For DOG Lovers and GOD Lovers Alike

I continue to learn spiritual lessons from my dogs.


Well, to be more accurate, the Lord teaches me lessons through my dogs.


Which is surprising because I never was much of a pet person.


Until I got my dogs.


Two-legged or four, if you have a strong maternal instinct, you become Mommy to anyone dependent on you. For this empty-nester, it filled a void that had been there since my youngest flew the nest.


We didn't intend on having three. In fact, I didn't intend on even having one. But my husband had pleaded, cajoled, and begged for years until I finally gave in.


We'd just moved into a small parsonage with a huge yard.  I was joining him in full-time ministry and our lives had changed drastically. He thought the timing was perfect. I wasn't so sure.


We visited our little poodle puppy every day from the moment she was born. Actually, we visited her brother. But, being a softie for the underdog, I wanted the runt. The one who seemed to need us more.


For six weeks I prepared to be a dog mom. I still wasn't feeling it but I was starting to come around.


The day before we were supposed to get her we were doing a fish fry benefit at a community center. Next to the center a woman had set up with a box of puppies she was trying to find a home for. Wanting to prepare myself for my new puppy, I played with the one remaining dog in the litter. The runt no-one wanted. He was adorable.


I brought my husband over to look at him.


"Go ahead and get him if you want. Two won't be harder than one," he declared.


A miniature schnauzer, she told us.  A little boy dog to go with our little girl. I barely hesitated before I picked him up.


Buddy, I declared. He's my little Buddy!


The homeless guys who'd gone with us to help with the benefit trailed behind me as we scoured the pet aisles in the nearest store for essentials for my new baby.


We made the decision to pick Princess up that evening instead of the next day so that they could adjust to a new home together.


It worked. There was very little whimpering.


After church the next day, everyone sat around playing with the puppies when one of the homeless men said, "Uh..you might want to rename your dog...this is not a boy!" (I'd not bothered to check; I took the lady at her word. She'd said he was a boy. She also said he was a miniature schnauzer. Wrong on both counts!)


Nonetheless, less than 24 hours later, I was experiencing a flood of hormones as if I'd given birth to these puppies myself. I'd become their mother and that protective instinct kicked in.


I never realized one could feel so strongly about their pets.


I finally understood that connection.


But, as was the case with my other children, as they grew, the whole family experienced growing pains.


Princess and Anabelle (formerly Buddy) refused to be house-trained. In fact, somehow they became trained backwards. They'd run outside for hours, then come in and use the bathroom. They'd chew up training mats and newspapers. They ate my furniture. They took over my bed.


It was frustrating but we loved them.


So we cleaned up after them and waited for the day they'd grow out of their chewing phase.


Then I went to visit my parents.


And the phone call came.


"Tell your husband that the puppy is weaned and he can come pick her up today," the voice on the other end boomed.


Um, what?!


I wasn't clueless; I knew what he was talking about.


In fact, I remembered the conversation well. It had ended with "No, you absolutely cannot have another dog."


I was livid as I called him. "Um, Don said you can come get your dog today," was my accusatory greeting.


He fumbled around for a response before once again telling me that this was a pure-bred Chihuahua who'd normally cost hundreds of dollars that he was getting for free. I reminded him of our tight living quarters and the impracticality of yet another dog.


He insisted on bringing the dog home for a few days to play with our grandson who was visiting and assured me that he'd bring the dog back as soon as our grandson left.


I knew at that moment that we had a new dog.


No way could I spend a week with her and send her back.


This is the very reason I have a hard time taking in foster kids. I bond quickly and deeply.




Isabella made us a family of five.


I will admit that my husband was right when he'd argued that she wouldn't be any trouble. Apart from some initial jealousy with the older two, she fit right in.


Nearly a year old and still only five pounds, self-trained Izzy is probably the dog we should've started with.


Instead I started with two chewing, shedding, mischievous (non-miniature) dogs with a penchant for darting out of the house and into the nearest mud hole the minute someone opened a door.


The day they learned to jump on the furniture was the day I lost control of my house.


Nighttime was no respite as they sprawled out in the middle of the bed, leaving us clinging to the outer edges.


The worst of it all was the smell.


Twice weekly, burn your lungs chemically, complete house bleaching did little to alleviate the odor.


Twice daily sweeping couldn't remove the fine layer of pet hair that had settled on everything, including kitchen cabinets.


It was never-ending and I was getting disgusted.
We'd stopped hosting meals after church.
We'd stopped eating our own meals at home.


We talked for months about the problem. We just couldn't find a solution.


If we found new homes for them, I'd be throwing away my babies. This brought up so many issues of inadequacy as a parent that I bawled for days just thinking about it.
If we separated them, they'd lose a part of themselves. They were twins from different litters.
If we sent them outside, they'd be traumatized. They were inside dogs, conditioned to a warm bed and comfortable temperatures.
So we did nothing.


And the problem got much worse.


Not just a little bad, but of a whole other magnitude.


I hated coming home.
My husband began to feel neglected. The more unhappy he was about me spending hours away from home, the less I wanted to be around him as well.
It turned into a vicious cycle.
It was no longer about the dogs.


The problem grew until we found ourselves at odds about everything. Our marriage, our ministry, our future. Quite frankly, I wasn't sure what was going to happen.


The dogs were still an issue, but we were dealing with so much other stuff that we'd accepted our pet problems as a part of life.


Committing to communicating better for the sake of the church and the ministry, we went back to square one.


He didn't like that I was gone all day and then when I came home, I'd lay on the bed reading. I didn't like that the bed was the only place I could go not covered with pet blankets and dog hair. I hated the smell when I came in and it was hard to feel romantic with doggie doo permeating your nasal membranes so I'd quickly tune out.


We both agreed that it was wrong for us to have let dogs overtake a building owned by the church. We used to host three-four meals a week at our house and now we didn't even want company inside.


There were no other options: the older two had to go outside.


They didn't mind; they loved it out there.


But then nighttime came.


They whined. They scratched on the door. They cried.


I cried too.


They were confused but we spent time outdoors with them. We bought a new doghouse. We bought heat lamps. We move them to the fenced in portion of the yard only when necessary now; ironically, they trained faster in three days outside than they did in a year inside.


It has been an adjustment for all of us, Isabella included. But, as with most cases of hindsight, I had not realized how much of our problems had been caused by the dogs.


With the house back in order, we once again have company over and have enjoyed nice candlelight dinners in our sweet-smelling home. I sit on the couch and read while he works on his sermons or we do crossword puzzles together like we did when we were first married.


I enjoy being home. Most of all, I have JOY.


Before you think this is a missive advocating putting your dogs outdoors, let me be clear. It is not about that at all.


Isabella is still indoors and I couldn't imagine life without her underfoot.


It is about KNOWING there is a problem in your life (for us, the two older dogs being inside) and refusing to do anything about it because it's too hard. They might get hurt. We don't want to hurt. Instead, we turned a blind eye to the problem and watched it escalate to the point where it could've  destroyed an entire community.


Keep ignoring the sin in your life and it will grow. Like a leaky pen in your pocket, the problem will continue to spread.


Whether it's a stronghold in your own life, or you condoning the sins of someone else because you "love them too much to hurt them," you are only throwing a Band-Aid on a gaping gash.


Don't wait too late. Sometimes we just have to do what's right, no matter how much it hurts, and trust in the Lord to take care of it.

Thanksgiving on the Streets

Another holiday has come and gone, and for many on the streets it was just a reminder that life, with its twists and turns, had taken them down a road they'd never planned on traveling.


I know there are many men and women out there who will tell you they are right where they want to be. No drama, no rules, no hassle....


But in all of my years of teaching, I never had one student write an essay detailing aspirations of being a homeless person when they grew up.


It just wasn't in the plan, regardless of what they say now.


That is never more evident than on a holiday.


My husband and I decided that we were going to cook and bring plates out this year. We'd taken leftover plates out last year and realized the need for spiritual food as well.


We decided to wait until mid-afternoon since there were a few organizations feeding a noonday lunch.


There weren't as many people roaming by then, but we found a few and shared plates of turkey, dressing, and homemade fudge. We shared encouragement and prayed with them, hoping to be "family" to those without any.


We brought the remaining plates to local stores whose employees missed their own family meals.


We came home and enjoyed our own Thanksgiving meal by candlelight, my reward for cooking and serving others first.


On Friday morning we took out bags of turkey sandwiches, drinks, and more fudge.


We saw many still teeming with the hurt and agony that accompanies a holiday.


Family is first on their minds, and their lips, detailing numbers of kids and grandkids, or sharing childhood stories as if it were yesterday.


There's no place like home for the holidays, and for those without a home, the pain of having lost their families is more than they can bear.

Project Homeless Connect

Last Friday we participated in a program called Project Homeless Connect in a neighboring county.

In its thirteenth year, this event brings together organizations around the coast to provide free goods and services for the homeless population.

There were free haircuts, clothes, shoes, tents, blankets, and food. Veterinarians were on hand for pet shots and grooming. Housing organizations and social services workers helped men and women explore options.

It was a one-stop shop for the homeless.

Bused in or arriving on foot, these recipients had free rein on anything they needed. Carrying it all was a problem though, and despite the provided bags there was more available than people could carry.

One guy solved the problem beautifully. He had a king-sized pillowcase. Durable and roomy, it held several treats.

I immediately sought out the Event Coordinator to share the idea. We're already organizing a pillowcase drive for next year.

Our organization made SOCKS OF LOVE. An idea from my childhood church sent to me by my mom, these socks were a big hit.

Long tube socks stuffed with a water bottle and the matching sock, they were then filled with crackers, granola bars, mini soaps and shampoos, and candy. Tied with bright red strings these socks had gospel tracts and kid-decorated cards dangling from the top.

It was a joy to hand out and I look forward to hosting the inaugural event in our county in April.

The Baseball Bat

That baseball bat came into play again.

You know the one. It's been the subject of multiple posts.

Nonchalantly dropped when I appeared unannounced in Tent City one day. Used on multiple women in violent sex-for-drugs altercations. Wielded to ascertain power of younger men on the streets.

Same bat. Same wielder.

Until last night.

I'd been responsible for getting Ronnie and Susan out of the woods and into an apartment. I was completely blindsided when the tales of abuse came in a few weeks later. How did I miss that?

Ronnie sat in church services every Sunday for months. He was the only one who didn't drink or do drugs. I thought he was the victim of circumstances. His family stole his check. His son was dealing drugs out of his house. For someone who catches on pretty quick, I missed that one big time.

Once the truth came out, in broken pieces from a variety of sources, I realized the magnitude of his control. Not only did he control them with physical violence, he was buying the drugs to keep the girls there. Or to woo them back after they'd left broken and bruised.

Susan had enough.

Thriving in a domestic violence shelter, she's finding herself again.

Frances, however, went back.

I'm not surprised though I am disappointed. She's gone to the hospital three times at his hands since I've known her. Jail twice for charges he filed on her.

She assured me she would never go back.
Two days ago she did.

There's no question in my mind as to why.
I haven't seen her but I got a call from Scooter last night.

He'd gone over to take a shower at Ronnie's house. (I'm sure there's much more to this story but I've only heard his side at this point.)

Frances was there, high on spice, and went off on him.

With that baseball bat.

He's in the hospital with multiple broken ribs and bruises.

I was so angry at all of them.

Scooter for refusing to get off the streets.

Frances for what she did to Scooter, but more so for going back to Ronnie's.

Ronnie for being an abusive drug dealer posing as an innocent, ailing old man.

I wanted to go get that bat and smash it into the wall. I hate that bat.

I voiced that thought and caught a disparaging look from my spouse.

I knew it wouldn't solve anything. I'd only be removing a prop.

I'm just frustrated.

Why do I want more for their lives than they do?

Parenting Guilt: Shake It Off

Throughout our lives we are faced with emotions that result from parenting choices, good and bad.


Whether you were the parent or the child,  the choices were healthy or poor, the emotions good or bad, your life was impacted.


Very few people in life have childhoods with no defining moments.


My own childhood was amazing, more so with the hind-sighted tint of rose-colored glasses, and many of my parents' choices  (active in church, strong work ethic, compassion toward others) instilled strong character qualities in me at an early age.


But they made mistakes as well.


The mistakes affected me as well, though on a much smaller scale. Proportionately I'd estimate that the result of my parents' parenting was 10% negative choices and 90% positive ones.


My mother would probably flip the percentages because, as women, we have an extra x chromosome which harbors an inane amount of the guilt gene.


Most children will eventually come to terms with the effects of poor parenting in their lives. At some point, you must accept responsibility for your own life choices.


We met a guy on the streets. Raised in a string of foster homes, he'd seen unimaginable things by the time he was fifteen. Twenty-five years later he still blames his parents for the mess he is in and drinks every day to escape the pain of a tormented youth.


About a year after we met him, we discovered he had a twin brother.


"Yeah, he's spent his whole life in a bottle, complaining about unfair life is," Twin declared when we met by accident one day.


Same childhood, same circumstances, same upbringing.


Different results.


Twin had also struggled with alcoholism at an early age, but decided that he wanted a better life than the one he'd grown up in.


It is not always easy but you can move past the buried hurts of childhood. It is a decision that only you can make, and committing it to God brings immeasurable peace.


But what about when you are the parent?


I had one of those rare, heart--to-hearts with one of my adult children a few days ago and the subject of her childhood came up. My guilt over their upbringing is astounding and something I have to continually bring to the cross.


My percentages would be more like 50/50.


I'd arrange the entire Little League's Closing Ceremonies and Trophy Presentation one week and be on a suicide watch in the local psychiatric ward the following week. (No relation between the two!)


I was unstable, not yet having comes to terms with childhood abuse and the addictions that followed.


I loved my kids dearly, but I was a mess.


And they suffered.


Throughout this conversation, my also-pragmatic daughter was speaking matter-of-factly.  There was no condemnation, no passive-aggressive guilt.


I even tried to apologize at one point but was quickly brushed off.


This child took ownership of her life at six; she wasn't about to give me responsibility for any of it now.


Nonetheless I felt it.


I have a collage of vacation and everyday photos of my four kids next to my bed. I look at it every night. While these were happy memories, I inevitably feel sad. What I see is not the beach, the zoo, and their great-grandmother's house but the kids I blew off for a quick high, railed at in unjustified anger, and sent to relatives when I needed a break.


They had a roller coaster childhood.


And now, my daughter was telling me that one of her siblings has a significant amount of time she can't remember.


My child has blocked out part of her childhood.


It was THAT traumatic.


I felt as if I'd been punched in the gut.


I'd always said that if I could go back and change one thing in my life, it would be the way I handled her.


She was a difficult child and, despite multiple readings of THE STRONG-WILLED CHILD by James Dobson, I had no idea how to handle her.


So I made a lot of mistakes.


And I feel like I broke her.


Our relationship has since mended, but I know that she is still broken inside. I don't think I knew just how much until this conversation.


I can't fix it.


I want to. I'd give anything to. I'd relive every rape, every attack, every harm done to me if I could just go back and change the moment I hurt my daughter so deeply.


But I can't.


Sadly, she isn't the only one still suffering under the mistakes I made.


I see the life choices they are making and can almost definitively tie the mistakes to an area I failed them in. It is heartbreaking and I want so desperately to make things okay.


I think parenting guilt is as debilitating as any disease known to man.


Yet to allow ourselves to wallow in the guilt only models yet another parenting mistake.


No, it's time now to show them that as responsible adults we take responsibility for our mistakes but we don't let them define us. We cannot change the past.


I can hold their hands and help them through a journey of healing even though I know that I'm partly to blame for the injury.


Or, if they prefer, I can watch and pray from afar.


I am sorry and I have told them that. True remorse comes only from changed behavior and they've seen that too.


It's all I can do.


I wouldn't want my mom to spend her life in  distress over mistakes she made with me.


I don't want my kids to spend their lives in distress over mistakes they'll make with their own kids.


So I absolutely cannot live my life in bondage to my own parenting fails.

Domestic Violence

Today's post is going to be less blog and more PSA.


We brought Susan to a domestic violence shelter two weeks ago. We may have saved her life. While she was in danger every time he physically harmed her, she was in a greater danger of drinking and drugging herself to death just to deal with day-to-day life.


She is now sober and once again discovering herself.


For ten years she had lived under one man's thumb, being beaten then plied with drugs every time she'd leave. He had police connections so her fear kept her from seeking help.


She finally had enough. Doctors told her she'd die if she didn't quit drinking and she knew she couldn't live unless she kept drinking.


But she finally took that step.


If you, or someone you know, is in a similar situation, please take that step.


You can go through our ministry if you aren't comfortable calling a domestic violence shelter directly. When we pulled Susan out, the official word was that she was going to rehab. No-one knows, including the boyfriend, where she really went.


You can reach me at 228-623-0387.


Don't wait til it's too late.


(Unfortunately we have preached two funerals for women who didn't think he'd go THAT far.)

Life...With Bumpers?

My friend Mikelyn and I went bowling yesterday. It was my first time in years and I was quite rusty. After a few gutter balls, I begged for those bumpers they put up for kids' birthday parties. Surely I could break 100 with those!


While catching up on our busy lives, we wondered aloud what our lives would be like with bumpers. Marriage and motherhood go hand in hand with mistakes and we'd made our share of them.


Wouldn't life be nice with bumpers? Mikelyn mused.


After thinking about it for a minute, I decided No, it wouldn't.


Just think about it. If all of your mistakes could be corrected and ricochet back toward the mark, you might get a false sense of security.


There'd be no real consequences and no way to try harder the next time.


You'd go through life never knowing real failure..or success. Was it by accident? Or was your accomplishment all your own?


There are qualities I have now that took years to amass. I'm more patient, less self-absorbed. (I said less, not UN, for family members feeling the need to contribute their two cents!)


I will always be a work-in-progress.


And that's okay.


So no bumpers for me.


Except in bowling.


I still need those!

Salute to Veterans...Real and Imagined

Happy Veterans Day!


To all who've served, and to the families of our servicemen and women, I want to say thank you.


Your service is often taken for granted or underappreciated but it is why we are in The Land of The Free.


Homeless Coalitions have marked veterans as the top demographic group in prioritizing needs. The goal of the Gulf Coast coalition is to have all local homeless veterans housed by the end of the year.


With Eric, they reached this goal.


Eric was the vet I wrote about a few weeks ago. Mounds of red tape and V.A. backlog drug out a fairly simple process and, after a year, he'd given up all hope.


Nine months in, I was discouraged when I mentioned the delay to director of the coalition.


"No, he's been housed."


"What?" Surely there was some mix-up. I visited his tent twice a week. I knew where he lived. Housed people don't camp in Tent City for the s'mores.


"Right here," she read off his name, DOB, and social security number. An organization assigned to help him marked him as housed.


I came unglued.


I may get mad at my homeless guys, but I'm also very protective of them. This organization thought they'd look good on paper but not do their job?!!


After initially telling me they didn't have him marked as housed, then trying to say someone else had the same name (and DOB and SS, hmmm....), they finally (without admitting guilt) amended the paperwork.


I'd lit a fire and I held that match there for the next three months.


The V.A. was actually very helpful once I became involved, and the original organization started the ball rolling on their end as well. I talked to them both twice a week and even though there were delays, communication stayed open and he moved in right as I went on vacation.


Today was my first day to see him. Having moved nearly an hour away (but next to the V.A.) I'd dropped by once before but he wasn't home. Today, fittingly Veteran's Day, a friend and I caught him at home and we unloaded dishes, groceries, and clothes.


In the last few months, every homeless person I've visited in their new apartment had a home that resembled their homeless camp. Trash, beer bottles, food, dirty clothes littered the floor. I wondered if one could ever actually get out of that mode.


I found out today that the answer is YES.


Eric's place was immaculate. There wasn't any trash anywhere, his new bed was perfectly made up, and his new furniture (shared by neighboring tenants) looked amazing. He was clean-shaven and sober and had a new lease on life.


I was so excited. It is that rare fruit of my labor that the Lord allows me to see on occasion that gives me fuel to continue on.


It is great that I had such a high to rest on since my other two "vet" experiences today were disheartening.


Colonel Robert Sharp, as he calls himself, was out professing his service to mankind today. He "has not reported" this year so he "doesn't know what his duty will be" but he stands and stares at the sky for hours each day as part of his service. I think he truly believes he is a veteran, though.


Pitbull, on the other hand, is extremely lucid and knew exactly what he was doing when he bought an Army t-shirt and cap and headed to the off-ramp of I-10 today. Pitbull has never served in the military but he knows how to play the game.


Having  a son, as well as many other family members who've served or are currently serving in the military, I was offended. It is probably the most upset I've ever gotten with Pitbull, who by the way, was the very first homeless person I helped after moving here and the first step toward it turning into a full-time ministry.


I had to remind myself of that today.


Love the unloveable.


Even when they are in fake military gear.

Can You Tell Me How to Get...How to Get to Sesame Street?

There's one reason I need to get to Sesame Street...and it's not Big Bird.


It's the SUNNY DAYS...chasing the clouds away...that I desperately need to take up permanent residence in my life.


I'd been under a storm cloud for days without even a ray of light poking through.


All of the godly wisdom I'd been dispensing for months flew out the window, snatched away as easily as taking candy from a baby.


Which is fitting because I was acting like an overgrown toddler, expecting the world to shut down until I was ready to come back out and play.


I didn't WANT to talk to anyone.


I didn't WANT to pray.


I didn't WANT to read my Bible.


I didn't WANT to let go of offenses.


And I CERTAINLY didn't want my husband telling me how I wasn't in the Spirit.


I knew that.


And I didn't care.


Well, I did care...but I couldn't seem to change my mood.


It wasn't that easy.


So I withdrew.


I excelled in Words With Friends. I finished three novels and binge-watched two series on DVD.


I did fulfill prior commitments, albeit begrudgingly.


Mostly I stayed home and wondered how I got here. I'd had a wonderful vacation and should've returned refreshed and renewed.


Instead I came home acutely aware of the sacrifices I'd made in a life of mission conditions. The air was out, the washer was broken, four of the eight windows leaked. Not just drip-drip-drip, but there ought not even be glass in them for all the water coming in my house.


I wanted to turn my car around and go back to Mommy's.


I was second-guessing everything and in the midst of the biggest pity party ever.


Surely God hated me. This was His plan. To break me. To get me to this incredible place of servitude and say, "Ha! Ha! You really thought I could use YOU?!!"


The thing was, I knew this wasn't true. I knew where the attack was coming from.


And I did care. I just couldn't seem to get rid of this dark cloud over me.


After a few days I realized it wasn't about the windows, or the air, or the washer. (This was painfully obvious when all three were fixed and I still had the dark cloud looming overhead.)


My prayer life was still suffering but I attempted to find answers.


What is it? I don't even know, Lord, what is wrong with me... 


The answer came in startling realizations and remembrances of prior lessons (apparently unlearned):

• When you are in full-time ministry, a vacation away from the ministry should not be a vacation from the Lord. Taking off your armor leaves you vulnerable and ill-prepared...
• Losing sight of thankfulness and gratitude is the quickest way to allow circumstances steal your joy..
• Getting hurt (by friends, family, co-workers--or in my case, a church member) isn't an excuse to retaliate by withholding godly love. "I'm not hurt because I don't care anymore" was a way of self-preservation and it felt wrong every time I said it.
• The holiday season is about the birth of Christ, not about gifts or decorations, and I've spent many years with a joy scale directly proportionate to my Christmas spending budget.
• Confusion is one of Satan's greatest tools. In the midst of discussions about the future direction of the homeless ministry, there are some hard decisions to make and there are often differing opinions. I've allowed the confusion to cloud not only my mind, but my heart as well. 

As I began to see WHY the storm cloud had come and why it had STAYED, I was left simply with a choice.


Is this how I wanted to live my life? With a self-imposed storm cloud lingering over my life, albeit with great justification for remaining.


No, it wasn't.


I expected to begin the slow descent out of the darkness. At least a week or two. That's about how long it took me to get into the hole so scientifically speaking, it'd take the same amount of time to get out.


But my God defies science.


As soon as He spoke it, it was done.


Just like that, my sunshine returned.


It actually was that easy.




******************************************************

Ohio: More Than Football

Ohio has more than football going for it in my book.

I just got off the phone with Derek, a dear homeless friend we sent to Ohio via Greyhound. While it didn't work out at his father's house, he did land at a local mission.

Sober for over three months, Derek is attending classes and working towards rehousing.

Which is where I applaud Ohio.

I assumed Section 8 regulations were the same across the nation since it is a federal program. But this isn't the case.

There are varying rules regarding felons.

In Mississippi, convicted felons are ineligible for Section 8 housing regardless of the crime or time served.

Which at one time I agreed with.

But then I met Derek. On disability and unable to work, Derek couldn't afford to maintain housing on his $700/month income and pay utilities, groceries, and household expenses.

So he lived in the woods.

"Tell me," he'd say, "how if I paid my debt to society, I'm still having to pay for my crimes?"

He'd been out of the criminal system for eight years, having served his time for drug-related offenses.

He had a point. It was akin to double jeopardy.

Besides, I'd rather see ex-offenders in homes somewhere than roaming the streets day and night.

But that is apparently a Mississippi dictum.

He is now on the waiting list for Ohio's Section 8 housing.

It may take awhile, but at least he's being given a chance to succeed.

I'm No Atticus Finch

I spent the day with Scooter yesterday.

He'd been anticipating his court date for two months, alternating between thoughts of running and accepting a sentence that would give him "3 hots and a cot" (prison slang for 3 meals a day and a bed to sleep in, more reward than punishment for those on the street).

Even on the final day he was vacillating, and the torment drove him to pick up a beer after trying to sober up for court.

The second thing I did when I met him by the store was to encourage him to go.

The first thing was to kick the beer over.
(Only for those I love would I do such a thing. The results would be akin to me pulling steak out of my dogs' mouths mid-chew. Not wise!)

But Scooter wanted help. He reminds me of the student who misbehaves just to keep the teacher's attention.

We went to lunch, then Walmart to get the requisite white shirt and socks allowed in the jail.

Scooter is what's known as a frequent flier in the county jail.

By the time we arrived for afternoon court, he was distraught. The charges weren't great: trespassing and a contempt of court. Plus old fines. Life on the streets usually amasses a few trespassing, loitering, and public drunk charges and Scooter has been homeless for almost ten years.

Fines can be reduced by serving time and he figured it'd take 3 months to serve off all his fines. It worked out well, he realized, that he'd serve it during the coldest months of the year.

I sat next to an oft-emotional man who was finally facing his life choices. When he got out of jail he was going to get things together, he decided. Go back to his wife, sober up, meet the grandkids.

An hour in, his name was called.

How do you plead?

Guilty.

But the judge didn't want to remand him to jail just because he walked on the property of a store owner having a bad day.

So he let him go.

The court officer leaned over and said to me, "He's been out there a long time."

I whispered back, "He's going to die out there. Why is he just letting him go?"

I knew why. I think this judge and I have similar hearts. I've spent many days in his courtroom and I've seen his compassion.

But what now?

Scooter came out, bewildered. Part of me wondered if some part of him was looking forward to winter on the inside.

He still has no home, his last campsite destroyed by recent floods. His current abode is a vacant barber shop.

I wonder sometimes if it makes me an accessory to know where homeless guys are encamped if they are breaking and entering.

It doesn't really matter, though.

On the way to court Scooter asked me why I cared so much. About him, about all of them.

I wasn't sure I even knew the answer.

Yes, I'm doing what the Lord has led me to do. But that isn't all.

I love them. I care about them.

Deeply.

Years ago I prayed to have a heart like His.

Maybe this is just a taste of how strongly He feels about His children.

I need to remember this so the next time I'm asked, I'll have an answer.

I love, because He loved.

Gilded Turmoil

I've found myself experiencing troubles lately and relating them to the thought patterns of those on the street.

The only problem with the comparison is that I'm overcoming my struggles with luxuries many cannot afford.

Like my recent vacation extension.

I'd been visiting family in Louisiana and Kansas for the past two weeks while my husband held down the fort back home.

Two days before I was scheduled to return home I got a call from him.

The washer was broken, the air conditioner was broken, one of the dogs had a stomach virus (with no washing machine to clean soiled rags), and, as if that wasn't enough, torrential rains had flooded the area and three of the front windows were leaking extensively.

I was cool, dry, and clean at my mom and dad's house. This was not a burden I wanted to share.

But I came home anyway.

I realized on the way home, dreading my return and selfishly wanting to continue my "me" time, that this is a pattern many of the homeless get into.

You just get so frustrated that you stop trying. One thing goes wrong, then another...

But I didn't suffer. My vacation was extended as we got a discounted rate at the local Holiday Inn.  A church member is doing our laundry and the windows were fixed.

They can't be opened but they don't leak!

The a/c should be fixed tomorrow.

I've done a few things on the streets in the midst of this all.

But not much.

It is hard to get out of the "me" mindset the longer you stay in it.

Once again I am reminded of how I am not that far removed from those on the streets after all.