Me at Quarterlife (Financial Snapshot)

Times have changed!

I said goodbye to my beloved Cov a month ago and a few days later, left my dear New York City.  Even this morning, listening to some classic Lauryn Hill, I miss the place and the people and the Body and the work and the feel when I see that place in her music video.

(link)

I'm in Atlanta now, a couple months after the difficult decision to say goodbye and start a new adventure.  Since undergrad I've felt a strong pull toward healthcare, working with women's health in particular.  I've written about it before (example).  And now, five years after I made a quick 180 into the path of medicine, I just started an accelerated BSN/MSN program that will take me 3 years to obtain both my RN license and my Family Nurse Practitioner and Certified Nurse Midwife (FNP/CNM) certifications.  Getting here was hard as I weighed the merits of an accelerated program among other people of privilege versus an associate program with people making it by will, determination, and grit in spit of the challenges; whether it was worth leaving behind so much and so many I loved; what it meant to be brought to a place and then to be uprooted to go to another.  But I am now where I am and nowhere else.

I have been living at an absolutely amazing, providential place called Villa International.  Here I've found a community like no other and been very supported as I've started school.  This morning over breakfast a friend from India was asking me about retirement accounts, which happens to be one of my favorite topics to learn about and discuss, so I was inspired to also give a small snapshot of my financial vision for the next few years.

I've put a lot of effort into living with financial wisdom, and it pains me more than a little to be making the plunge of going into debt for this program.  The most hardcore personal finance writers I've read would balk at this, and it makes me uncomfortable in some ways too (thinking along the lines of Proverbs 22:7b).  But I hope that the opportunity cost of going now versus later will make it worthwhile.  I've also applied for (very competitive) scholarships through NHSC and NURSE Corps, which I will hear back from in early fall.  Were I to receive either scholarship, my net monthly stipend would end up being about $1000.  So even though there's a good chance I won't be awarded either scholarship, I plan to try living within the $1000/month parameter for this first year.  We'll see how it goes.

Beginning in August, I'll be paying $450 for rent and about $100 for utilities, totaling roughly $550/month (my housing goal was under $600 total for the month).  My place will be within walking distance from school, saving me a $600/semester parking pass(!) plus excess gas.  I've budgeted $220/month for groceries but hope that this is a category in which I can save, particularly with some good meal planning and Aldi shopping.  I've budgeted only $40 for gas for the month, which might be wildly optimistic, but I hope to keep this cost down by absolutely minimizing my driving and taking free shuttles or carpools when possible. My budget for all things entertainment (including eating out and buying gifts) is $50 for the month, and the rest is rounded out by giving and miscellaneous expenses (toiletries, random school expenses, household items, and any medical costs/copays).

A few other notes for this budget:

1) It's lacking any savings.  I'm not worried about this for now because I maxed out my Roth IRA for the year while I was still working and I saved up a healthy emergency fund over the past couple years.  I will need to find money somewhere for furniture come August, though, so pondering where that will come from.

2) There are a few expenses excluded because of the incredible generosity of my parents.  I do not take it for granted that while I am back in school, they are supporting me by paying my portion of our family's cell phone bill and allowing me to be on their car insurance.  Additionally, I am still eligible for a little while longer to remain on their health insurance, so I am taking advantage of that.  All of these are additional expenses that I do not worry about at the moment because of their help--an incredible privilege.  Thank you!

3) This summer I have not been working, but I have two prospects for part-time side gigs lined up for the fall, both of which are very promising.  These won't adjust the substance of my budget very much (i.e. I don't intend to inflate my cost of living), but I hope they will give me a little cushion if I've grossly underestimated and will also allow me to resume saving.  If I do not get either of the HRSA scholarships mentioned above I will re-evaluate my savings goals, but if possible would like to keep contributing the max to my Roth IRA because there are no catch-up contributions allowed until age 50.

Why write all this?  Self-aggrandizement?  An uncontrollable urge to post somewhat personal financial information where it is accessible to anyone?  A friend from my church in New York (sidenote: they're working to raise money to support their ministry in my neighborhood, as we're still a small church but with big dreams--donate here by the end of May!) once told me about an exercise she did with her fellow counselors at a Christian camp where they were working one summer.  Each of their shared their sexual story.  To most Christian sensibilities this sounds like a theoretically good thing (we're support to confess our sins and failures to each other so that we can be healed and be held accountable) but also a terrifying one that we've never actually done because we risk admitting some things that damage others' perceptions of us as "good" Christians if we've ever slipped up in this taboo area.  Basically, it's safer to confess sins like impatience and jealousy.  But she said that it was the most powerful way to open up true vulnerability (and thereby real accountability and healing) that she'd ever experienced.  I would love to find (or maybe at some point create) this sort of environment to be that open and to really get down to honesty about sex and sexuality, an area I feel we're too shy about in the Church.  But I don't think sexuality is the only area in which we need radical honesty; I think money and finances, which were so important to Jesus, are another such area.

So I share this blog post as a personal check in and as an invitation: Let's let other brothers and sisters into our lives in real ways, whether that means sharing with them about money or sex or other secret things, so that we can spur each other on to godliness in every way, not just the safe ones.  Along those lines, I welcome feedback, constructive criticism, rebuke, and encouragement as needed.

Love,
JH

Christmas at the Cov

A few weeks ago, we began rehearsing for a drama that residents of the shelter where I work would present at our Christmas Eve service.  The first night, tucked away into a small corner office with a table, chairs, and an overhead light, was attended by a few young men my coworker had roused from the relative calm of their unit while most of the residents attended a karaoke night downstairs.  We were few, but we were about to begin something beautiful.

My coworkers and I began to outline our task: to create an artistic presentation, whether incorporating acting, poetry, dancing, and/or singing, that would be shared at the outset of the Christmas Eve service in a couple weeks' time.  Comparing some of the basic elements of the Nativity to what some of my residents have experienced on their journey to Covenant House--finding themselves young, uncertain, and pregnant (or with a pregnant partner), not having anyone make space for them in their time of need--we began to discuss some ideas for the presentation.  How do you bring the Christmas story to your life when your circumstances land you in a shelter?  Someone wanted to sing a pop Christmas ballad, someone reluctantly considered writing a poem, and another young man offered to be an actor in a drama.

As we continued discussing, it became clearer to me that perhaps the exposition to our project had been insufficient.  So I paused our brainstorming and asked if everyone was familiar with the story--the Christmas story--we would be portraying.  Hesitation.  Would anyone feel comfortable telling the story for everyone?

Silence.

And then--"You mean like Tiny Tim?"  "Oh, no, you mean like when Jesus died?"

How do you bring the Christmas story to your life when you don't know the story?

I began to tell The Story.

So there was a young woman, and she was pretty young--like maybe even 13, 14, maybe a little older.  But young!  And she was supposed to marry this guy, Joseph.  They never slept together or anything, but the girl (her name was Mary) got pregnant--not by some guy, but it was a miracle.  As in she hadn't had sex, but she was going to have a baby.  Joseph was kind of unsure at first, because he knew he wasn't the baby daddy, but he was still with Mary.  Maybe you can imagine some people here know what that's like, to be really young and kind of scared and having a baby--or to be with a girl who's having someone else's baby.  I know a lot of the young women I work with on my floor do.  But the whole thing, her being pregnant, was a miracle, and the baby was supposed to come and fix everything that's wrong with the world--the pain, the sadness, the hurt.  So eventually it was time for her to give birth, but she and Joseph were on a trip.  They went to all kinds of different places, but there was no space for them.  Everyone at all the hotels told them that they were full.  But one guy told them they could stay in his barn, at least so they wouldn't be outside--

M: "You mean like a car?"

me: "Yes!  Exactly!  So think of if someone were in this situation today--maybe instead of a barn, someone might offer them a car as a place to have their baby when there was nowhere else."

M: "What about Airbnb?"

me: "Well, yeah, now we have Airbnb, but think about if even all those rooms were full.  If there was really no place to go."

M: "Wait.  So... is this really happening?"

me: "Uh, yeah, definitely.  I mean, this is our first rehearsal, so in about two weeks we're going to be performing whatever we come up with together.  And we're going to be beginning the service, so it's going to be important that we help tell the story."

M: "No: Is this happening?"

pause.  slow dawning of revelation.

me: "Well--No.  But it happened!  Like two thousand years ago, this really happened.  It's a real story.  And we're just trying to tell the story to remember it when we're celebrating Christmas."

M: "So it's not happening?  You're sure?"

me: "Yeah.  At least not right now.  But we're going to tell the story."

M: "Oh.  Okay.  I just wanted to check--I mean, they can have my car.  It's in Massachusetts, but I could get it and they could use it if she needed it.  Or, well, I work--I could pay for their Airbnb.  But you're saying it's not happening?"

I'd like to just leave it there; I think it speaks for itself.  But I will say one final thought: The same kind of radical generosity and care that M wanted so badly to share with a young, struggling, scared, homeless couple who he didn't know is a taste of the radical generosity and care that God showed for us when He sent his son--that tiny, homeless, unwelcome baby--into His world to save us.  And God's children at Covenant House look like Him.  Merry Christmas.

Moments at work, 9/25/15 edition

As I'm leaving tonight to go home:

T: "Miss, do you have a husband?"
me: "No."
G: "Miss, you have kids?"
me: "No."
J: "Miss, do you have a boyfriend?"
me: ...
G: "Y'all know she must have a boyfriend."
me: ...
J: "...We're gonna hook you up on Christian Mingle."

Change is Inevitable, and That's Okay

My friend and fellow community member led me and my housemates in prayer this evening, a wonderful space to thank God for his faithfulness to us in the past year, but also to grieve for the ending of such an unusually blessed time as this one.  She shared with us this song, which is by a member of her volunteer community from the year before ours, and I share it here because 1) More people should hear it!  (How sad that only 50 people have had the pleasure...); and 2) It so concisely expresses how I'm feeling now.

(link)

Also I would like to bid my baby brother a happy 20th birthday today! I miss you, Moe-tastic.

What I'm listening to now

(link here)

#MarilynMosby

... that's really all I wanted to say(!!).  Maybe time for a Twitter?

Texts from Last Night

1) This is a record of the texts I received from a group text I joined last fall during the Ferguson protests, and texts sent between [me] and my [roommate]s.
2) I attended the protest with [roommateC] while [roommateB], who wasn't subscribed to the Ferguson group text, left to meet the protests earlier and attended separately.



3:34pm - SNurse: NYC Rise Up and #ShutItDown for Baltimore! Today 6PM meet at Union Square. #JusticeForFreddieGray - Millions March Nyc url.ie/yzib

7:35pm - Homegnome: One group heading north from from the park on Broadway from 17th

7:39pm - Homegnome: One group is going west on 14th street

7:43pm - Homegnome: Send in info of your sub-march including arrest alerts to @millionsmarchnyc and we'll try to send out as we can

7:46pm - Homegnome: northbound group on 21st and 5th, t

7:50pm - Homegnome: ground at corner of 17th and union square west are heading south

7:55pm - Amcmen: Spreading downtown on Broadway at 12th

7:59pm - Homegnome: Heading down 14th to 6th. have the street

8:05pm - Homegnome: subgroup on w4th and broadway

8:09pm - Homegnome: Another subgroup on park at 23rd

8:13pm - Homegnome: Text where you are @millionsmarchnyc and where you're heading and we'll share. at least 5 submarches right now

8:20pm - Nevernotever: together at last on 22nd on Broadway

8:21pm - [roommateB]: Hey! Any more recent updates?

8:24pm - Homegnome: One group going north on 7th at 21st heading to 30th on converge

8:28pm - pabsben: Heading south down 5 Ave & 22 at

8:31pm - Homegnome: converge on 7th ave!! three groups just met...getting bigger

8:32pm - [me]: Converge on 7th Ave! 3 groups just met - around 21st st heading to 30th

8:33pm - [roommateB]: Thank you!!

8:34pm - [me]: No prob :) Text me if you need more updates or can't find them

8:35pm - [roommateB]: Thank you! Just stumbled into a horde of cops so I assume I'm on the right path haha

8:37pm - Homegnome: Big group heading up 7th at 27th. keep it tight! more heading to meet

8:51pm - Homegnome: pabsben@millionsmarch Heading south down 5 Ave & 22

8:51pm - Homegnome: Big group is heading up 7th still and growing. ..was just joined by another sub group

8:53pm - Thomasberry: Subgroup on canal heading west

8:55pm - [roommateB]: I still haven't found them! Any other updates?

8:56pm - [roommateB]: Just kidding found them! Haha thank you for all your help!

8:57pm - Ilya-Jalal: Subgroup park and 23 rd at least 3 arrests

9:00pm - Consigliere: Large group on street 6th ave heading north just past 26. Looks like Times Square ahead.

9:03pm - Nialbima: 28th and fifth heading west

9:07pm - Homegnome: Most groups are on 7th converging in high 30s

9:12pm - Homegnome: Another large group: @NYC2Ferguson: 14th & Broadway group heading to converge with march at 22nd and Broadway

9:17pm - Homegnome: large group turning off 7th at 43th heading west

9:22pm - Homegnome: large group headed off 7th down 47th, now at 8th towards Westside highway

9:27pm - Amcmen: Cops in riot gear divided the group at holland tunnel

9:30pm - [me]: Where are you?

9:31pm - Homegnome: Northern group divided and sub group going down 9th

9:35pm - Homegnome: People! be safe! The cops are out to arrest! If you see someone arrested get name and date of birth

9:36pm - [roommateB]: Times Square. It's pretty tense.

9:36pm - [roommateB]: There's a stand off between protesters and police. Where are you?

9:36pm - [me]: Headed to 11th - i think it's tense there too

9:37pm - [me]: Memorize the national lawyers guild number: 2126796018.

9:38pm - [roommateB]: I'm sort of out of the fray at this point. It started to get physical and I got scared. I'm on the side now. But thank you. I really appreciate that.

9:39pm - [roommateB]: How are you and [roommateC]?

9:39pm - [me]: We havent gotten "there" yet - still walking to get there. We' e on 46th and 11th

9:41pm - Homegnome: The cops are pushing and pulling people off the side walk and arresting media

9:41pm - [roommateB]: Okay. I think I'm gonna head home soon. I'm tired and overwhelmed and I'm essentially just a spectator at this point. Please keep me updated on how yall are doing.

9:42pm - [me]: Will do!

9:47pm - Homegnome: sub group at 14th and 6th

9:51pm - Homegnome: sub group at 10th and 4 2nd st.

9:54pm - Homegnome: Keep it tight, the police are dividing and arresting

9:58pm - Marchfreenyc: Group coming from umsq now hitting 15th heading north on 6th Ave to meet rest of group

10:03pm - Homegnome: @NYC2Ferguson: 2000 having standoff with police on Spring and West Side Hwy. Arrests happening.

10:05pm - [roommateB]: Did you find them?

10:06pm - [me]: Yeah, we walked past the cov on the way to time square - police beat one guy but no arrests so far. We're in the middle of the pack - safe

10:08pm - Homegnome: 300 person march heading west on 34th from 7th ave

10:10pm - [roommateB]: I don't know how to express how I'm feeling but I'm glad you guys are safe.

10:14pm - Homegnome: follow @nyc2ferguson -phone needs power. blast out bail fund info! bit.ly/actbail

10:18pm - Homegnome: it you see an arrest get person's name and date of birth and get it to NLG at 212-679-6018. write that number on your body to call from 1pp if arrested. 212-679-6018

10:25pm - [me]: Still safe - marching west on 42nd

10:40pm - [me]: A little less tense now... Walked past the cov and saw [one of our residents at the shelter] in the a lounge, naturally

10:41pm - [roommateB]: Hahaha that makes me smile. Thank you for the updates. I'm home now talking to [roommateD].

10:47pm - Homegnome: 100+ arrests in #NYC tonight. Arrestees being sent to 1 Police Plaza, #Jail Support will be @Park Row and Worth St. Be there!

11:09pm - [me]: Good! We took the streets just now, still doing fine

11:17pm - [roommateA]: Be safe!! I'll see you when I get back from FL!

11:18pm - [me] Lord willing! See you when you're back :)

12:28am - Homegnome: More volunteers needed for #JailSupport for please bring blankets at 1PP (@park row and worth) (tweet out please) If you're looking for friends call 212-679-6018

12:28am - [me]: Finished by nyu... We're walking to the train


#blacklivesmatter
#nyc2baltimore

Sleep Out Reflections

(Covenant House Sleep Out: Young Professional Edition Video Highlights)

As so many of you have shared your love with me in prayers, thoughts, encouragement, and financial support in preparation for my participation in Covenant House's Sleep Out on March 20, allow me to take a moment to share with you some of my reflections on that evening on the one month anniversary of that event.

But first: I thank my God in all my remembrance of you!  It's incredible for me to reflect on how many generous people supported me along the way.  THANK YOU!  I'm very humbled.  Every time I sit down with one of my new residents to hear her stories within her first few days of coming to our door, I am reminded of how easily I, too, could find myself at the door of a shelter.  It's still a mystery to me that I haven't ended up in that situation--I can attribute it only to an unexplained divine grace (which is not to say my residents have been denied that grace... that's why this thing is such a mystery to me, because to invoke grace here seems to lopsided and cruel) so often manifested in the support I get from such people as you.  Whether you contributed anything tangible to my Sleep Out efforts or not, know that I am grateful for your support.

As I begin, I should like to note that it was not without hesitation that I began my efforts to fundraise for the Sleep Out.  Having worked at Covenant House for seven months, I have been working during at least two other Sleep Out events, which occur about six times per year.  I see the event from behind the scenes: As participants are gathering in the lobby downstairs for presentations and discussions with a few of our youth, I'm usually upstairs with everyone else, hearing my residents' reflections on the inverse Sleep Out experience when all the excitement is happening downstairs.  I wrote a lengthy email to the organizers of the Sleep Out expressing some of my concerns, but maybe they're best summed up by this excerpt:

[T]he fact is that for most of our youth, the Sleep Out is experienced as little more than an inconvenience: they are not permitted to use their normal stairs or elevator, they are served dinner on each floor because the cafeteria is used for the Sleep Out, and some of them have expressed to me that they feel hidden away because they are not "presentable" to the Sleep Out participants. 

I haven't fully wrestled though that.  These are not questions unique to the Sleep Out, but to so many instances of donating and "helping."  It's my hope to share a little of my experience, and a few stories from my residents, so the focus is not on the grand, mundane gesture of sleeping outside, but rather rightfully redirected to the young people the Sleep Out intends to serve.

I continue to ask myself how it's possible to help outsiders begin to understand the young people we serve in such a short amount of time as they participate in the Sleep Out, and I don't know how to put our residents' needs first when there are logistical problems such as where to hold discussions for a large group of visitors in a place that my residents call home.  However, much to the credit of this Sleep Out's organizers, the bulk of this event was actually held at another location a few blocks away, which created fewer disruptions for residents and staff.  After several hours spent learning about Covenant House from the perspective of some of the organizers and hearing stories shared by our youth, we returned to the shelter to (try to) do the actual sleeping out.

By midnight we were settled, insofar as that was possible, into our sleeping bags, strewn across cardboard, some of us with trash bags tied around our feet in a feeble hope for out toes at least to stay dry.  This picture is from that night (my sleeping bag would have been just to the bottom left of this frame).  It hovered around 30 degrees with a mix of frost and snow, and despite implementing years' worth of cold weather layering expertise and folding my sleeping bag over my head, I'm not sure I slept at all.  I checked the time frequently, and with each passing hour the balance between my wishing that time would slow down so that I could stand a chance of sleeping when my exhaustion overcame the cold and my praying that time would speed up so that I could finally crawl out of my icy nylon cave into the defeated sleeplessness but welcome warmth of the indoor debriefing sessions lilted more decisively to the latter.

I made it to 5:30am before the sounds of other participants rousing themselves and dragging their bedding inside convinced me that I, too, would be justified in leaving the cold and calling it a night.  Inside, we ate, chatted, and cleaned up chairs, finishing around 7:00am.  I was scheduled for a morning shift to begin at 7:30am, so I packed up, changed into my work clothes, and headed to the females floor.

It was in many ways an unremarkable shift.  And yet there were two interactions that left me at home that night, sitting on my kitchen floor, my face masked by tears and snot while my roommates and I prayed.

When residents leave our shelter, they do so on their terms (a self-discharge) or on ours (for reasons like persistently refusing to follow their case plan, fighting, being absent without an acceptable reason during overnight room checks, etc.).  Typically in the latter case, former residents are expected to complete certain things, like a writing letter of reflection on non-violent ways to resolve conflict, attending anger management classes, completing our week-long job readiness workshop, or meeting with our psychiatrist for a psychiatric evaluation, before they are eligible to come back.  We can hold their belongings for them for a set amount of time, but our space is limited and so former residents come back from time to time to pick up their belongings.  Some come back from better places, having used our shelter as a place to reestablish themselves and returning for their belongings so that there's nothing to keep them looking backward at where they were.  Some come back from worse places, maybe just to get a change of clothes while they figure out what to do next.  It's these trips to our storage room that wring my heart.

On the day that I crawled out of my sleeping bag and into the Cov for my shift, two of my former residents came back to get their belongings.

The first, an intelligent and wryly irreverent young woman, T, who had often made me laugh at myself with her winking remarks about class or race. Early in her pregnancy, she'd asked me, "Miss lady, do you have any kids?"  "No."  "Oh, that's right, white people always wait to get pregnant."  A quick flicker of her eyebrow to see how I'd react.  Hanging out in the common area, she'd remarked, "Hey miss, do you know you're a hipster?"  "Why I am a hipster?"  "It's those glasses.  And your scarf."  All of which, as I recount it, I could imagine might seem inappropriately cheeky, but which I found part of her charm and laughed about with her.  She was discharged when our services were no longer able to help her.

The second, a young woman named M who is scrappy and driven and a jokester, but whose hot temper and occasional disregard and disrespect for staff placed her stay with us in jeopardy several times.  I'd sat down with her for an hour to learn about her and her story when she'd first arrived, and concluded that there was more going on inside of her than she was quite sure how to manage.  But despite some other struggles, she had secured a job at a local fast food place, and was steadily earning money.  But she had been discharged too, for some youthful foolishness and bad decisions one night.

T came back to pick up her things after lunch during my post-Sleep Out shift.  She stood in the office, her face red from crying and her cheeks covered in tears, mascara streaked, just standing for a moment.  She was supposed to have picked up her belongings yesterday, but her boyfriend had called to tell us, in a pinched voice, that she was sick and so could they please wait until tomorrow?  We closed the door to the office and asked her if she was okay, asked her what was going on.  "I lost my baby.  My baby was the reason I even ended up here, and I don't have that anymore."  And I took her to the storage closet to her get things to bring downstairs where her boyfriend was helping her carry them, and I just looked at her and said, "I'm so sorry."  Because what else?  She collected her things, wiped her face with her sleeve, and left silently.

It was only a few moments later when M came to the office in a state of equal emotion and disarray.  She, too, wanted to pick up some things, and again it was me who took her to storage.  She rummaged through the black plastic bags containing her possessions, looking for some clean clothes to change into.  I asked her where she was staying: "I don't know.  Outside.  The trains."  And I thought about how my aching neck and how cold my feet had been, and once again there wasn't much to say.  "I work til 2am and then I just find a place."  We talked for a long time, trying to figure out if she had completed all the things required of her before she could come back, speaking to my supervisor and calling other shelters to see if they had beds in the meantime, having her sign consent so that my fellow staff could explain to her supervisor at work why her break today had taken so long and hoping that she wouldn't lose her job.  By 4:30pm, holding back blinkings of tears but wearing a face of resolve, she left to go back to work.  For my part, feeling relieved and grimy, I shrugged into my coat and trudged to the subway on my way home.

I have no neat ways to tie this together, and even this first attempt at synthesis has taken me a long time to hash out.  I had no way to tie it together that night, either--hence tears and prayers on the kitchen floor. But day by day, I remain grateful to be where I am, and to work with the extraordinary people I do.  Keep us in your prayers.

Since that day a month ago, M was welcomed back, but soon had to leave again for the same reasons she'd had to leave the first time; she's still away, working slowly to try to come back again.  One of my residents, who had participated in the Sleep Out panel, told me that she'd learned through her participation in the event that she is much more courageous than she ever knew, and told me that she thought being at the Sleep Out helped to erode the low self-esteem that has persistently plagued her.  Another, who had left a month before the Sleep Out, returned a few days ago to visit, cradling her two week-old daughter.  One got accepted into transitional housing, and when she came returned to pick up some belongings, just beamed as she encouraged my other residents to work hard to get to a better place, because the effort would all be worth it.

One thing I do know: it's a privilege to be present to someone in both her happiest and her saddest, and her proudest and her most despondent, moments--to see someone at her best and at her worst.  Maybe the Sleep Out gave me a reminder to continue to seek the best even when someone is expressing their worst--that we all deserve patience, because even if the battle is not having slept outside, we are all fighting a hard battle.

Thanks for your love and support.  We're not there yet, but we're working for the redemption of our groaning world.  Awurade Yesu, bra b3tie.  Lord Jesus, come and listen.

Moments at work, 4/11/15 edition

In the closet where the belongings of former residents are held, slinging bags around in search of S's things, which are buried somewhere:

S: "Miss, is it true that as women get older, they get stronger?"
me: "I think that's true.  Why are you wondering?"
S: "Because you're a woman, and you're strong."

The Dawn of the Rooster

To be involved in this production was one of my greatest pleasures in college, and I'm sharing it with you--shout out to my lovely friend Tanyaradzwa for bringing this to life:

P.S.  I'm drafting a post about my experience with the Sleep Out--look for it!

I'm So Tired.

I had dinner with three beloved friends last night, capping off a weekend of seeing sights, eating good food, and covering miles on foot while one of my best friends was visiting. It was a bit of an expensive dinner on my volunteer budget, but well worth the time together.  Walking down the street after the food was eaten, the check split, the tip calculated, we met a woman, maybe in her 50s though the low light made it hard to tell, standing outside another restaurant a few doors down.

"My name is Jackie.  I'm homeless.  Could you spare some money for me to get something to eat?"

I don't always know what to do with that question.  I mean, at the least, I always look the asker in the eye, even if my answer is no, as it sometimes is.  But could I spare some money for this woman to get something to eat?  Volunteer stipend or not, of course I could.  I may make little spending money, but my every need is well supplied.  My friends and I looked self-consciously in the direction of each other, but did not make eye contact, directing our attention back to Ms. Jackie.

"Could I have $14 or $15?  I just want to get a plate down the street at Jacob's.  I just want some mac & cheese, chicken, and collard greens.  It's pay by the plate, $14 or $15."

I guess I was taken aback.  It was a specific request, and even though it was for less than my own meal had cost, it felt bold.  I fumbled around with my words and with my hands.  Was it reasonable for her to be asking this of me?  Should not her request have been more modest?

Hands still fidgeting in my pockets as I decided what to do, I asked her about herself--how long she'd been on the street ("About a month.  I had a place but rent went up and we got evicted."), if she'd thought about going to a shelter (she mentioned the one she had been to, one where some of my girls had stayed before coming to us, and told me that it was too dangerous; "I hear you, ma'am, and I can't blame you," was all I could say).  What else to do for this sister?  I'd have liked to have invited her to stay with me, but--

Always that but.  But that wouldn't be fair to my roommates, but that would be against the policies of my volunteer agreement (um, ironically, the shelter where I work was started by a Catholic father who just began inviting youths without a home to live with him as they had need), but how long could she stay, but what if it was inconvenient, but what if she stole my things (--I'm especially ashamed of that thought)?

I reached into my pocket and rifled through the $5s and $1s and $10.  I didn't want her to see those other bills, hoping maybe she'd be content with my half-assed generosity and thank me for giving her 1/3 of what she'd asked for, increasingly uncomfortable with my stinginess but also so maddeningly unwilling to part with that last $10.  I touched her arm and handed her $5.

"You can go with me to make sure that's what I spend it on."

Dang.  "No, I'm sorry Ms. Jackie, I believe you.  That's not why I didn't give you $15."  We just stood there awkwardly and she repeated her request, unimpressed with my pitiful excuse for generosity.

"I just want a plate.  It's $14 or $15."

And it was just crazy, because I wanted to ask her whether there wasn't any other place nearby that sold food that was a little more reasonable, where $5 could get her something filling.  But I told myself to shut up, being that this woman literally wanted the exact same thing that the four of us had just had for dinner: a plate of soul food, for a price not too far off from what we paid.  Why, exactly, did I deserve that when she did not?  Why, pray tell, was my dinner worthwhile and hers not?  It's those kind of simple questions that seem obvious in theory until a woman without a place to lay her head asks you for $14 or $15 for a plate of soul food.

My friend reached into her purse and pulled out a dollar, and the other unloaded a fistful of quarters into the woman's palm, enough to reach the amount she'd asked for.  More awkward standing.

"I'm so tired.  I'm just so tired.  I'm so tired."

She turned and began walking away.

"Pray for me."

She shuffled away.  I wanted to stop her, to say, "Please, my sister, I'd be so humbled to pray for you!"  I'm still sick that I didn't.  Because--"What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if people claim to have faith but have no deeds? Can such faith save them? Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to them, 'Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it?" (James 2:14-16).  I guess it felt like my prayer, offered after such a poor show of hospitality, would have been in the what-good-is-it realm.  Dang.

This, I suppose, is one of the reasons I find living in a place where the groaning of creation (Romans 8:22) is audible and not drowned out by the destructive interference of the droning suburban life to be so terrible and so necessary: DO NOT FORGET that the creation is indeed groaning! DO NOT LULL yourself into a stupefied comfort in which your biggest concern is whether you can make your next credit card payment.  DO NOT LIE to yourself by pretending that you and your world do not need redemption.  I have a hard enough time remembering these basic things now, and so I don't dare let myself get too comfortable.

In college, I used to fast regularly, about once or twice per week, and sometimes for longer stretches.  My primary reasons were 1) that regular periods of fasting were a biblically established practice followed both in the Old Testament (in rhythm with repentance and feasting) and by the early church (typically on two set days a week, Wednesdays and Fridays), and 2) that fasting was a means of humbling yourself to the point of remembering your need for God above all else.  After a hiatus of many months, I've resumed the practice, adding this reason: 3) that fasting is training in discomfort, remembering that comfort is an insidious idol, and pursuing it primarily will always lead you farther from God.

There are other things I do to pursue this discomfort, working where I do being one of them.  As always, there is more to say, but for the time being, I'd just really appreciate your prayers.  I know I don't sleep outside, and I know I don't have to ask others for money when I want a nice dinner, but I too am tired.  I've had a hard last week at work and am thankful that for the next 3 days I'll be on retreat.  During the last week, I was with a resident who was scared and anxious after having been sexually assaulted, another who cut herself because there didn't seem to be any other way to express her anger, another who was hearing voices after missing her medication, and a minor who had left but whose mother was beside herself with concern for her daughter. I'd love your prayers as I ask God to renew and strengthen me, to remind me of his goodness even when I am troubled.  Please also pray that I would be more generous, more wise, and more humble.

Thank you and much love.

Because life is not a monotone

#1 and #2

Sleeping Out!

Hello friends,
Here's a brief alert: I'm going to be raising money to support the shelter where I work, and you're invited to join me!  More information, including how to donate, is here: http://covhou.convio.net/site/TR/SO_YoungProfessional/SleepOutYoungProfessionalEdition2015?px=1935499&pg=personal&fr_id=1463

May you be troubled in your comfort, and comforted in your trouble.

Love,
Jessica

Moments at work, 1/22/15 edition

On the day I have dinner with the executive team of the shelter after work and decide to wear mascara and put in contacts:

R: "Miss, did your eyes change? Are those your eyes? Have they always been blue?"
K: "Yeah, you should stop wearing those glasses."

Misplaced Yearning

I feel like there are a lot of things I'm yearning for, and consequently I feel like I'm living in Proverbs 13:12 -- "Hope deferred makes the heart sick."  So I'm sitting in my apartment on my day off, typing out a blog post, because I know that there's value in giving thoughts a pace (a slowness, a patience and a peace, perhaps?) rather than letting them run as they please.

Deferred hope for serious things, like a world where people of different races at least listen to the struggles, the tears, and the pain of the others--and continue listening until they struggle, cry, and endure pain together on the road to racial reconciliation instead of race blindness.  Deferred hope for less serious things, like comfort for a certain person who's feeling all twisted up right now.  Deferred hope for personal things, like a somewhat stable vision of where I'm supposed to be going in this madness.  Deferred hope for everybody things, like justice for people harassed into homelessness by systematic injustice and inequitable access to resources and catching a tough break.

That verse has a second clause, though: "--but a longing fulfilled is the tree of life."  Honestly, I write this as a reminder to myself: Longings find their ultimate fulfillment in Jesus, who is the True Vine, the River of Life, the Firstborn over all Creation.  God, make me know that that is true; for now I repeat it in faith.  Eh, I'm still feeling sort of deferred at the moment, but this is a good reminder of Advent: "Behold, I am coming soon!" (Revelation 22:7).  Come, Lord Jesus, and let my ultimate longing be for you.  This deferral is making my heart sick.

Touch and Peace

Last week, my community members and I packed up and moved from our spacious and dusty convent to an apartment with strikingly large windows, and simple, lovely light streaming through those windows that I could call disproportionate but I'll instead term bountiful, because there is so much of it and yet it is just right.  It's lovely.

The convent where we had been living had been occupied by volunteers from my shelter for 16+ years. As you might imagine, it collected some fascinating artifacts from its various residents over that span.  One of my favorites was an inconspicuous typed sign taped to the back of one of the bathroom stalls: a "urine prayer" explaining and then offering a prayer to ask God to rid our minds and hearts of emotional and spiritual toxins at the same time as we rid our bodies of toxins in our urine. I wish I'd packed it and taken it with me.

In another stall, a different sign: "Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around." - Leo Buscaglia

It's... I don't know, it's maybe not true, and it's not really groundbreaking to me, and perhaps cliched--but let's not throw the baby out with the bathwater.  All those things, the touch, the smile, the kind word, the listening ear, the honest compliment, the smallest act of caring; they mean something. I suspect that there exist people whose lives have been changed by them, and I appreciate the encouragement to be gentle with people when it's easier to be self-absorbed to the point of gruffness (and it reminds me of that other cliched admonishment to "be kinder than necessary because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle").  All good and well!  But there's an emptiness to that singularity: "a," one.  What about the people who need the listening ear every week of years?  Or every night?  This number, I now think, must have been pulled from the air, but I remember in 9th grade health class being taught that people should receive five hugs per day for their optimum emotional health. (What?)  Then what of about those people who need more than "a touch" for their lives to be turned around?  Those whose trust and self-worth are built by daily acts of caring, by day-in and day-out affirmations of who they are and who they are called to be?  I don't think Buscaglia's quote means he is omitting these things--no zero-sum here!--but what about the long haul?

In another stall, still another sign: "Loneliness is the leprosy of modern society." - Mother Theresa.  Maybe it's because there aren't enough people doing enough small acts of kindness, but maybe it's because not enough small acts of kindness endure to become great and mundane acts of love.

Of all these things which "have the potential to turn a life around," the one I think about most often is touch.  I think about it because of all the things I have the freedom to do at  my job, working as I do with young people who find themselves homeless, this practice of touch is most perplexing. I smile, offer my listening ear, give genuine compliments when the occasion arises, do my utmost to speak kindly, and care as much as I am able.  But touch?

I've sat with residents who are distraught, having just found out they are pregnant while running from domestic violence and living in a shelter and dealing with serious mental health concerns, or having been diagnosed with an STI acquired while living at the shelter on the very day they were to return home to be reunited with their wife, or just being so overcome by the trauma and the pain of the abuse and exploitation and loss.  Sometimes I speak soothingly and sometimes we sit together in silence bearing witness to the sound of falling tears. And there have been times I've offered: Would you like a hug?  Sometimes they say yes and often they say no.

Yesterday there was a resident on my floor who was sick and so was allowed to stay in her room during the day rather than have the door locked.  In the middle of the day, however, some workers came to repair the smoke alarm in her room, and so I went to ask her to leave for 30 minutes (for liability reasons, mostly, to protect youth from possible misconduct by outside workers and to protect those workers from allegations thereof).  (Here I would like to make a side note regarding the absolute value of sleep to healthy human functioning and the relatively low value that institutions, including hospitals but most saliently homeless shelters, place on ensuring that humans can get that sleep: Sleep deprivation is a serious problem for people experiencing homelessness, as it only compounds other issues affecting their situation, and yet due to their homeless status losing sleep is part of a vicious cycle!  See this article for more.  Now, back to the main piece:)  Completely swathed in a blanket, the young woman did not respond as I called her name increasingly loudly.  So, identifying her elbow jutting angularly away from the thin form of her body, I did what I try to avoid doing when waking any residents up: I tapped her very gently.

Her body spasmed frightfully and she quite literally jerked into consciousness, her arms flailing and head erupting from under the covers with wide eyes as she gasped for breath.  I have rarely ever seen anyone so scared.  "Don't ever do that," she panted, eyes darting around the room and eventually identifying my face. "Don't ever do that again.  You are so lucky that I didn't hit you."  It was not a threat, but a helpful warning.  "I must have known somehow that staff was trying to wake me up.  I would have really attacked you."  I apologized: I'm sorry!  I really didn't mean to startle you.  I will not do it again.  Then I asked how I could wake her up in the future that would so she would not be so distressed: "Just scream." 

When I went through my single day of training, I was cautioned against touch.  I don't remember exactly what was said or how it was presented, but I remember being warned.  I'm glad I was--boundaries are important!--but I admit to not fully understanding either.  Certainly, even among my community members, I've learned that touch is not a panacea: one may receive an embrace as an act of comfort, and another as an intrusion.  That's true among residents, too, and I may also find myself in situations, as I did yesterday, where touch is a trigger. But there's an added dynamic when I'm at work, and that's the cloudy idea of "professionalism."

A book I'm reading called Living Gently in a Violent World: The Prophetic Witness of Weakness mentioned this idea of professionalism in a way that pierced me.  It's by Christian theologian Stanley Hauerwas and Jean Vanier, the founder of the L'Arche communities.  Because the background is important, let me give a quick exposition of L'Arche: L'Arche is a collection of small communities where people who are variously differently-abled (what some would call disabled) live with those who are not.  They do so with a mission not to dichotomize as I just have.  Rather, they recognize themselves as one community where all members participate equally, if in different ways, because they are a community and not a group of care-givers living with a group of care-needers. Hauerwas argues that places like L'Arche are prophetic to the church because they provide a true vision of peace, which he defines as requiring slowness and a place.  He writes, "Peace creates time by its steadfast refusal to force the other to submit in the name of order" (2008:46).  War, on the other hand, particularly in an age of mass and social media, globalizes, accelerates, and "real-times" events of the world.  So peace is really about being personal, being present, and being patient: "For at the heart of L'Arche is patience, which is but another name for peace. ... L'Arche requires that those who do this important work learn that time is not a zero-sum game" (2008:47).

Later, Vanier notes, "Living in L'Arche I have learned that it is a revelation for people with disabilities if you say to them, 'There is meaning to your life.'"--and then, this is it!!--"We are not just doing good to them as professionals" (2008:63, emphasis added).

A resident once said to me, a few months ago, that she just wanted someone to care for her who was not paid to do so.  Her sentiment has since been echoed to me several times by other residents.  How to respond to that?  In some ways, I am not a professional: I'm a very recent college graduate, no Master's credentials, living off a collection of simple stipends and trying to figure out whether or not I can give residents who live at my shelter hugs. But there's no denying that I occupy a professional role.  I am not a friend per se, or a counselor, or someone who is free to use touch uncritically, or a fellow community member in the spirit of L'Arche.  I like to think that I care not because I am paid (in kind) to do so.  Yet it remains that I am paid to care, and I am doing good in a professional role.  This professionalism, this sense of having to do and having to document and having to audit and having to justify, can feel at times like war: generalizing, accelerating, real-timing.  There are times of intimate humanity too, but they don't always win out.

I'm working to figure out how I can create peace at my shelter, a place where there is so just so much.  Whether busyness or chaos or activity or anything else, there is much.  Maybe I as one person cannot create this peace, but I'm at least trying to figure out how I can work toward it.  I don't know how to do that while wearing my professional hat.  But I think asking these questions is a place to start, of looking to understand how to be in it for the long haul.  Two places I look for encouragement:

1) The encouragement of Heidi Baker, missionary to Mozambique: "Stop for the one."

2) The words of Paul writing to the Thessalonians, made richer when I think about what it may mean for God to be the God of Peace, that I've recently been meditating on: "May God himself, the God of peace, sanctify you through and through. May your whole spirit, soul, and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do it" (1 Thessalonians 5:23-24).

God, make me a peacemaker, that I may be called your child.

Thanksgiving in a Shelter

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends.  What a strange one it was.  Nevermind that on Thanksgiving Eve, knowing I'd be working most of the actual holiday, I had what is definitely one of the most memorable and delicious Thanksgiving meals I've had so far with a collection of friends and housemates whom I'd known for scarcely more than 3 months, if that.  Well, not "nevermind"; "thank you, Father, for your blessing; I am learning to be content whether well-fed or in want."  It was wonderful.  But it was just such a sharp contrast to my actual Thanksgiving day.

As days at work go, it was a very quiet one.  I got to the youth homeless shelter where I work around 2:30pm and all the residents gathered a 3:00pm for a Thanksgiving dinner complete with tablecloths, apple cider, and pie.  Only about 1/4 of the residents on my floor were there, most of the rest of them having been welcomed back, at least for a few hours, into their homes or their friends'.  Homes they had left or been told to leave because they argued or fought or were gay or got pregnant or went to jail or didn't want to deal with the instability or the abuse or the broken promises.  Homes where a big dinner had been cooked and where people would eat together and then go their separate ways, some back to their bedrooms and some back to a shelter.

It's confusing, to be honest: If you have a family whom you can celebrate Thanksgiving with, why can't you live with them too?  But it's not so simple.  I don't pretend to have the discernment my residents do to tell when Mom's stable enough for them to visit versus when going back will just bring them more rejection and harm.  So I see them dressing up, hair done, and tell them to have a happy Thanksgiving as they leave.

But others stay.  We play charades: "promise ring!" "ginger!" "story!" "Michael Jackson!"  And we watch Ms. Doubtfire.  We talk about the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade and how going once is enough.  We eat the cold cuts that have been delivered to our floor by the kitchen staff to stave off hunger when the Thanksgiving fullness has worn off.  We check on the residents who have chosen to stay in their rooms, alone.  We laugh and chat.

When new residents come to live with us, within their first few days we complete a basic assessment of their history and needs.  It takes the form of a one-on-one conversation with a staff member who asks a series of questions about their housing and homeless history, health and mental health history and status, education, employment status, childhood, abuse and trauma history, arrest history, family and non-family support system, and goals while living at the shelter.  Typically, it takes about an hour.  Around 8:30pm, I found one of the residents whose assessment was in need of completion, and she joined me in the office to conduct it.

Thanksgiving is a terrible day to complete this assessment.  It brings up all manner of painful memories and past traumas, many of them caused by loved ones with the analogues to whom most other people are spending their holiday.  But without this assessment conducted in a timely manner, residents are subject to discharge, and considering that this resident's was overdue, protocol suggested that it was better to be a little emotionally uncomfortable than to not have a bed to sleep in.

Perhaps that sounds harsh or cynical; I do not mean it to be.  To anyone who has not worked in a setting such as a shelter where these regulations are necessary, it seems cold: Answer all these questions that may take you back to places of deep pain, or be kicked back to the curb!  As I've learned, however, the structure is there for a reason, and that reason is to give the best support and services that we can muster to our residents who need them.  Maybe there is a better way to do it (or maybe not, as boundaries and clear expectations have some intrinsic value), but with as many residents as we care for, I don't know it.  So I did the assessment on Thanksgiving night.

We talked about a lot--or at least she did while I listened and tried to keep it moving along with the questions that glared from my computer screen: How her forsaking her family's religion led to a rift in her home that grew until she could no longer live there.  How she does not know where she would be without her school, where she has been well-supported and encouraged to flourish.  How she's been in some damaging romantic relationships.  How much she loved her childhood and how passionate she is about her creative careers aspirations.

And then the last question--of course the last question!  Why is it the last question?  "Have you ever been a victim of sexual abuse?"  And she tells me she has, and lowers her voice, and tells me the details of what happened.  I remind her that she doesn't have to tell me more than she is comfortable telling, and that as she has already requested, I'll make an appointment with her to see one of our social workers soon, as this is a very heavy burden to carry and I don't want her to do it alone.  But she continues: lays out why she used to call it "rape" but now figures maybe he was just "sexually aggressive" even though she said no, why it feels so much like karma, why she was afraid she would die, why...  I've done a lot of these assessments, heard a lot of stories, been present for a lot of retellings of trauma.  After we finish, and I lamely ask her to sign a paper giving us permission to speak to her emergency contact in case of emergency, she leaves and I sit there for a moment to collect myself.  Then I type a summary of what she told me into the little white box on my computer screen, since it seems so inhuman to be typing when someone is trying to tell you that kind of story.

It was by then 10:30pm and my shift was ending.  Feelings are powerful, as is giving them a precise name, but I can't say I knew what I was feeling.  I've long been a faithful student of the declaration that begins Psalm 34: "I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise will always be on my lips."  That is, praise (and gratitude, I think, much like love) is a choice: "I will" is not conditional.  "All times" is not sometimes.  "Always" is not only when things are right.

But I know that on that night I did not feel particularly thankful.  There is, of course, the basal gratitude that I always feel at work: Thank you, Father, that I get to be working here, and that I get to be uncomfortable and sad.  But it was somehow too trite a response to say, "Thank you, Father, that I get to be going home, and that I get to be comfortable and happy."  There is just something wrenching about donning my coat and waving bye to my residents, wishing them a happy Thanksgiving for the final time as they play another round of Sorry! and I walk down the hallway of rooms inside which I knew that some other residents are sitting alone.  Again I remind myself to be content whether well-fed or in want because I know I am well-fed.  But mostly the whole scene feels wrong; I know there is not so simple a response as to say, "Thank you, Lord, that I am not in this situation."  So I left and went home and ate some cold pie and went to sleep and woke up warm.  And now, reflecting again, I wonder if it's the same, or better, to say instead, "There but by the grace of God I go."  I trust the Lord, and I will bless him at all times, but this mystery of the unevenness of grace (unmerited!) disturbs me.  Clinging to something (someOne), I remind myself: Our broken world will be redeemed, and I guess it's enough for now.

Now, knowing that I am very small and peripheral but also that I feel more that I can write and that being a body in the crowd means something, I go to rectify, in part, my regrets: #BlackoutBlackFriday

Regrets

I wish I'd gone back to Times Square last night--nevermind that it was late and I'd have gone alone, nevermind I'd already showered and put on my pajamas, nevermind that there will be more rallies and vigils, nevermind that I had to work an early shift today; nevermind that I was tired; nevermind.  If for no other reason than to let my presence serve as a witness to the sorrow of a world rent by killing and racism and pain, I wish I'd gone back.  I watched the news instead, and wore black in mourning (for the death!  for the protests!  for the doggedness of racism!  for the creation that groans!) today.  But I wish I'd gone back.
#BlackLivesMatter

Moments at work, 11/7/14 edition

N: "Ms. Jessica, did you grow up in the hood?"
me: "Mmm, why do you want to know?"
N: "... I think you did."

Post-Grad Living

[an addendum to the accompanying post from today]

This fragment comes to us from June 10, 2014, though I'm publishing it 4 months later:

I graduated last weekend, and on most fronts I've ostensibly got it together: I have a job, and I bought a car, and I don't have any debt.
But I'm trying to figure out the purpose of these fleeting twenties, a third already having left.

I'd like to point out that while my diploma is still intact in an envelope somewhere at my parents' house, the other three things I had "together" are, humorously enough, not: I quit the job (before starting), sold the car (no need for one in NYC, baby!), and am... well, still not in debt, but not really saving any money since that's tricky to do on a volunteer's salary (read: less financially stable than I expected... see "job" above).  As for the purpose of my twenties, I'm realizing it's not different than any of the other decades: love God, love people, and fear not.