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.

KCRM’s Joe Colaizzi responds to the death of a homeless man

Dear Friends,

I was heart broken to hear about the homeless gentleman who succumbed to the bitter cold this past weekend in downtown Kansas City. As part of a ministry that exists to provide shelter and care to the poorest of the poor I, along with all the staff at KCRM, keenly feel the tragedy when someone dies because they did not have safe shelter.

This sad event prompts me to address some questions that may be in the minds of our friends and supporters:

Does KCRM ever turn anyone away on these very cold nights?
During cold or dangerous weather the Mission will operate in overflow status. This means we will find a way for anyone who comes to us to have a place to rest, even if it is a mat on a floor, as long as we can maintain fire safety standards. When our overflow capacity is reached, we will contact other shelter agencies to ensure that anyone turning to us will not be simply turned away into the cold.

If we are ever forced to refuse services to an individual whose presence may present a danger to staff or other guests, every provision possible is made to see that the individual finds appropriate care, if even with the authorities.

What does KCRM require for a guest to stay the night?
Typically, after a week of service at no cost a client is asked to give a dollar or do some small chore to stay the night. They are also required to take a breathalyzer test to make sure they are not under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Finally they receive a pat-down to check for weapons or drug paraphernalia.

Paying a dollar or doing a simple chore – sweeping a floor or emptying some trash – helps the chronic homeless begin to take some responsibility for their situation and helps instill a sense of responsibility and pride for their “home.” Most of our guests actually welcome, some even insist on a chance to contribute to the welfare of the Mission.

The requirement that guests pass a breathalyzer and receive a pat-down is necessary for the safety of our guests, volunteers and staff alike. It is one of the reasons that KCRM has a reputation among the homeless population for being one of the safest and most peaceful places to stay in Kansas City.

Does being in overflow status put an extra strain on the Mission?
As you would expect, yes it does. The strain of caring for a greater number of guests also increases our financial burden as well as the stress on staff and supplies.

If you would like to make a gift to help us meet the challenge of this cold weather emergency, click here to visit our online giving page

KCRM will shelter up to 140 men some night during the winter -- almost double its capacity.

and choose “Cold Weather Overflow” under the “Gift Information” section.

If you ever have a question about Kansas City Rescue Mission’s policies and care for the homeless, don’t hesitate to call me at (816) 421-7643 or email jcolaizzi@kcrm.org. Thank you for your continuing generosity and friendship!

Sincerely,

Rev. Joe Colaizzi
Executive Director

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.

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.

An Evening with Bill Self

 

 

 

 

The Kansas City Rescue Mission is pleased to invite you to An Evening with Bill Self, October 6th at the College Basketball Experience.  If you’ve never been to CBE before, now’s your chance! 

Tickets include dinner, entrance to the College Basketball Hall of Fame and the interactive exhibits, a silent auction for sports memorabilia, and a heart-to-heart with Bill Self.

Tickets for this event are $100.  For more information contact Julie Larocco at jlarocco@kcrm.org or (816)421-7643 or visit our website at www.kcrm.org.

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.

Summer nights at KCRM

At staff meeting Wednesday, we discussed an ongoing problem that threatens the  relationships we’ve built with KCRM’s neighbors here in the art district.  The police have successfully “relocated” guys from (e.g. run guys out of)  a rail yard east of the Mission and many of them seem to have come to rest on our doorstep.

These aren’t necessarily folks who want a meal and a bed, or case management, or help cleaning up their lives.  Most just need a place to land … a place where they can chat and drink and sell drugs peaceably.  Over the last couple weeks, a brown van and a cool green Cadillac have pulled up to our block and pretty much taken up residence.  At night, occupants of the brown van pull out cots and set up camp on the sidewalk.  The Caddie’s driver is prepared, too, with a fishing stool and other odds and ends that make the stay on our sidewalk comfortable.

A few single women have joined the group, partying through the night and sleeping off and on through the day.  One of our cooks, coming in to make breakfast at 3:45 a.m., sees a woman asleep on the sidewalk with several men surrounding her — a kind of circling the wagons for protection, I think.

Our residents get up early in the morning and clear away broken glass, bottles, cans and other trash from the street and sidewalk, but they can’t clean up the damage to a nearby neighbor’s window … or replace the items stolen from three cars in a parking lot around the corner … or freshen the air, which in this heat, seems saturated with beer, urine and worse.

Last week, a staff member strolled around KCRM to the alley behind and picked up a broken security camera lying in the weeds. It’s come to this — lots of furrowed foreheads, words of concern, serious conversations about how to meet this problem head-on.

It seems Kansas City has no loitering laws.  And, we have control only over the sidewalk directly in front of our building.  And, Central Patrol (our district) has lost a lot of cops over the past year — cops that won’t be replaced if the mayor’s plan to rebuild the force is rejected.  I watched the news last night and heard a Kansas City citizen step up to the mike at a council meeting to say, “Give us the force we paid for!  You owe it to us.  Give us the force we paid for!”  And, we say with her, “PLEASE, give them to us!”

Recently a police officer from Central Patrol told us, “We don’t have time for drive bys anymore.  We’re just moving from call to call as fast as we can.”

So where do we turn?  To the homeless men themselves?  Those who come to our chapel services, eat free meals in our dining hall and receive free shelter in our dorms?  Yes.  For now.  Last night, our chaplains told attendees at chapel, “Don’t be a part of the problem; be a part of the solution.  If you value the services you receive here, then respect our property and our neighbors’ properties.”

Perhaps it is the weather.  Those “Saturday in the Park” nights when the heat and humidity  gel with thirst, hot tempers and overwhelming boredom.  For our staff, our residents and our volunteers who clean up the next morning after the party, we can only wait for a change in temperature, a change of heart or a change in the numbers of public servants who patrol our streets. I hope one of them comes soon.

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.

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

All aboard!

Welcome to the Kansas City Rescue Mission’s first blog post!  Here at the mission, we’re pretty excited about the opportunity to communicate better with our supporters and community.  We recognize that communication is a two-way street.  We have lots to share with and say to you and you have lots to share with and say to us.  Let’s get the conversation started!

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship!”