully I’ll get a bed.  I find a spot in the shade and sit down on the sidewalk to wait.  Those cookies I saved take the edge off my growing hunger.

5:00 pm    A couple staff members walk out of the building.  Names are called and tickets given out.  I’m one of the lucky ones.  I get a good ticket.  A couple guys walk away grumbling while others try to talk the staff members into letting them stay anyway.

5:30 pm    They start calling numbers.  I walk forward when my number is called.  I step inside and am told to spread my arms wide.  I do so and am patted down for weapons.  I am told to turn in my belongings, and I do.  I blow into a breathalizer.  Even though I did not drink today and I know I will pass, my heart still races until the man waves me on.  I give my name and they enter me into the computer.   I am given my bed number for the night. 15 – towards the front – that’s good; there’s less noise up there. Then I am ushered into a small chapel.  I find a seat toward the back where I can see and not be seen.  I hunker down to wait.

6:45 pm    Music begins playing at the front of the chapel.  A man in nice clothes begins singing songs I’ve never heard before.  He waves and sings and tries to get me to sing, too.  I don’t want to sing.   Singing makes me remember.  Singing makes me sad.  A speaker gets up and tells me I don’t need to be sad.  He says I can have joy.  I wish that were true.  He asks me to come up to him at the end, but I don’t.  I’m hungry.

7:30 pm    I exit the chapel and head into the dining room for dinner.  Baked chicken and greens, salad and cake.  I bet it would be delicious if I could taste it.  I eat so fast and so much of it I hardly notice the flavor.  Oh, well.

8:00 pm    Walk back to the linens line.  Get my sheet, blanket, pillow and pillow case.  Step inside the dorm and find my bed.  Top bunk, again.  I lay the sheets on my bed, climb up and pull the blanket over me.  The lights go out at 9:00, but I am awake well into the night, lying on my back with my eyes open, listening to the sounds around me: tossing, turning, groaning, snoring.  I listen.  I wait.  I try not to think about where I am or how I got here.  I listen.  I wait. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe tomorrow something will change. Maybe.

Squatters

Just a block down the street from KCRM and behind a chain link fence, a small manufacturing company has piled wooden pallets and crates by the dozen in a corner. Throughout the winter, the pile lies untouched, but as the weather warms, it begins to evolve into one, then two, then several “homes.” An upended crate joins two wobbly pallets, a tarp and, of course, some duct tape to become a minimalist dwelling. Roof, an old blanket, a coat repurposed as a pillow … comfort, warmth and the stars above.

Groups of KCRM volunteers tackle the stack of pallets and crates and disassemble the “houses” periodically.  They toss empty bottles, styrofoam cups, chip bags, paper plates and cigarette butts into trash bags.  But a day or two later, new crates and pallets appear, new homes emerge, new neighbors chat over pallet fences.

People live in community.  We build our communities in apartment buildings, housing developments, piles of pallets and crates. We fellowship over barbeque grills, at church potlucks and in empty parking lots strewn with trash.

At Kansas City Rescue Mission, we’ve used that need for community to fashion our own “neighborhood” of sorts.  Our staff and volunteers hobnob with residents in our Christian Community of Recovery and with the homeless guests who fill the emergency dorm each night.  We wave at the squatters across the street, invite them for dinner and chapel, try to cajole them into putting down the bottles and joints and becoming a “productive member of the community.”  And some do.

When it rains torrentially as it has recently, our neighborhood squatters head into KCRM’s shelter.  Hot showers, fresh towels, dry sheets … fortification.  We settle across the tables together over fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans cooked with butter and bacon — southern cooking that warms the stomach and soul.  Rain washes away the dirt collecting on their tarps and tents. A strong wind topples a pallet wall and blows an empty can across the parking lot.

When morning comes, most of the squatters return to the pallets and crates to rebuild.  One stays behind to talk to a chaplain.  The food, the shower, the bed have done their work; freedom, sky and stars are not enough to hold him.  He has remembered home.

Something?

“I have no idea how to help millions of homeless Americans.

I have no idea how to help millions of homeless.

I have no idea how to help millions.

I have no idea how to help.

I have no idea how.

I have no idea.

I have.”

I found this poem yesterday as I was roaming the internet.  It was posted on Patti Dickinson’s blog.  It pretty much speaks for itself.  As little as we have and as helpless as we feel, shouldn’t we do something?