Theme of the week...now that it's half over

Things I've done this week that seem to have been birthed from insane courage:

Sent some messages to some of my writing heroes today for ideas on how to get more serious about my writing. Holding on to hope that the something great to come of it will be that they actually land on the "keep" piles from their assistants.

Applied for a job that I know I can do but never have; it's completely out of my realm of experience but totally in line with my talents. Hoping they see that.

Shared my heart with a loved one regarding a serious concern.

Corresponded with a marketing rep about writing a blog post for their company campaign after I initially said no to their "cold call" e-mail. (hint: yes, I am!) I have no idea where I stand with this because their guidelines keep changing.

Eight is great...

I love this picture of you. 

It makes me just want to squeeze ya and kiss every one of those cute little freckles on your face.

And maybe tickle you till you burst.

I see the joy you bring to our lives with that smile.

I also see a sharpening of your cheeks and jawline that hints of time going by, of the inevitable transition  you'll be making from boy-child to a man.

Teaching Honest Beauty

I fell asleep last night in my Sunday-best hair and make-up.

Oh, c'mon, like you're so perfect you never wake up with crusted on mascara? Psh...

Pics or it didn't happen, you say? 

Well, here ya go.

Caution: Eyes are more red and puffy than they may appear.
Because my eyes are delicate flowers.

We scare because we care. 

Ooops, I meant I share because I care.

I care about an honest look at beauty.

I do not see a pushing-40 woman with blotchy skin, fine lines, bags under her eyes, etc. 

Ok, well I do have eyes in my head, so yes, I see her.

Let's try that again: while my eyes may see a pushing-40 woman with blotchy skin, fine lines, bags under her eyes, etc., my heart sees a tired mama hen rising before the shine in order to get her little chickies off to school at an ungodly hour with full and warm bellies, lunches for later, and encouragement to start their days.

That's beauty.

Gentleness...it benefits us all

Unsplash: Lukas Robertson

I've gotten a bit busy this week, so I'm pulling an oldie but goodie from the archives today.

My husband was our church's groundskeeper for several years.

What started out as occasionally mowing the lawns and keeping the weeds at bay in the parking lot ended up being a 10-year volunteer stint. He started doing it solo when Kelsey was just a baby, and over the years it became a family thing.

I wrote this post almost 6 years ago - and while gardening might not be your thing, the lesson God impressed upon me is one that anyone can use.

Rosebed Theology

This year, the rose garden has been particularly afflicted by morning glories.

This season started out as uncharacteristically wet - April and May just rained and rained and rained.

Not quite that long, but it felt that way!

And being that there were three children and two jobs to attend to, the rare sunny day we'd get was usually a day full of scheduling for activities other than weeding.  It has still rained/hailed more than normal here, but this summer has since gotten into a dreadfully-hot-followed-by-afternoon-thunderstorm pattern that is typical of Colorado.

The rose bed got to me a couple of weeks ago, though, and I said, "We have got to go rip out those weeds, the roses look pitiful!"

So we did.  After 4 hours in the heat (not raining [in the mornings] now!)of squatting and crouching, getting scratched to hell, tending to 4 mischievous kids (we were babysitting, too) I was D-O-N-E.  And boy howdy did my hamstrings howl for the next several days!

It was hard work and hardly entertaining, yet somehow I managed to hear the whisperings God directed toward my heart about the inherent lessons of the rose garden.

First of all, it didn't take long at all for these horrible, life-choking weeds to grow to the extensive mess they'd become.

Sin is like that.

Ok,so maybe God didn't whisper that one to me as much as he gave those words to Seth for him to teach our older boy with and I just overheard. Same difference, right? Whatever - the rest is all mine!

And these plants weren't new either - they were mature, well established roses, but every bit as susceptible to the weeds as any Christian is to sin.

Second, the roses couldn't undo the entanglement on their own, nor did they cry out for help, necessarily.  No, they were dependent on the astute observation and careful intervention of others.
  
Brothers and sisters, if someone is caught in a sin, you who live by the Spirit should restore that person gently.  But watch yourselves, or you also may be tempted. Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. 


At one point, my Mr. Fix-It observed, "You must be a lot more patient than I am."

This, being a statement filled with irony, garnered a quizzical 'say wha???' look from me.

He then explained that he was just ripping the vines at the bottom of the plant and pulling, whereas I was carefully finding the base of the vine and unwrapping each rose stem individually.  He concluded, "Yours look way better than the ones I've done."

That much was true, but before he went on thinking too highly of me, I told him the truth: "Actually, it's more out of self-preservation than it is patience."

It was my turn to elaborate.

"You see, when I was all fast and furious about it, I would get all scratched up, plus, it tore the roses up too.  When I take my time and am gentle about it, sure it takes longer, but both the roses and I benefit."

No sooner did the words leave my mouth than I felt God's Spirit, nodding beside me.  ....restore...gently.  But watch yourselves, or you also may be tempted.  

Tempted to do what?

Rush the job, haphazardly 'fixing' the situation, leaving yourself and the stuck person, albeit no longer stuck, bleeding and bruised on the way?

Judge the person and fight to wrestle the sin at hand out of that beautiful rose of a person, only for both of you to come out battered and missing pieces?

No matter how good intentioned one may be, if they haven't love or gentleness when dealing with a brother or sister stumbling into, or stuck plumb in, sinful habits, there will be casualties.

Proceed with caution, assume nothing (as often there's more than meets the eye), and lean on the Lord's understanding, not your own.

Accountability: The Great Fit Life Venture

At the beginning of 2017, I vowed that this year was mine to reclaim my health through weight change - I wasn't after loss for the sake of losing as I definitely want(ed) to reduce my bodyfat and increase my muscle. I also wanted to feel better in general with sufficient energy levels and fewer aches and pains.

Now, I'd made these kind of resolutions before, so I did a some things I hadn't before.

Thing Number 1: The Big {Fat} Hairy Audacious Goal (called a BHAG in the business world)

Drop 60 pounds by the end of 2017

Trauma, Arrested Development, and Grace

Photo by thomas henke on Unsplash

It is difficult when victimized people get stuck, because yes, something(s) awful happened.

But...

At some point we have to own our stories and decide whether the hard times DEfined us or whether they REfined us.

Maybe we were completely blameless for whatever incident(s) occurred against us. This is most often the case. The traumatic event was absolutely beyond our control. 

But after? We have control of what happens next. Trauma, either via force of nature or executed by another person who chose to act from evil, is not the author of our stories. A pivotal plot device, perhaps, but not the outcome or source of definition for our souls.

We are the ones who can choose between escapism and moving our futures forward; between hardening our hearts against future hurts and becoming vulnerable, to the point of brokenness, so that love and all its risks might live again; between living a life of emptiness as just a skeleton of who we once were, and [re]building a life with fullness and meaning; between constantly carrying the heaviness of our shame, projecting it on others with deflections of blame for the way we act now, and letting it go, accepting responsibility for our actions during the after.

These are agonizing choices; they may leave us more battle fatigued and scarred than the initial trauma ever was. But, when we choose the path of survivorhood rather than that of victim, we rise like a phoenix from the ashes, emerging more powerful, awesome, and beautiful than we were before. We can pour that beauty into others yet to be preyed upon by evil, ignorance, hatred, or abuse, and multiply the impact of one victim's transformation by supporting others as they seek the same path.

Or, we can become paralyzed, holding on to the burden of trauma so tightly that everything else slips through our grasp. The trauma feeds on us like a parasite, creating a shell of the person we once were. We are blinded to good deeds, thinking only the worst, allowing no alternate possibilities to exist in our minds. And we push loved ones away with this skewed reality until the worst becomes reality, indeed. We become stunted in our personal development, unable to support and help others without ulterior motives or manipulations in play. It all becomes a vicious game of Hurt or Be Hurt, either option becoming the fuel for that perpetual prophecy birthed from our fears, unforgiveness, maladaptive coping mechanisms (those things that numb us from life, addictions to sex, drugs, alcohol, gambling, bingeing, compulsive lying, etc) and we are never truly free.

I choose to be a warrior.

A Parent's Take on 13 Reasons Why

PLEASE NOTE:  If you experience suicidal thoughts or have lost someone to suicide, the following post could be potentially triggering. You can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741. You can also call 1-800-273-TALK (8255). The Alliance for Suicide Prevention offers local support in Larimer County.

The other day, I was scrolling through Facebook (something I am doing entirely too much of lately in my unemployment) and came across an article for The Mighty called "Why I Wish I Didn't Watch 13 Reasons Why."

I'd seen the trailer for the show on Netflix some time ago, but quickly forgot about it. This article revived my interest in the series, and because I am the obnoxious type who actually likes spoilers, I read the review first.

speaking faith into existence

Have you ever noticed that praying out loud is often more effective than the silent "pray in your head" kind of prayer?

I have always known that about myself, but always attributed it to the way my mind always has way too many browser tabs open at any given time. I didn't really think about praying out loud vs. praying in one's mind as being a universal issue.

Until last night.

Our church has been doing a Sunday sermon series on Philippians for the last several weeks. For Sunday evening small groups, we've been discussing some of the key points our pulpit minister made that morning. Yesterday's text was Philippians 4:4-7:

4 Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! 5 Let your gentleness* be evident to all. The Lord is near. 6 Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. 7 And the peace of God,which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

* or, cool-headedness 

A lot of the sermon focused on modern day anxiety and how joy ≠ happiness. 


At group, we talked a lot about both of those things. Regarding joy, we talked a lot about how it is a perspective issue rather than an emotional feeling. Bringing in the context of the rest of the book, much is mentioned about humility, and I noted that submission to God's will and to the idea of "considering others as better than yourself" makes the way for a joyful outlook where we can see the big picture outside of our current situation. It was repeated often that living a joyful life is not about being a Suzy Sunshine Christian (see also, Ned Flanders), and understanding that one can be sorrowful and joyful at the same time is a key concept to living with an authentic sense of joy. 

Case in point, Jesus in the garden on the eve of crucifixion. He wept, and struggled with the pain he was about to endure, but he knew that by fulfilling God's promises, he would restore humanity's relationship with the Father. What greater joy could there have been, knowing that HE would be the vehicle to change countless lives through the ages?

Then, a chain of thoughts bubbled up in me as I focused in on verse 6. 

We are made in the image of God → God spoke creation into existence → by speaking our prayers out loud, we speak our trust in the Lord into existence → we also speak into existence tangible reminders of what the Lord has done for us when we offer these prayers "with thanksgiving" → as these things transform from jumbled thoughts to uttered reality, the peace of God sets upon us, whether it makes sense or not. 

And joy springs from that sense of peace.


I don't know if it was as mind-blowing to the rest of the group as it was to me, but it was a light-bulb moment for me, and made me think about how active participation in worship, singing the lyrics into existence versus just listening along, verbally asking God for wisdom, verbally acknowledging the big picture (salvation) and small picture (health, material things, etc) things He has done for us, is so important in growing our faith. 


Reminds me a bit of the Velveteen Rabbit:

“Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit. 

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful.

'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.” 

Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

When we speak our faith into existence often enough, it becomes Real. 


And when our faith is Real, we don't mind being hurt.


That's no small thing.

a homecoming in the making

Some things will never change. Some things will always be the same. Lean down your ear upon the earth and listen.       

---Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home Again 

March 4, 2015

She sat, a pale and fragile 73, in the recliner, cannula snaking out of her nose down to the oxygen canister that pumped life-sustaining air into her body. 

Mere days out of the hospital following a cardiac episode for which the hospital attending physicians and the VA docs couldn't agree upon a diagnosis, she broke my heart as I searched for signs of the spirited woman I grew up knowing as Grandma.

Heart attack, said the doctors at the hospital, who'd tended to her from the ambulance to admission.

Transient Ischemic Attack, or a series of mini-strokes, said the VA doctor who read all the records of her admitting symptoms and saw her for follow-up.

Whatever had happened, it wasn't clear if she was out of the woods yet or if she would make it there. So Mom and I had thrown a rushed trip together to see her, the details of getting there ended up being dramatic enough for a Lifetime TV movie. 

That's a story in its own right. Most of it was told on Facebook, but the details - man, you can't make that stuff up. 

It was a wild ride, touch and go for a while, but eventually, we made it.

As we entered Grandma's house - not the home I'd grown up with her living in, she'd moved to the Tri-Cities sometime in the late 90s after Mom had moved us to Colorado - we met a haze of thick cigarette smoke. 

She sat, a pale and fragile 73, in the recliner, cannula snaking out of her nose down to the oxygen canister that pumped life-sustaining air into her body. 

I took the woman in before me with my eyes. She was thinner than I'd ever seen her, hair stark white, and pallid skin devoid of color. Had she not brown eyes, she could have passed as an albino. This was not the chain-smoking, dirty-joking spunky ole broad who always had her hair setting and nails painted of my youth.

I'd known to expect that - she had been in a declining state at my sister's wedding 6 years earlier. I'd known that her mobility was severely impaired, and it followed that, of course, she would have atrophied further.

For some reason, I guess I had some kind of fairy tale thinking that once we were in Washington again, that she would be herself in her own place. The head and the heart don't always work so well together, ya know?

We greeted each other, shyly and yet possessed by the raw hunger of emotions elicited by a a loved one's brush with mortality: repressed love suddenly bursting forth from compartments in the heart that were previously wrapped shut with ambivalence, and the Fear of losing time to say the Important Things that comes with the weighty dawning of reality that said time is growing ever shorter.

My uncle was there. David and I had been close when I was little, before he went to jail at age 16 and the arc of his life changed dramatically. He had taught me how to play chess as a pre-schooler and we played often. After he'd been in lock-up, he came back hardened, older, and had his own family to tend to not long upon re-entry to the world. Always a smartass, he played people with his wit, often in a game of hurt or be hurt. And sometimes the stings went deep. But, damn if he didn't love his people with a ferocity I've not seen matched by anyone else in my life. I always could count on him when it came down to it.

He made some snide comment to Mom about her weight and his face beckoned the challenge to her, "C'mon, sister, bring it on!"

He damn near killed me when he turned to me and the first words asked of me in oh some 20 years were, "So, you still play chess?"

I told him no, but quickly built rapport by good-naturedly throwing my Mom under the bus. Casting a [mock] baleful glance at my mother, I retorted, "Somebody moved me 1,200 miles away from my chess teacher 20something years ago. I seem to have forgotten how to play." My eyes may have leaked as I reflected on how he deliberately chose something of meaning to say to me, instead of some crass attempt to bruise with humor. He came and hugged me strongly. I felt a tear or two land on my shoulder, and my fissured heart cracked a little wider.

It hadn't been as long since I'd seen my aunt or my cousin, but still over a decade, so we embraced each other and worked to overcome the disjointed and awkward intimacy of being close family relatives who are practically strangers, having to merge who we were now with who we remembered each other to be so long ago.

Upon making ourselves comfortable, Grandma struggled to light herself a new cigarette.

Mom got up sharply and removed the cannula, saying, "I wish you wouldn't smoke with that on - it's so dangerous!"

Grandma shot her a black-humored look over the top of her glasses, chin cocked downward, seemingly bolstering herself for a fight.

There's a glimpse of that ole broad, I thought to myself, as a half-grin emerged on my face. Here we go!

"Mom, I'm not going to tell you to quit smoking - just don't do it with the oxygen, ok? I know that quitting isn't going to undo the damage that has been done and it is a comfort to you as a stress relief. I'm not interested in making you give that up when everything else is going to crap. I want you to be happy, so I'm not going to fight about the cigarettes. But, Jesus, be safe about it, ok?" my mother pleaded with her.

What happened next haunts me, and drives my desire to make others feel like they matter, in the work I do, in the faith I walk, and especially with the people I love.

Grandma rolled her eyes, pursed her lips, and looked around at all her medicine bottles, tubes, the walker she was forced to never be without, and said, "Tara, I'm not happy." 

Unspoken, she said, I'm old and my body is failing. My family is not Rockwellian or even similar to the Roseanne Barr show. I have regrets. A lot of regrets. And I'm sorry, but there sure as shit ain't nothing I can do about it now.

Later that week, we were sitting around and Uncle David tossed out some memories for Mom.

"Hey, remember that time Howard beat the shit out of mom, and we......" I don't even remember the story that followed - I was stuck on how nonchalant he was about what should have been a terrifying event. But it had been an all-too-common, normal even, piece of their childhood.

They reminisced about it, laughing that protective, gallows-humor chuckle that just barely covers gut-wrenching pain from the past.

Oh, Lord, does it grieve you as it does me?

How many times had she been beaten in front of them?

How many times had her children been beaten in front of her and she felt helpless to do anything about it?

How much shame and self-loathing did she still carry for allowing it, and other unspeakable abuses that occurred, to go on as long as it did?

How many times and in what ways had she been victimized as a child?

Had she ever felt loved unconditionally? 

That her life had purpose and meaning somewhere beyond all the abuses, lies, betrayals, and failures?

Does she know You love her - no matter what - and that she is precious? 

Has she ever felt her worth as You created her to be, not to be used and manipulated by men?

She sat, a pale and fragile 73, in the recliner, cannula snaking out of her nose down to the oxygen canister that pumped life-sustaining air into her body. 

The hardness of her life had finally caught up with her, trapping her in the shell of a declining body and the double-edged sword of a still-sharp mind. 

What we'd all missed for so long suddenly was plain and clear for all to see.

The erosion of her spirit began long ago, long before my time, I'm sure. Over the years, the constant pressure had to have depleted her in an ongoing manner, but because people saw her day to day, the changes weren't that noticeable. I sat there, looking at her in awe and sadness, able to see the canyon-like caverns in her joy, her spunk, and her energy. Life had been wearing away at her all this time, and only now with the passage of a lot of time had the erosion become noticeable.

My career has centered around poverty alleviation and human services programs that act as safety nets and/or create greater self-sufficiency. A lot of the work in recent years has shifted toward generational poverty. And this is well and good, as Scripture tells us we must address material needs of the poor in James 2:

15 Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food. 16 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?

But this poverty in spirit, this brokenness without hope for the future that I see in so many members of my family, the participants served by my employer, can be generational, too. And that also must be addressed.

May we be kind. May we be intentional. May we be seekers of those in need of love, and be prepared to give love to them when we find them. May we forgive things long past us.

I cannot bear the thought of people going to their deaths with such despair, self-loathing and loneliness.

***********
In the past year, I have spoken more with my grandma, aunt, uncle and cousin than I probably have combined in the last 10 years, particularly this spring.

Grandma kept asking me if we would be able to come out for the family reunion this summer, and I was hesitant.

We're busy. It is expensive. My family is colorful and very complicated. My kids are pretty sheltered. Etc.

But I couldn't quit hearing and seeing her defeat.

"Tara, I'm not happy."

So I started re-evaluating our budget, and an epic road trip was born.

The kids and I are going to embark upon a 10-day 3,000+ mile road trip to the PNW starting July 30th.

We've got a full itinerary and the excitement is building.

The kids have never been west of Vernal, UT, nor north of southern Wyoming, have never seen the ocean, are total history buffs, and are about to get a healthy dose of family roots, for better or for worse.

There will be a lot of feels, since I haven't been back to Kelso, my hometown, since 1999, and the house that built me is still around. We will drive by the old neighborhood for sure.

We told Grandma a couple of weeks ago, and she called me (a rarity!) Sunday to talk more about it.

And I heard her say, "I can't hardly wait."

We can't either, Grandma. It's gonna be great.

Purer in Heart

Wednesday my youngest son's school brought all the 1st grade classes on a field trip.

I, in my typical want to compensate for the lack of school volunteering, went as a parent helper. I, of course, had that one kid. The kid who doesn't heed instructions or redirection unless he thinks it is his own idea. But it worked out all right.

As we were walking to our various stations, we'd pass kids from the other groups. One of these classmates had a visible simplicity of mind and a difference in his gait. He also had his own adult providing individual care to him. Whether she was his mother or para wasn't clear to me..

We made eye contact, me and this precious soul.

And in a too-loud voice, timbre deeper than most 8th grade boys, he called out, to anyone who would hear, "Hi! Hi!" holding his hand up in a static wave so as to let everyone know the source of this raucous greeting.

"Hi," I said brightly, smiling as I held my group at bay for the moment.

"Wha's yer name?" he asked with an odd cadence, putting the emphasis on "yer."

I caught the microgesture of his adult helper, the ducking of the head and tug on his hand making both the unspoken plea to "quit bothering this poor lady," and apology to me.

But I wanted to let him know, he's not a bother.

And, knowing my own daughter's "twice exceptional" status with tendencies toward the autism spectrum and a giftedness that makes her very book smart, often left her struggling to engage in exploratory social interactions, not to mention the awareness of just how often this little guy probably got ignored, I responded.

"My name is Heather," I answered with a smile as my hand echoed his own still gesture.

"Oh! Hi!" he said with a megawatt beam of a smile as his helper smiled back faintly, urging him on.

Later in the day, I took my group for a bathroom break, when my toothy grinned, auburn locked new friend passed by once more.

"Hi! Wha's yer...." he began, and I recognized her embarrassment again.

"Wait, yer Heather, right?"

I nodded, smiling broadly as the pride of his remembering rippled across his face. His adult helper relaxed, some.

"You remembered," I said, initiating a celebratory fist bump with him, putting his aide at ease and pushing this happy-smiled angel over into a dreamy bliss.

"Yes, Heather....yer My Heather."

It takes virtually no effort to change someone's day, and often the reward profoundly impacts you.

I can't get that sweet boy out of my head.

I wish that we were all so pure of heart that joy would be so easily grasped. Instead, we cover our joys with worry, envy, conceit, etc.

Lord, give me a simple mind and a joyful heart. Help me see the significance of the seemingly insignificant actions and their impacts always. Help me to encourage those around me.

"Purer in heart, O God, help me to be;
Teach me to do Thy will most lovingly;
Be Thou my Friend and Guide,
Let me with Thee abide;
Purer in heart, help me to be."

Amen.

this job

I just happen to be blessed enough that this ^^ is the job of my dreams

Yes, it's another post about how much I love my new job. It truly never gets old.

The people. Both with whom we serve and for whom we serve.

The energy. In the community, in the opportunities waiting at the state and federal levels.

But mostly?

Because this work has been my heart's desire as long as I can remember.

Social work is a hard field.

Resources are limited. Despair is plentiful. Crises rule. Political ideology divides the community.

But still, hope rises, beauty emerging from the ashes of a broken spirit.

And that is the hook for me. 

That triumphant ascension of a restored spirit is so damned beautiful. I am drawn like a moth to the flame - it might hurt a bit or even a lot, but I just can't resist being part of the process.

Today, I facilitated a meeting with my employee (still in training) and a participant whose case is complicated (but aren't they all?). At the end, my staff member thanked me for my help and guidance, saying, "To see and hear how others word things and how they encourage our participants is so helpful to me. You taught me a lot today."

It made me think of a few of the most vivid memories of my career....

The first time I put my blood, sweat and tears into my work...(read the entire post here , but the most important part follows):

.... There he was sitting on a bench on the sidewalk.

“How's it going this evening, sir?”
“Purty good, girl, now whatcha up to?" he slurred.
He's pretty well lit you know.
“You're pretty quick," I said with a wink. "Well, my friends and I are doing surveys for the statewide homeless count that's going on tonight, and I wondered if we could take a few minutes of your time and go over the survey. Everything is completely private and cannot be traced back to you. Whaddya say, huh?" ...
… At the last question, asking what services had he attempted to access but couldn't obtain, he verbally offered up "respect," as the number one thing he wanted but couldn't get.
I showed him the paper, and said, "Look, I want you to see me write that down. I think it's very important that the state know this is important to you. What about the rest of these, housing, job assistance, clothing....?"
… We crossed over the intersection to head up north on the west side of the street we'd just been on. Shortly after, Seth directed us to look across the street. Our guy had already put on the t-shirt in his goodie bag”
We just made his night didn't we?" Seth asked incredulously.
I nodded, misty-eyed. "He may not remember it tomorrow, but for a few minutes tonight he was reminded that he matters."

The time I was going to grad school and Christ showed up as a homeless man.

… It was then that I saw Him.

I thanked the Lord for showing Himself to me, as I walked past the homeless man who’d just scored the remnants of a to-go box out of the trash. I hurried past him returning to my plastic bag of goodies, saw it was still there, grabbed it and started back toward the man.

When I stopped at the bench on the sidewalk where he sat, he looked puzzled, his face begging the question, “Didn’t you just walk past me?”

“How’s it going?” I asked him with a smile.

He looked up skeptical, but overall in good spirits. “Good, how ‘bout yourself?”

“Good. Hey, you’ll probably think I’m crazy, but I just last night bought a bunch of snacky-type food that I really only need a little of – and when I walked by you the first time, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps I could share my extras with you. Could you use some bagels and whatnot?”

His face lit up – sure, he said, he could use all the help he could get. However, he told me, he only had room for some, not all of what I was planning on giving him.

It is always so poignant to me when those in need reveal that they haven’t lost all of their need for human dignity, despite primal survival instincts.
We sat and talked, with no strings attached to case management or service plans, for a good 45 minutes on that bench.

Passersby stared at us, this unlikely pairing of a grubby old chronic and a young professional woman, neatly done up for the day.>/p>

His name was Rick. He was a vet who had fallen in love with the rich culture of the “old world,” while stationed overseas, and felt that we Americans had no culture in the arena of art or history, and what we did have was being replaced with TV, technology and rampant materialism. Somewhere along the conversation, he asked me why I was “bothering” with him. I told him I used to work with the homeless in Fort Collins, but that I was out of the “business” nowadays. I told him I missed the contact.

....In short, our conversation was highly enjoyable, intelligent discourse covering a vast array of topics.

Rick asked my name, and I told him, saying, “I don’t know that we’ll ever meet again, but it does feel good to know a person’s name, huh?”

He agreed, saying perhaps we would meet again, that we “never know.”

I bid Rick adieu, shook his hand unabashedly, and headed down to the university.

And the time after I'd put my career on hold.

Yesterday I received an e-mail from my former boss telling me that a woman, let's just call her Ladybug, had stopped by the office looking for me. She thought that Ladybug had been a former housing client of mine.

I looked at Ladybug's name and indeed, she was a former housing client of mine....

Today I called her, and we talked a bit before she revealed the reason for her wanting to get in touch with me. Being pregnant, I teared up with emotion when she told me that the 4 (or more? she couldn't remember anymore) people who'd been put in my housing coordinator position over the past 5 years have "never even come close to how good you were, Heather. Never. And I think about you a lot.”

We talked some more and at the end, Ladybug asked me shyly, "Is it ok if I keep your number and call if anything else comes up?"

I'm not a social worker anymore, and now I can put myself forward as just a person who loves others as Christ has shown me to do.

As a social worker, this would have been a taboo move to make, but there was something freeing about the answer I put forth: "Sure, Ladybug. Maybe we can even get lunch together sometime."

Whether I'm on a payroll or not, my heart longs to be helping others, in big, transformational ways down to the reaffirming display that I recognize someone's worth, even if society does not.

And I am so filled with joy to not only be doing it again, but this time, training others as they join me.

Someone once told me: