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Monday, August 31, 2015

Vienna Waits For You...

When my youngest daughter Kaden told us she wanted to name her (future) daughter Vienna, everyone laughed.


"Like the sausages?" everyone roared.


Her big sister jumped to her defense. "No, like the country."


It's a city, Kelsey, but you were always a good sister.


"Like the song?" I asked.


"YES!" she exclaimed. "You know that song?"


Know it? I love it. That Billy Joel song was the reason I bought the 13 Going on 30 soundtrack. Well, that and the fact that it was basically an 80's soundtrack.


I'd listen to that song over and over in my car. I was past the intended age for his message, yet no-one had ever insisted that I "slow down" back then, or that I was "so ambitious for a juvenile."


My inner 13-year old needed to hear it.


A couple of years later I met another 13-year old who reminded me of my younger self. She was in Kaden's carpool, but also in my English class, so I had to tread carefully.


"I want you to hear this song," I told her one night on the way home from a play rehearsal.


I didn't say much else, just let the words speak for themselves. I'm not sure if she received them, or if she understood that I was trying desperately to shield her from the path I'd unknowingly started down at her age. She nodded her head as she got out of the car.


Over the next few years, I'd hear the song from time to time. It never again had such an impact on me.


Until now.


Today at the soup kitchen, I saw five girls, all under twenty, and all acting like experienced women of the world. They breezed in, chatted up the men, and sauntered out in clothes that barely covered their bodies. They can't wait to be grown, to be in the midst of all of the action, and their loud voices are a certain sign of overcompensating their fear.


I wanted to play the song for all of them.


Vienna

By Billy Joel

Slow down, you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart, then tell me
Why are you still so afraid?
Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?
You'd better cool it off before you burn it out
You've got so much to do
And only so many hours in a day
But you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even
Get halfway through
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you
Slow down, you're doing fine
You can't be everything you want to be
Before your time
Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight
Tonight,
Too bad but it's the life you lead
You're so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need
Though you can see when you're wrong, you know
You can't always see when you're right. you're right
You've got your passion, you've got your pride
But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?
Slow down, you crazy child
And take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile
It's all right, you can afford to lose a day or two
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?
And you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through
Why don't you realize, Vienna waits for you
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?




Saturday, August 29, 2015

Why I Fit in So Well in Homeless Camps

Many know my story; I've never kept it much of a secret. It is what it is and Rascal Flatts said it best when they sang God blessed the broken road that led me straight to [this].


Life for me in the 70's was a Norman Rockwell painting. Lemonade stands, catching fireflies, trips to Disneyworld. From skating on neighborhood sidewalks with my friends to reading the latest Beverly Cleary book, my life was the picture of innocence.


The 80's brought some things to my life that remain to this day. Valley girl catchphrases, socks that match your polo shirt, and scrunchies. I often look like the BEFORE picture in a fashion editorial spread. I figure sooner or later it'll be the new retro fad anyway.


But the 80's also brought about some things that took me years to overcome.


I was only thirteen when I started high school, and still very innocent. I had a menagerie of stuffed animals on my bed and still played with them every night. I had the typical plan of most suburban kids: graduate from high school with honors and spend four years at a university somewhere, followed by marriage and kids. It wasn't a plan; it was a given.


Freshman year started off great. I made lots of new friends. I loved my classes and we built the freshman homecoming float at my house. I brought home several brochures from the guidance counselor's office about colleges and I was looking at Florida State University's theater program. I don't know what I'd have done with a degree in drama but it seemed like a great career path!


I was one of only two incoming freshman on an academic team so much of my time was spent with upperclassmen. Mostly male. Not only were these guys smart, they were extremely popular around campus.


I decided to take advantage of my relationship with them and find out how I, too, could live the life spread out on the pages of my Teen and YM magazines.


Turns out, I was the one who got taken advantage of.


I started hanging out at parties with them. There was a lot of alcohol, and occasionally pot. I may have been clueless to the workings of a teen boy's mind but I knew how to Just Say No to drugs.  I'd get a drink just to fit in then pretend to sip on it until I could slip off unnoticed and pour it out.


I was completely sober, and incredibly naïve, when they told me to be popular I needed to have sex with them. They could tell I was unsure so they hit me with the clincher. "All the cheerleaders do it."


I thought cheerleaders hung the moon. I'd wanted to be one as long as I could remember and even though I was as coordinated as a potato sack, I'd dreamed that one day I would miraculously wake up and be able to do the best herkie south of the Mason-Dixon line.


I fell for it.


And I gave in.


After the fifth guy had his way with me, one of my idoled cheerleaders pulled me aside. "You really should be more discreet. Everyone's calling you a whore."


Wait, what?!!


At that exact moment, on the second floor of some house party, I realized what had happened. I'd been lied to, taken advantage of, and my reputation was ruined.


All because I wanted to be popular.


I didn't know how to handle it. I was devastated. I couldn't tell my parents; I'd just had a Smurfette party two months before.


I confided in a trusted "uncle". They weren't actually related but the grandmother had lived across from us since I was born and I spent nearly every afternoon at her house. All of the grandchildren were like cousins to me; their parents like aunts and uncles. This was my favorite set; they were down from Oregon.


I spent the night after playing with the kids, and was asleep in the living room when "Uncle Joe" woke me up.


"Hey," I whispered. "What's wrong?"


"Remember what we talked about," he asked. Of course, the end of my life. How could I forget?


That was all he said before he raped me.


Too stunned to speak, I lay there unmoving until the next morning. On my way out the door to the safety of my own home, he pulled me aside.


"This is your fault," he hissed. "You wanted it. That's why you told me all that. If you tell your parents, I'm going to have to tell them everything you've been doing."


This man, who I loved and trusted my whole life, was a monster. (In years to come it would be revealed that three of the four brothers were sexual predators. One is serving time for molesting several boys. One repeatedly raped a nephew, resulting in the boy's suicide. As far as I know, "Uncle Joe" is still walking free.)


Something inside me died at that point and I started a pattern that lasted for decades. I numbed myself.


First with alcohol. It was easy to get and after a few drinks, I didn't care what happened. I already had the reputation of a slut, so how much worse could it get?


I turned down the marijuana still. Alcohol, okay. Drugs, bad. Despite all, I was still a little girl.


One night I didn't say no.


My world forever changed.


I loved the feeling of being high. It allowed me to still not care, yet I could maintain control in a way I couldn't when I was drunk.


Pot quickly gave way to other drugs. Cocaine, ecstacy, pcp...Girls like me learned that to get the drugs, you dated the dealers.


In my book, there's no difference between that and prostitution.


I became a bully. I threatened people so that no-one could see how scared I was inside. I also would pick a few girls who I saw being bullied and I'd become their protector. I'm not sure why anyone was scared of a 98-lb girl whose bark was bigger than her bite, but after slashing someone's tires because they parked in my "spot" at school, no-one took chances.


When getting high is your solitary focus, nothing else matters. My grades dropped; I stopped hanging out with my friends from church. Life as I knew it had ended. My chances of a college scholarship, my hopes of finding a husband who'd want "damaged goods."


My parents tried everything. Rehab, counseling, tough love. Some of it worked. At least for a little while.


I even told my mom about that awful night three years after it happened.  It was one of our best mother-daughter talks ever.


But the problem was that I had developed a pattern. When life gets tough, numb the pain with drugs.


It was a pattern that I continued even after I'd had children. By then my drugs were legal, but the idea was the same. I'm overwhelmed with motherhood, take a Xanax to escape.


Addiction is no less of a stronghold when the drugs are in your medicine cabinet.


Not only did I struggle with addiction, suicide was a near companion. When the drugs just couldn't get me high enough to escape the turmoil I was feeling inside, I'd contemplate suicide.


There were many for-attention-only suicide attempts. The ones where you want to escape for a little while or manipulate someone.


And then there were two truly-wanting-to-end-it attempts.


Only by the grace of God was I not successful.


Even after I surrendered my life to the Lord, these two strongholds remained. When things went wrong, I wanted a pill. I would work through it, but the question haunted me. When is that not my first thought?


When things went really wrong, the suicidal thoughts would come back.


It was as if nothing changed.


I finally realized that there were hidden parts of my heart that I refused to bring into the light. They were painful and they'd been there so long, I wasn't sure I knew how to let them go. Or that I wanted to.


So many people on the streets have these painful boxes locked up so tight inside of them. They are scared to let them go because it is easier to deal with the evil you know than to face the unknown.


I spent ten years afraid to be completely free.


But the peace, and the joy, that come with breaking those chains are what allow us to walk in the promised land here on earth.


I know the pain. I know the hidden doors. I know the patterns and I know the fear.


I tell everyone on the streets that there's no difference between us.


Except that I've allowed the Lord to set me free.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

STREET LIFE

It was a typical, busy day.


It was devoted to the street life.  (Misheard lyrics in my head go off every time.. "Street life, people..up and down the boulevard..." Okay, so maybe it's streetlights according to official Journey lyrics but I think street life fits better anyway...)


Don't Stop Believin' is pretty apropros after this day.


I started with Melvin. He'd landed back at another friend's house and needed to go to the Social Security Office to change his mailing address. His new card "disappeared" from his old address but fortunately it had not been accessed. He'd decided to go up north to stay with family, the wear and tear of the streets taking its toll. We had the card expedited to my house; he will get on the bus as soon as the benefits hit. I won't bring the card until we are on our way.


On the way back, we saw a girl walking on crutches. I gave her a ride. She rode around with me for about an hour, just to rest, since there was no home to go to. I had to drop her off at a gas station. I knew who she was, having seen her mugshot multiple times, and I was able to initiate a conversation with her. She isn't ready to leave that lifestyle, though streetwalking will be considerably hampered on crutches. She has my card; when she gets tired she now has a way out.


I met a couple looking for apartment assistance at the local soup kitchen. I hung out at lunch, with many of the regulars. Some I knew in passing; others I knew well.


There was Jax, who will look at me and swear his shoes are green when I can see they are bright red. He'd had a severe brain injury after having his head kicked in at the local jail ten years ago. I don't know if the lying is part of the brain injury, a spiritual problem, manipulation, or a combination of all three. Probably the latter. It was still good to see him. He brings out my maternal side more than most, even though he's only a decade younger than me.


Mr. Raleigh was there, after his physical therapy. He's come a long way since his stroke two months ago. I got him in an apartment two months ago and he needed help paying the second month's rent. I told him today to call me if he needed me to come get his check when it came in. I had twenty years experience in handing out allowances and find it to be a useful tool on the streets. Even those not struggling with drugs have trouble managing their money.


I met Pocahantas, a name that comes up every time a scam goes down. And got to hold DJ, a 3-yr old who comes with his grandparents, aunts, and in-and-out mother every day to the soup kitchen.


I watched those around me as they ate. There were those who ate with the heads down. They seemed thankful, but ashamed. There were those with pride. They acted as if they were doing the kitchen a favor by being there. There were ladies who loudly complained about how horrible everything tasted. Some told jokes as the lone meal served each day was their only interaction with others. Some drive; others walk.   Most know each other; many know me. Some even well enough to ask why I wasn't eating because today's menu included pizza and most know my theory: even bad pizza is good because it's PIZZA!




Frances barely ate. She had a broken tooth. I called a free dental clinic and made an appointment to take her next Tuesday. Most of us wouldn't dream of waiting five days with a broken tooth, but when you are dependent on free clinics and goodwill transportation you don't have a choice.


It works out pretty well. I can drop Frances off in Ocean Springs, then get Melvin to the Biloxi bus station.


When the administrator at the V.A. called to see if I could bring Eric to Biloxi next week, I was able to work it into next Tuesday as well.


Eric has been trying to get his VA benefits since last November and is finally nearing the end. He had a local organization helping him, but they are short-staffed and what should've taken weeks actually took months. I'd taken a backseat in his care, not being an official employee of any agency, but when I went to visit him earlier this week I saw a man who was literally wasting away. 4% body mass index, the doctors said. I was horrified. Maybe a little jealous because I secretly yearn for the abhorred Barbie doll dimensions, but horrified nonetheless. I'd just seen my second homeless friend die in three months and I refused to sit by and watch it happen again because of bureaucratic red tape.


This is where it comes in handy that I DON'T work for a government agency. Two phone calls later and a bypass of the understaffed organization, his vouchers are ready for us to come get him. By Wednesday he will have a home.


I got a shock today when I found out that Darla, a young girl who looked like she could model for Abercrombie & Fitch, was the daughter of Belinda, a local prostitute.


The first time I met Darla she was hanging out at Tent City. I called my husband and had him meet me right away. We thought she was a runaway; she couldn't have been more than 17. I wanted to bring her home. Cute as a button and intelligent, I didn't want her to get caught up in the world of drugs and prostitution.


She declined our offer to take her out, saying she wanted to smoke her pot. I encouraged her to go home to her family or call me if she wanted to get out.


I saw her twice after that. Both times she wanted no help.


Today I found out that she was Belinda's daughter. I was almost sick.


I've been helping Belinda for about a year. I've taken her up to two hours away to stay with friends before. I've visited her in jail. We've talked about her church upbringing and falling away. She can't break the meth addiction and prostitution is her life. I knew she'd lost custody of a child but until today I had no idea that child was Darla.


I was trying to prevent her from a life she'd been born into. No wonder she didn't want out. It's all she's ever known.


After I completed paperwork for the new couple, my phone started ringing off the hook. Between the apartment (about 30 minutes) I had seven calls, all from people in the motel where that couple is staying, all wanting rental assistance.


Most won't qualify but I'll sort through the applications with them this week-end.


I'd forwarded the church phone to my cell today so it rang more than usual. 37 calls in all. Including my dad, whose voicemail said "Yes, I'm homeless and looking for an apartment. Is that what I need to say to talk to my daughter?"


Very funny, Dad.


The truth is, we talk every day. My dad has always been there for me. Even when I was doing things no parent should have to experience. His love is unconditional and always has been.


Sometimes I would take that for granted.


But not today. Days like this, I realize just how blessed I am.


For some of these people, I'm the closest thing to family they have left.


I try to give them the unconditional love my dad gave me. No matter what.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Evictions & Eternity



I missed that one big time.





I received a call last week from a young woman who'd gotten my number from someone on the streets. She was about to be evicted from her apartment and she didn't know where to turn.





She worked at the local Taco Bell but her car had broken down last month and the repairs took her rent payment. She wasn't sure what to do.





Normally at this point, I tell the caller that evictions are not something I can help with. While it makes sense to help people BEFORE they end up on the streets, the current funding available is for homeless rehousing not prevention.





But this girl was different. I felt a strong urging to do more.





I made some calls and was able to secure her rent payment plus late fees. I just had to submit a letter to the landlord confirming the amount we would pay and then gather mounds of paperwork before the check could be cut.





The girl provided everything I needed in record time.





Today I went to the leasing office to get the landlord's signature and a record of arrears. We were making small talk while she searched for the needed documents online. All of a sudden she stopped.





"I can't do this," she said.





When I walked in she had been trying to figure out how to work her new smartphone. Was she talking about the phone still? Was she talking about her computer? Perhaps technology wasn't her strong suit.





We stared at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds as I tried to understand.





Finally she spoke. "Her rent isn't late."





My mind started racing faster than I could process the thoughts. Was I being set up?   Am I being Punk'd? Is this a mass murderer luring people in to chop their heads off? She was still looking at me so strangely. I tried to calm my racing heart.





"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I say I'm a Christian and then..." her voice trailed off.





In that moment I realized two things: I'd been involved in some sort of scam and  the landlord had come face-to-face with the Holy Spirit and fallen on her knees.





The story came tumbling out. This girl called organizations each month with similar stories and hadn't once paid her rent in over a year. She had, in fact, gotten an eviction notice but found someone else to pay it and wanted my check to cover September's rent. She'd done that many times before but no-one had requested the paperwork so the landlord always went along with it.





I wasn't angry; I appreciated her honesty. I thanked her and was leaving, the situation already a closed chapter in my head.





She couldn't let it go. She begged for my forgiveness. I tried to dismiss it as unnecessary at first. Then I realized the magnitude of her sorrow and knew this wasn't about me.





It wasn't about the girl who played the system.





It was about this landlord and her relationship with the Lord.





The realization made me feel better about how wrong I could've been to make an exception for the girl. This situation was all designed to walk into that office today and minister to a woman who needed to face God and take inventory of her life.   





We visited for awhile and she shared the story of her life. We talked about a merciful and loving God who is always waiting with outstretched arms. Her repentance wasn't about rent payments at all.





Today I didn't help someone avoid eviction; I helped someone avoid eternity without Jesus.


 

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Another death...

Today's street feeding brought about some new faces, some old ones..and another tragedy.


JJ died. JJ, whose real name was Alfred, was one of the sweetest men on the streets. His petite dark-skinned body was often hidden beneath layered clothing three sizes too big. He always reminded me of a kid in his daddy's clothes, trying them on for size.


He was 56.


The first time I met Alfred he was living beside a dumpster. He was introduced to us as JJ, his street name, but he pulled me aside and said, "My name is Alfred. Call me that."


It's not unusual for people on the streets to want me to call them by their given name instead of the  name they go by on the streets. It represents the need to return to their more innocent selves, the ones not sidled with addiction and alcoholism.


Alfred came to church a few times. He'd sit in the very front row and praise the Lord. I'm not sure if  the hallelujahs were from Alfred, or from the wine he'd polished off before the service, but he was there and he was trying.


Alfred knew more scripture than most preachers. He'd get drunk and preach to everyone he came in contact with. The first time I met him, I thought he knew the Lord. He said all the right things and had the kingdom principles down pat.


Six months later, I was worried that Alfred didn't know Christ at all. He was still quoting scripture, but nothing else in his life bore evidence that he knew the Lord. Was it a religious spirit? A spirit of divination? I started cutting him off when he started spouting scripture. No, I'd say. Tell me what's going on with you.


After that we became friends. Real friends. There was no manipulation, no cons, no excuses. I knew when he was using drugs, when he was drinking, and when he was trying to get sober. He started coming to church. He came to the house for dinner.


I'd never seen him more proud than the day I brought him thick winter coveralls. I'm sure summer had set in before he was willing to take it off.


Alfred got a check once a month. His crazy check. On the streets you try to get a disability check (physical disabilities) or a crazy check (mental disabilities). Most know how to play up either one in a determination hearing. Alfred probably qualified for his check honestly. That wasn't the problem.


The problem was that he would get his check on the 3rd, stay holed up in a crack house for three days, and spend the next three and a half weeks cold, hungry, and depressed. He'd cry every time I'd see him.


"Please help me, Ms. G," he'd beg. He called my husband Mr. G, a problem unknown husbands of famous celebrities must have. I loved that.


I tried. Twice I got him into a rehab but he was so scared they'd "mess with his check" that he backed out both times. He left town to stay with his daughter for a few weeks. He looked great when he returned, clear-eyed and soft-spoken, but it wasn't long before the street life turned him back into a depressed, wild-eyed alcoholic.


He still had the warmest hugs and biggest smile of anyone on the streets. His face would light up when he saw me and I'd pray with him every time to be delivered from alcohol and drugs.


I'm not sure if he was saved. We talked about it many times. He professed to know Christ and I couldn't, wouldn't tell him he was wrong. How did I know? Had I not fallen away in my own walk before?


I don't know if I was right or not. Maybe I should've pushed it. Maybe I should've insisted on taking him for help. All the same feelings and questions I had when Roger Garrison died in his tent came back. Did I do enough? What should I have done differently? 


The bottom line is, I couldn't do it for him. I can't do it for anyone. The sad truth is there will be many more who die in a tent like Roger or a crack house like Alfred. The tragedies of their deaths will send shockwaves throughout the homeless community, will cause many to take stock of their own lives, and will then be forgotten in a manner of days.


It is spiritual warfare and too many Christians are content to watch the war from their living room couches. The war is won; we know the outcome. But the souls in the battle today will end up on the wrong side of this war for eternity if we don't have more troops heading to the frontlines.


There are many more like Alfred just waiting.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

I'm Telling on You

I pretty much outgrew telling on my friends when I was six.


Four decades later, I'm quite averse to rekindling the habit.


But today was an exception.


After lingering in a coma for months, my homeless friend had a miraculous recovery and was doing well. He'd gone back to his home state of Florida and moved into the Kearney Center (actual name).


The Kearney Center in Tallahassee opened this past spring and is one of the best programs I've seen to combat homelessness in the country. With medical, dental, and vision care, along with hot meals, showers, and a warm bed with an attached footlocker, the homeless have everything they need in one place.


Case managers are assigned to each of the nearly four hundred clients at the center. But this isn't a long-term facility. An article by TaMaryn Waters of the Tallahassee Democrat explains the emergency shelter purpose:


Each client at the Kearney Center is encouraged to meet with a case manager within 72 hours. They're given 60 days to transition out of emergency shelter and into housing.
Exceptions are made for those waiting on income, such as disability checks or other housing. But, if they're not actively looking for housing or trying to help themselves out of homelessness, (Chuck)White (who oversees overall operations and partnerships with agencies) said, they can be removed from the center.
"What we are trying to do is get people to be compliant and get them out of homelessness," he said. "We don't want warehousing."


This is an incredible program and my friend was thriving. He was receiving needed medical care and his case manager had been able to get the disability approved he'd been working on for years. He was happy; he'd reconciled with his family; and he was sober.


Then the woman came along.


And it all went out the window.


They moved into a tent in the woods. The doctors have already told him that he will die if he goes back to that life, even if he stays sober. It's just not safe for him.


But she doesn't care. She caused problems at the shelter and hated the segregated women's and men's living quarters. She wasn't in control and she manipulated him into leaving with her. Quite like a controlling spouse, she took his phone and his interaction with his family is now through her only.


She lied to his family, claiming they are still at center. She lied to the disability worker. She's lying to the food stamp workers, claiming to be living in both Mississippi and Florida, as well as using a false name. So it was hard for me to believe her when she called claiming they left because there were too many drugs at the facility.  


He will die out there.


Sadly, I think she's capable of expediting the matter. Especially if she becomes a beneficiary of back pay.


I'm worried about him.


So I called his mom.


She's been down this road before and was disappointed, but not surprised. As wrong as the woman is, he's the one who's chosen to follow her. He's cut her out of his life three times now, only to let her back in. I don't think he realizes the extent of her manipulation but he does know he was doing better without her.


The worst part is that even he knows it isn't love.


It's just loneliness.


And that's the saddest part of all.


Saturday, August 22, 2015

How loud is your "happy"?

In We Bought a Zoo, the ever-adorable Maggie Elizabeth Jones as Rosie Mee talks about her "happy". It's that place of unabashed joy inside a person,  and it travels from your soul outward.


Little Rosie, hearing reveling neighbors one night declares "Their happy is too loud."


How loud is your "happy"?


While the movie references a secular type of happiness, pure joy comes from the Lord and can never be too loud.


"These things we write unto you, that your joy may be full." 1 John 1:4


Jesus wants us to have full joy, complete and unashamed. Anything less is robbery. We wouldn't allow a burglar to come in and take our possessions and then just shrug our shoulders. We'd take action. We'd call the police, press charges, give an inventory.


Yet we allow Satan to steal our joy and instead of fighting back, we slink off like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs.


The problem for most people is we don't even realize it sometimes.


Don't Know What You Got (Til It's Gone)...


I'm pretty sure Cinderella was singing about a woman in the 80's rock ballad but the sentiment applies to our joy as well.


I didn't even realize that my joy was no longer full. I should have. Little things started bothering me and I was taking things way too personally. I found myself getting more aggravated on the streets yet it wasn't their attitudes that had changed; it was mine.


I wasn't unhappy, though, so it was much harder to recognize. I still loved my life, my ministry, my home. I just had a small leak in my joy and it was seeping out.


Tires have Fix a Flat, but we have the Holy Spirit. And we have His Word. These are more powerful than anything you can find at Auto Zone. But like those cans of air, they do no good until we apply them.


I knew that my leak had stopped when I found myself humming again. I was grocery shopping alone the other day when I realized I was humming Angels We Have Heard on High. It's the middle of August so I don't know why a Christmas carol was in my heart.


Perhaps it was the phone call from my oldest, and perennially organized, daughter Callie. Having budgeted her Christmas shopping to begin in May, we'd recently discussed wish lists. Maybe she'd gotten me into a subconscious Christmas spirit.
The next day I walked into a crowded elevator humming I've Got That Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart. I got some strange looks. Maybe they thought my "happy" was too loud?
I realized at that moment that not only was my fullness of joy back, but that it had actually been gone and I never realized it.


Because when it's there, I always have a song in my heart. I hum walking across parking lots, in stores, while cleaning. I go to sleep humming a song and I wake up knowing my spirit was singing all night long.


Joy.


A right. A prized possession. A valuable commodity.


Don't let the devil rob you.  Hold on to it. If you've lost it, take it back.


Though the sorrow may last for a night, joy comes in the morning...


We aren't meant to stay in a place of mourning forever. Whatever the situation, the circumstance...we are made to get up and live.


I often hear, You just don't understand...


This comes from church members as well as people on the streets.


I do understand, though. I once said the same words when others tried to minister to me.


Back then, my joy hadn't just sprung a leak. The entire engine had fallen out, tie-rods busted, gasoline imploded...you get the picture.


There was no joy to be found. No distant ladder in the dark pits of despair.


Yet here I am today.


Proof positive that you CAN overcome and that your joy may once again be full.


You should expect nothing less for your life.



Thursday, August 20, 2015

Becoming an Advocate

I have discovered that there's one qualification for being a good advocate: having a big mouth.


That's it.


I found myself thrust into the role earlier today all by being my usual big-mouthed self.


The circumstances weren't unusual. I was at a local homeless coalition meeting where the Chief of Police was discussing recent reports regarding the local force's interactions with the homeless.


Having grown up with a Chief of Police father, I am predisposed to believe the officer's side over the homeless rumblings. After all, just yesterday I heard a homeless girl make the claim to her landlord that I'd ripped her utility check up when I had, in fact, paid it directly to the utility company myself.


But some of the rumors came from higher sources. Everyone had been talking about it for weeks. People were still whispering amongst themselves at the tables. But no-one said a word.


I waited a minute during the first few seconds of uncomfortable silence once the floor was opened for questions.


Then I stood.


I prefaced my questions with a tribute to my father, and also my son, now an officer himself. I have the utmost respect for law enforcement.


But there were questions and I wanted to get to the bottom of them.


I was somewhat satisfied with the answers, though it became obvious that there were some issues  higher up in the city's administration. At least now there's a public record denying some of the more troubling allegations.


What surprised me most was what happened after the meeting.


I was asked to attend a meeting in a nearby town to address the alleged mistreatment between the mayor and the homeless population.


I didn't know anything about the situation and said so.


Yes, but your expertise would be beneficial, I heard. More than once.


It took about two seconds to realize that expertise was the politically correct way to say big fat mouth.


I had a busy afternoon and I really didn't want to advocate for something I knew nothing about. Nonetheless I was flattered. I'd fallen in love with the idea of lobbying during my Poli-Sci class in college. Back then my expertise was limited to the most absorbent disposable diapers and least irritating laundry detergent for sensitive baby skin. So I was excited to be able to advocate for something a little less Redneck Woman and a little more We are the World.


I didn't know what to do. I headed toward my first post-meeting appointment and did what every southern girl is taught to do.


I called my mama.


Weighing out a list of pros and cons, I listed my main concern. I don't want to hinder my ministry by being an outspoken advocate. I don't want to be the one called in to raise cain when a town is under fire, an advocate more to advance my own name than the cause. We have a few people roaming around our country doing just that.


But I also couldn't understand why those who'd been so vocal before the meeting clammed up like sardines when they had the chance to speak. I can't be that person who leaves a place saying, I wish I'd said... I don't believe in beating around the bush. I don't believe in manipulation. I think you should say what you mean and mean what you say.


My mom gave her valuable advice. The clock left me with fewer options. I was still thirty miles away when the meeting began and I was a bit relieved. I may be outspoken but I don't like to speak on matters I know nothing about. Yes, I know about homelessness. But I know nothing about the situation in this town.


Therefore the best advice came not from my mom but from the Good Book. "But let your communication be, yea, yea; nay, nay; for whatsoever is more than that cometh of evil."        (Matthew 5:37)

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Summer Camps for Homeless Children

Kids are headed back to school for a new year of learning and most will endure the same assignment: an essay on What I Did This Summer.
Some teachers consider the paper outdated and tired, preferring either to jump right into curriculum or testing materials, or to assign something a little more abstract.
I, however, preferred this assignment. It not only gave me a tool gauge my new student's vocabulary and writing skills (no matter what grade I was teaching), but it provided me with valuable insight into the child's home life.
I knew who had "normal" childhood experiences and who didn't.
I didn't realize until after I retired and began a street ministry how subjective that was.
My "normal" isn't the standard by which to judge others' lives.  Especially children.
I know now that the childhood I took for granted contained many experiences that most children never have.
Like summer camps.
I went to many summer camps growing up. Day camps at the YWCA, the YMCA, Girl Scouts, Alexandria Zoo, Aquatic Club, St. Francis Cabrini, LSUA, Northwestern...there was no shortgage of week-long programs my parents paid for and shuttled me to.
But my favorites were the sleepaway camps.
Camp Singing Water where we had to take the St. Francisville ferry to get to the campgrounds. I was going to grow up and be a counselor there for the rest of my life.
Camp Maryhill. Whispering Pines.
Not to mention all the church camps and youth mission trips I went on.
Kids need those experiences away from home to make friends, grow and discover themselves, and just have fun.
Many kids never get the chance.
Especially homeless kids.
But Homes for the Homeless in New York set out to change that.


As appeared on AOL's webpage on July 29, 2015 (no author cited):


Summer camp is a common thing for kids to look forward to, but the 23,000 kids in New York City's homeless shelter system don't have the opportunity to count down to the days and nights of s'mores, camping out and hiking.

Homes for the Homeless -- a New York-based nonprofit -- is here to change that. The organization offers a free alternative for over 500 homeless children every summer, and since 1989, Homes for the Homeless has given homeless children the opportunity to experience summer camp.

Every summer, hundreds of homeless children -- ranging in age from 6 to 13 -- get together to experience the joy that is summer camp. The program is located in Harriman State park in upstate New York, and it includes three different 16-day sleep away sessions at Camps Lanowa and Wakonda. For many of the children, this is their first time traveling out of the city.

The children are split into bunks in cabins like they would be at any overnight summer camp, and they participate in a wide range of camp-like activities, from swimming to dancing and fishing.

The camp is free for children whose families are receiving public assistance, and children who currently live in shelters -- or have lived in shelters in the past year -- are given priority.


******************************************************************
There were 13 comments following the article so I read them with interest. Most of them were political discussions and attacks on the President for giving foreign aid while we had homeless children in our own country.
There was a time when I would've blindly agreed.
But the homeless kids I run into are in that situation because the parents have bigger problems than just not having a home. I placed a family in a home just last week, paid the rent and utility deposit, and took the mom shopping. Last Friday she shut the power off, got the utility deposit refund, left her kids with a neighbor and spent the week-end at a crack house.
We can't blame foreign aid allocations for that.
That isn't everyone; many parents and custodial grandparents just need a little help and they continue to provide for their families as best they can. Resources are more readily available when children are involved and everyone works to make sure the kids' basic needs are met.
Summer camp is not a basic need. It's a luxury.
That's what makes this program so special.
I'd love to see a program like this in every state next summer. We should take Homes for the Homeless' lead and create programs in our own states.
Every kid deserves at least one summer camp experience. 

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Slumlords

My first experience with apartment life came at the beginning of our "empty nest" years when we moved from Oklahoma to Mississippi.
Our home in Muskogee had not yet sold, our jobs in Jackson were about to begin, so we had no choice but to find a rental.
I had never lived in an apartment before but I had many friends growing up who did. The number one bonus to apartment life, I discovered, was the swimming pool. And then there were the stairs.
My best friend Margaret lived in a two-story apartment when we were kids. We played Fisher-Price people in that apartment for years. She always let me build my "house" on the stairs, preferring the ranch-style design for her house and the little round family members. Once, when we were about twelve, another friend came to visit unexpectedly. Terrified that we'd be ridiculed for playing with toddler toys on the brink of our teen years, we quickly threw them in the closet, grabbed some of her mom's nail polish and a couple of magazines, and threw open the door. Never mind that we were fanning unpolished nails and reading Architecture Today, at least we weren't caught playing.
My grandmother had stairs too. She has managed an apartment complex my entire life. I spent countless hours on those red carpeted stairs, playing with Barbies, writing stories and poetry, and entertaining casts of characters in my head.
My dad and I visited her in Kansas last spring. I was thrilled to see a late snow and spent three days singing "Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?" (The answer from everyone, shockingly, was always "No!")  But I was most dismayed to see a remodeled interior corridor.
"The stairs were red." I sounded like a petulant five-year old.
My grandmother missed the surly tone. "Yes, they finally got rid of that old nasty carpet a couple of years ago. It looks so much better."
I did the math in my head and realized that 40-year old carpet probably did need replacing, but I had a lot of memories on those red stairs.
By the time we moved to Jackson, though, we'd lived in a two-story home for a few years and I was known to call downstairs with requests from my upstairs bedroom to my husband and children's chagrin, so having stairs in an apartment wasn't a necessity any more.
The swimming pool was.
Our first apartment was amazing.
We moved into the downtown King Edward building. It had been remodeled and now housed a full-service Hilton Hotel on Floors 1-8.   Floors 9-12 were luxury apartments.
They were gorgeous.
Our apartment had granite countertops, cherry wood floors, and beautiful views. It was small with no room for guests, but our new loft furniture and carefully selected accessories conveyed uptown yuppie. I felt like I'd moved into a New York high-rise.
I stopped in the hotel's coffee shop for a lemon-blueberry muffin every morning and a cream cheese bagel every afternoon.
I worked the calories off in the rooftop pool.
Sounds perfect. And it was. For a season.
After six months, the novelty wore off.
I loved being able to completely clean the apartment in less than an hour, but nothing was ever out of place. After twenty years of kids upending any cleaning I'd do, my apartment seemed a little devoid of life.
The views from my window were the closest I'd get to the outside once I got home from work. Downtown Jackson wasn't the safest environment and despite the recent push for downtown revitalization, there wasn't much to do even if we did venture out after dark.
On the evenings I came home after dark, the walk from the parking garage to the residential elevator was eerily reminiscent of many an episode of NCIS. I held my keys the way I'd been taught in a self-defense class my parents sent me to as a new driver.
My husband was working completely different hours from me and my life became about books, television, and fluffing pillows.
I needed more.
We made the decision to move to another set of apartments the following spring. The ventilation system needed work: the barking from neighbors' dogs came through the vents at all hours of the day and night, and despite the no-smoking policy, cigarette smoke would waft into our bedroom constantly. They were gracious and allowed us to break our lease without penalty.
My husband's son found us a new apartment.
For us, it was perfect. A downstairs unit, two bedrooms, an outside porch, and a huge swimming pool and hot tub less than fifty steps from our front door.
I'm sure it was a mere coincidence that it put Grandpa and Gigi less than a mile from his home.
We loved it!
The model apartment was more like an editorial spread than our actual apartment turned out to be, but it was still very nice. And roomy. The three grandkids came over often and once again my home had life.
We had Super Bowl parties, Miss America parties, game nights, birthday parties, and a few long-term guests. We knew a few of our neighbors, though mostly just in passing.
Any maintenance problems we had were immediately addressed.
In retrospect, the cabinet carpentry that lacked precision and the carpet that needed repair were minor details. As were the pet excrements on the lawn.
Because what I'm seeing now makes me yearn for such simple matters.


I have to conduct walk-throughs in apartments often. It's part of the homeless rehousing program and one of my least favorite aspects of the job. Because the clients must find an apartment in which they can sustain rent costs after the initial fees are paid, they must find lower-end places.
Some are beyond what I'd call low-end.
I put Kai in an apartment a week ago. Doing a walk-through is a bit like test-driving a new car. Some things don't show up right away. So after I'd signed off on the property, he moved in.
Or attempted to.
The stove shorted out.
The kitchen sink leaks all over the floor.
The a/c went out.
Repeated calls to the landlords resulted in empty promises.
Visits weren't much better.
Once I was able to have a conversation over the cursing and yelling of one man, the catcalls of another, and the incessant barking of two dogs who seemed to belong to no-one and had no leashes, I was at least able to negotiate a credit of one week on next month's rent.
But that's only because I have the backing of the federal government.
Anyone else would've been out of luck.
I don't understand how a landlord can be okay with this.
Or how they get away with it.

Monday, August 17, 2015

Rainy Days and Mondays

The Carpenters lamented how "rainy days and Mondays always get me down" on their hit single, but I am having a rainy Monday and LOVING it.
My dogs are snoozing peacefully on their freshly laundered blanket; my house smells of Lemon Pledge; and a biography of perennial television guest star Fred Stoller awaits on my nightstand.
This is a perfect day to gather my favorite blanket, my sweet puppies, and my highly entertaining library book and read the afternoon away in bed while the rain pours outside my window.
There was a time I'd feel guilty doing this.
How can I lay around while others are hungry? Shouldn't I be outside getting wet if others are too? The weather shouldn't stop me from commitments.
The latter is true.
I've never let the weather stop me. We've done street feedings in 27 degree weather. I've delivered important mail in hurricane-force winds. I've counseled outside with heat indexes of 110.
But I also learned to take care of myself.
Early on, I nearly burned myself out. I'd go eighteen-hour days, 7 days a week. I'd run all over town, driving people to appointments and stores, and bringing food. I'd start cooking on Friday night so that I could serve a big Sunday meal after church for fifty or so people.
Because we only had my seven-passenger van, I'd make three trips to pick people up for services on Sunday mornings. I spent seven hours on the road on my "day of rest."
It got to be too much.
I had no idea where to cut back. Whose needs lacked priority?
Soon enough, the answers were clear.
Most people were eligible for free transportation to doctor's appointments through Medicaid; they just preferred my chauffeur services. That was cut.
Some people started hiding their alcohol purchases under their coats when I'd make store runs. That was an easy cut.
As I started to realize I was enabling more than assisting in many ways, it became easier to determine what to let go of.
As I started having more time to spend on my marriage, the church, and most importantly, my time alone with God, I found that I became more productive and Spirit-led.
Sundays were a much harder decision.
We'd been praying for a church van so that I only had to make one trip, but it hadn't materialized. I began to wonder if God was closing that door. The one Sunday meal was taking almost 75% of my weekly grocery budget. We'd try to save leftovers for the week but people would load up their plates for their own leftovers. At least I had jars of peanut butter and sandwich meat, I'd think. It was a dilemma and one I prayed about for weeks.
We made a decision to stop providing transportation temporarily. That first week was strange.
I was used to the chaos in my van on Sunday mornings. It reminded me of my kids. I wandered around the church aimlessly before services.
We had McDonald's for lunch. Alone.
That was a little sad.
But then I realized that I was spending so much time on everything but worshipping the Lord on Sundays.
So the hiatus continued.
We are now looking for a building closer to the homeless camps to hold a mid-week service and do our feedings from a centralized location.
In the meantime, I am out and about all week long.
Except for rainy days that fall on a Monday.
Those are for me.

Dominoes and Disney Duets

I've found myself more at home in some of the homeless camps than most places I've ever been. There's a sense of freedom out on the streets and it's easy to see the draw.




It is an illusion, however, and I won't glamorize it. Everyone out there struggles at some point, especially in extreme temperatures.


But every now and then we actually have fun.


I learned early on that Mema's domino rules aren't exactly the same as prison rules. But the game is the same and hours on end in a jail cell or homeless camp does not give one the advantage over a very competitive girl who grew up playing the game at the kitchen table of her grandparents' home for summers on end.


I can still glance at the board and tell you what's in the draw pile in about three seconds.


Sitting around, trash-talking a mean game of dominoes is fun, but my favorite homeless camp pastime is Disney Duets.


Until my son graduated and went off to Marine basic training, it was his job to do three things: take out the trash, cut the grass, and sing the male parts of every soundtrack we owned.


Despite the fact that he was tone-deaf, he sang Danny to my Sandy, Will to my Laurie, Aladdin to my Jasmine, and Beast to my Belle.


After years of making my little sister "be the boy" or performing sisters-only songs like "Let Me Entertain You" and "If Momma Was Married," I was thrilled to have a boy to sing my beloved duets with.


Then  he left home.


And I was back to singing alone.


"There are Worse Things I Could Do" (Grease), "Something Good" (The Sound of Music), "Maybe" (Annie), and "'Madame Gaston"/ "That Belle (reprise)" (Beauty and the Beast) were a few of my favorites.


But then Frozen captivated the nation.


And I didn't have a sister or a son to sing with.


But I did have a hot commodity: the front seat of my van.


Any time we went somewhere, there was the usual clamor over who got to sit in the front. I remembered this well from my child-rearing days, the word "Shotgun!" leaving their lips an hour before we left home.


So I made a rule: You sit in the front; you have to sing Disney with me.


Many retreated to the far back seats. But some remained front and center.


I sang with Sven on "Love is an Open Door" and Elsa on "For the First Time in Forever." In true diva form, I vacillate between Elsa and Anna depending on whose part is most prominent in the song.


I taught everyone the lyrics to "A Whole New World" (Aladdin) and "Be Our Guest" (Beauty and the Beast). We had rousing group performances of "Let It Go," the Disney anthem of summer.


I pulled up one day to give someone a ride to a doctor's appointment and was greeted by a newcomer to one of the bigger homeless camps.


"Hey, are you doing karaoke today? I love karaoke. Can we? Can we? Can we?"


It was as if I were teaching elementary school again and looking at an eager eight-year old student instead of a forty-year-old homeless man.


But, that's okay. We all need a dose of that healthy innocence in our lives.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Right Place, Right Time



If you want to minister to others but don't know where to start, just ask the Lord to provide opportunities and keep your eyes and ears open.


Over the years, I've picked up several people walking down the road, some becoming lifelong friends and others I've been able to lead to Christ.


More recently, I've been in some extreme circumstances just by being in the right place at the right time. Here are three:


Layla Snow


I'd stopped at the local Piggly Wiggly one day when I noticed the commotion between a local off-duty officer and a young female driver in the parking lot. She was under the influence of some pretty strong sedatives and could barely speak. He had taken her keys and would not let her drive home. She couldn't find anyone to pick her up and he didn't have many options left but to call and have a patrol car pick her up. Since she wasn't driving at the time he found her, he didn't want to have her arrested but she was obviously in no condition to drive.


After showing the officer my clergy card, I offered to give her a ride home. He agreed and she got in my car, thanking me profusely. The minute I started the car, she fell sound asleep. I drove around for thirty minutes, trying unsuccessfully to wake her up enough to get an address. It wasn't until her phone started ringing incessantly that I decided to open her purse to see if the caller could give me an home address. I didn't reach the caller in time but I did find an ID with her name and address. I was able to get a little more response by calling her by name, and within five minutes we'd arrived at her home.


I was unsure if the gentleman who greeted me was her boyfriend, husband, or brother. He seemed perplexed, which confused me because I was certain this wasn't the first time she'd arrived home in this state. I offered encouragement, support, and my phone number. I explained that once upon a time that was me and I was living proof that there is hope for Layla.  It seemed my words fell on deaf ears.


I later found out that Layla was a "frequent flyer" (term used by police for those arrested and/or jailed often). I haven't seen her since but I have continued to pray for her, hoping that my limited interaction with her planted a seed of hope for her and her family.


Zoey Black


Zoey's story is probably the most bizarre one I've ever shared. We were pulling up to a red light when we saw the little white car approach the light on our left. It sputtered and stalled, and this extremely skeletal young woman with very few clothes on got out of the driver's seat with a tiny screwdriver in hand.


She then crawled under her car and it was obvious that she was under the influence of something. The car then started moving, running her over as she lay on the concrete.


I jumped out of my car and ran to her. Another lady reached her at the same time. As the men stood back, calling for help and controlling the traffic, we tried to comfort her and pray. 


When it became questionable whether or not she would make it, I immediately began a prayer of salvation. The lady next to me was a Christian and provided the Amen chorus in the background. As Zoey began repeating a basic Sinner's Prayer, calling on the Lord to save her, something dark and sinister took over and began screaming at me. I was unwilling to stop, knowing the works of the devil are powerless in the presence of the Holy Spirit.


My compadre wasn't so confident.


"Stop! Stop!" she yelled. "Shhh!" she comforted the beast within our victim. "It's okay. Just rest."


Later I thought of how I should've handled that, how I should've insisted on continuing. But at the time, all I could think was that if the Christian next to me didn't understand deliverance, how could I expect the other bystanders to as well?


Surprisingly enough, when we got to the hospital the next day to visit Zoey, she'd been discharged.


Again, all I could do was pray that I planted a seed and that the Lord would send someone else to her to complete her prayer of salvation.


Jack Grayson


Jack’s tale is one I don’t share often. Many people don’t believe spiritual warfare exists or they don’t want to acknowledge its presence in today’s society. My experience with Jack leaves little doubt.


We were visiting a church member in the E.R. She’d sprained her ankle in the E.R. and we were in the waiting room waiting for her to return from the X-Ray lab when Jack came barreling through, two uniformed guards and three nurses quickly following behind.


“I’m an angel. I’m Michael, the archangel,” he proclaimed loudly.


I looked at my husband.


“Leave it alone,” he warned. He knew the look in my eyes.


“He’s just a baby,” I protested. It was true. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.


Just then, they called us back to our friend’s room. I reluctantly left the waiting room and tried to make small talk, my mind still on the young man and his need for prayer.


Finally, when I could stand it no more, I returned to the waiting to check on him.


“How’s the angel boy?” I asked the triage nurse, knowing HIPAA laws prohibited her from actually tell me anything.


“He’s okay,” I heard a timid voice respond from the corner of the waiting room.


I walked over and introduced myself to the voice. She was Jack’s grandmother and things were far from okay. She pleaded with me to go pray with him.


I walked into the examination room with full armor on.


“You think losing your daughter was hard; you’ve never dealt with anything like me before.”


I know the shock was evident on my face, though I tried to act as if the words hadn’t affected me at all. (Weeks later, when separately the officer and the grandmother learned that I had indeed lost a child, they were equally dumbfounded.)


I stood my ground. I talked, I prayed, I commanded.


Every time we started to make progress, he would get so loud that nurses would come running.


Though I had resolved after Zoey not to let thrashing, hysterical spirits interfere with deliverance again, I had no choice but to halt the session when the nurses came rushing in the room with a sedative.


Fortunately, in this case, Jack’s grandmother stayed in touch with us and we were able to finish counseling with him once he went home. Through it all, his entire family was saved and set free from three generations of mental illness and abuse.


 


As incredible as these three experiences were, none will EVER compare to the stranger my oldest daughter Callie and I picked up fifteen years ago.


We were driving home from the grocery store when she noticed a man sitting in the ditch.


“Mom, stop! I think that man is blind.”


I saw the filthy man sitting in the ditch with a wooden cane and big sunglasses.


As with anyone I picked up, I had to quickly assess the situation. My daughter was only ten; I couldn’t put her in any danger.


“I’m not sure,” I hesitated, as I slowly drove past.


“Mom, you gotta help him,” she insisted.


I turned around in the parking lot of the convenience store and drove back.


“Do you need a ride?” I asked, as I jumped out of the van to help him up.


“Thank you,” he replied, as he climbed into my vehicle.


Callie later told me that she grabbed my cell phone and had 9-1-1 pushed on the keypad with her finger hovering over the SEND button the entire time, just in case.


I wasn’t worried about being in danger. I was too busy thinking about how dirty he was and how I’d just cleaned my van. Soon those concerns were forgotten.


“Can I take you to the Salvation Army?” I asked. What would I do if he didn’t have a destination?


“No, just bring me to Willow Glen.” The apartments he named were less than a half-mile away. I thought it was odd that he was going somewhere so close, but also relieved.


He began asking me questions.


“Do you believe in God?” Absolutely.


“Are you a Christian?” I sure am.


“Some people say I look like Jesus. What do you think?” Well, they say Jesus was a nondescript man; you couldn’t pick him out in a crowd. So, sure. You could.


He seemed so pleased with my answers.


By the time we reached the apartments, I was a little concerned for the man.


“Are you sure you’re going to be okay? Can I bring you somewhere else?”


He assured me he was fine, and that we’d reached his destination. He turned to face both me and my daughter and for the first time, he removed his sunglasses. The brightest light I’d ever seen filled the entire van and the bluest eyes thanked us before getting out, leaving us trembling in our seats.


“I think that was an…an…angel,” one of us said. I’m still not sure which one of us uttered those words.


We only made it a quarter-mile down the road before we turned around and went back to the apartments to discover what we already knew. He’d vanished.


We talked about it over the years, knowing we’d experienced something special, but not realizing just how special until ten years later.


I’d picked up Todd Burpo’s book “Heaven is for Real” at the bookstore and was enjoying reading his young son Colton’s account of going to Heaven in the midst of a near-death experience. If there was any skepticism at all, it disappeared when Colton’s parents found a portrait a young Lithuanian girl named Akiane Kramarik painted of Jesus.


“That’s him,” Colton told his parents. They’d shown him hundreds of pictures of Jesus by this time. None had come close.


When I saw the picture, I nearly dropped the book.


“That’s him,” I whispered in disbelief. It was the man from the van years earlier.


Callie was in college at the time but came over for dinner later that week.


“Look,” I insisted, shoving the book at her as she walked through the door. I didn’t say anything else. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. I purposefully hadn’t told her about the book. I wanted to see her untainted reaction. It had been ten years. Maybe I was overreacting.


Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “That’s the man from the van.”   


I couldn’t believe it. Jesus was in my car. And He’d been pleased with me.


It just doesn’t get any better than that.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

There's Your Sign


“There’s your sign!”

In the South, that’s slang for “You’re stupid!” basically.

You’re in the park flying a kite when a man walks up and asks if you’re flying a kite. There’s your sign.

You run over the garden hose with the lawnmower. Twice. “There’s your sign!” (Though my little sister “accidentally” did this two weeks in a row before Dad punished her by no longer being allowed to use the mower.  Not so dumb, actually.)

You spend an hour curling your hair before looking out the window to see the rainstorm. Sign.

Urban dictionary attributes the phrase to Comedian Bill Engvall in the late 90’s:

“I went up to the ticket counter in the airport and told the lady she lost my luggage. She looked straight at me and said, ‘Has your plane arrived yet?’ There’s your sign.”

This jovial barb is often used with friends and family and is a way of making light of our mistakes and slap-your-forehead moments. I’ve probably said it to my sister 793 times.

It’s not her fault. I’ve always thought if Mom had gone to the hospital when she first went into labor instead of waiting until the end of that episode of The Waltons, my sister would’ve had a better start in life.

Thankfully the VCRs that came later protected newborns from having to wait for Goodnight, John Boy before they could enter the world.

There’s your sign!

All joking aside, signs are a big part of my ministry. Most of the homeless have  signs.

I have one too.

Actually, I have two and they are on the side of my van.

Shortly after we began going out to feed the homeless, I got a pair of magnetic signs to put on my van. I hadn’t given it a lot of thought,  just decided it would be nice.

The impact of the signs has been greater than I could’ve possibly imagined.

First, it lends some protection and safety for me and those I’m ministering to. If I offer someone a ride, the signs on the van convey ministry, not serial killer. And I stopped getting approached at intersections with little baggies as I traveled through rough neighborhoods. Now the dealers either wave or ignore me. I pray for them too.

Second, my van has become something of a rolling confessional. Complete strangers will come up to me in store parking lots and tell me their stories and ask for prayer. The signs have our motto Serving Christ by Serving Others along with our phone number.   We’ve been asked for directions, rides, money, food, prayer, and advice.  All because of the signs.

Perhaps the most important part of the signs, though, is the accountability. When people see MINISTRY on the side of my vehicle, they should see compassion. When they see Serving Christ by Serving Others, they should see Jesus.

They should not see someone laying on the horn and yelling because they were cut off in traffic.

Or yelling at the drive-through cashier because the plain cheeseburger had pickles on it.

On most days, this is hardly a struggle. I’ve overcome too much to get upset because someone took the parking spot I was waiting on.

I knew things had changed the day my husband and I came out of Wal-Mart and we were nearly hit by a car in the crosswalk. The couple next to us started yelling and cursing at the driver before I realized that I was on a completely different train of thought.

I was wondering what type of car ran so smoothly that you couldn’t hear it approach and what a difference that was from my hear-it-a-mile-away van.

I call that peace.

It’s not a given.

Nor do I have it 24/7.

So on those days that my peace is hard to find, I remember the signs.

They remind me that I’m representing Christ.

Many store owners and wait staff tell us that Christians are the worst customers of all.

Why is that? And what can I do about it?

For starters, I can make sure that the signs on the outside of my car reflect the person within.

In all circumstances.

Thursday, August 13, 2015

Statistics

The problem with statistics is that they really don't mean a thing.


Kind of like the math you learn in high school. Pointless. (Though I will admit to using algebra to figure out a formula for a friend's business last week.)


But mostly they're just numbers.


25%. 85%. 9 out of 10.


Most people like numbers because they're definitive.


But statistics are subjective.


9 out of 10 dentists recommend Crest. Okay, great. But was that outside a dental convention where the Colgate rep had put them to sleep with a five-hour lecture on flossing?


Statistical data is based on a number of factors, including the representative sampling being influenced by factors which often skew results.


Namely, my unofficial comprised data on homelessness.


At this point some consider me an "expert" in this field. Agencies have sent new program directors out with me to find new homeless clients and workers often call when they are reluctant to go into camps alone.


Even my dad told me he saw one of my "people" today. I wasn't sure what he meant. Old running buddies? Blondes? Ex-boyfriends? I asked him to clarify.


"Someone in a car with floor to ceiling bags."


Ohhh...a homeless person.


Strains of Rodney Atkins' "These are My People" lyrics played in my head....


These are my people, this is where I come from
We're givin' this life everything we got and then some
It ain't always pretty, but it's real
It's the way we were made, wouldn't have it any other way
These are my people
We fall down, and we get up
We walk proud, and we talk tough
We got heart, and we got nerve
Even if we are a bit disturbed

Yeah...I'll take that, Dad. They are my people!

But herein lies the problem. My experiences with homelessness are in one small area of the country. So for me to surmise that since 95% of the homeless I help are addicts the biggest problem our country is facing is not homelessness but addiction, I'm using statistics in a very subjective manner.

It's the old "Bob likes green. Broccoli is green. Therefore, Bob likes broccoli."

It's faulty reasoning at best.

So is my data a representative sampling? Or is it extremely unusual?

I was asked this question today. The director of the homeless coalition asked me if it seemed like addiction was at the crux of homelessness in my area. She has worked with homelessness on a national level and has never seen so many people housed temporarily only to return to the streets as in my area. She said it was not indicative of the true portrait of homelessness.

I told her I'd wondered the same thing. Was I giving people the wrong idea? Was I being unfair to those who weren't playing the charity card?

Or do I see behind the masks in a way many executives do not?

I truly don't know.

What I do know is that statistics don't mean a thing.

On Thanksgiving Day, 1993, my daughter Kacey Lauren was born. 6 lbs. 1 oz. and 18 inches long. Blonde peach fuzz hair and blue skin. She had a congenital heart defect. TAPVR. I can no longer tell you what those letters stood for but they meant her blood wasn't getting oxygenated and moving through her system.

An easy fix, the doctors said. 85% chance of survival.

We buried her on January 10, 1994.

The baby in the PICU bed next to her at Oschner's had only a 5% chance of survival.

She lived.

I hated statistics for years.

Now I know that they aren't scientific. They're just educated guesses based on data that is most likely skewed in some way.

The only cold, hard numerical data I can give is this: 100% of homeless people need hope.

And if that's all I can provide some days, it's enough.

Fired Up About Food Stamps

Ministry without compassion is like faith without works...dead.


So I really have to keep myself in check sometimes.


A lot of the time.


Especially when it comes to food stamps.


Nothing gets me fired up more than EBT cards.


Don't get me wrong, I'm okay with the Supplemental Nutritional Assistance Program (SNAP). I think it's a great program and I don't mind that taxpayer dollars fund meals for those in need. Especially children.


What causes me to see red is when the yellow cards are traded for green paper.


Homeless people know the buzz words. "Will work for food." "Hungry. Please help."


They know the Bible. "Didn't Jesus say you are supposed to feed a man that's hungry?"


So they call on churches and individuals to help when they need food.


And most do.


But what many don't realize is that 95% of the homeless population get food stamps. In Mississippi, it is $202 a month for one person; $357 for two.


And the vast majority of those sell the stamps for cash.


Some have long-standing arrangements. People will pay them one-half to the full value on the card each month and keep the EBT card in their possession. Others will go with someone to the store, using the card and getting cash afterwards. Some flat out trade the cards for dope, then call and report the card stolen the next day.


It's a huge racket and one that infuriates me.


I've seen food stamps traded for bus tickets and court fines. For cigarettes. For extra minutes on the also-free government phones.


Then I get the calls that they are starving because they have no food.


Sometimes it makes me want to pick up my toys and go home.


There are fines and penalties for those who sell the cards as well as those who purchase them. But who's checking? What kind of taxpayer money should we use to enforce this? It's just more money diverted from real needs.


All we can do is provide those in need with the resources available.


What they do with them is up to them.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

End of Life

My husband Dale preached at a home for senior citizens today. It was a lovely mid-week service, beginning with a sing-along of hymns led by the pianist, an elderly client who'd accompanied her former church for years.


The message was on despondency, and a quick glance around the room confirmed the need for the day's sermon.


These were forgotten loved ones, left to care for themselves after decades of taking care of others. Former teachers who'd once educated city leaders, store owners who'd lent a hand in times of economic crisis, and parents who'd bandaged skinned knees of children and grandchildren.


Alone.


They came from all walks of life. Some had adjusted better than others, making the home their campus and settling into the traditional popularity roles like Class Clown and Most Likely to Share Peas with a Newcomer.


Others had trouble finding the strength to make eye contact.


I tried to assimilate my knowledge of life on the streets with life in a senior citizen home.


Similarities: 1) Many felt hopeless. 2) Individual personalities shone through the circumstances. 3) Most did not have families around. 4) They had nowhere else to go.


Differences: 1) They were in a safe place with hot meals and baths. 2) Many came from homes and had never experienced life without shelter. 3) They knew they were nearing the end of life and the urgency of salvation was at hand.


A gift the Lord gave me a couple of years ago was to feel what the other person was feeling.


The first time I realized I had this gift was at my Aunt Mae's funeral. She was my maternal grandmother's sister and the only relative I had that lived in my hometown.


At the funeral I sat next to her sister, my Aunt Pauline, the only surviving sibling in a family of eight kids. The Stephenson women were strong so it was no surprise that my 90-year-old aunt was the picture of stoicism.


As the service began, I put my arm around her and nearly fell to my knees. It took me a moment before I realized that I was not having a heart attack but was feeling the emotions inside of my aunt. I nearly fell apart at her grief, and had a hard time processing the enormity of it all.


I didn't ask the Lord to take the gift back.


I'm not sure if I've learned to handle this gift better or if I have not encountered such depths of despair since then but I have not had the wind knocked out of me since.


Today came close.


I wanted to just sit and hug everyone in the room, to tell them their lives mattered, and that someone cared.


I wanted to sneak off into the office and call every family member in the Rolodex, berating them for not taking care of the ones who'd taken care of them.


I wanted to call my own children and make sure that it wouldn't be sitting there one  day.


I wanted to be able to sort out all the emotions warring within me.


In the end, I did the same thing I have to do on the streets.


Leave it to the Lord.


But I added a few more names to my prayer list.