Carol Kinney Student ID # 928059 October 15, 2009 Brad Haines: The Story within the Story My mood today is as horribly dark and gloomy as the weather. I watch from my den window as the sky rotates in progressive shades of yellow, white, and charcoal gray throughout the entire day. Icy cold rain pelts against the windows despite intermittent sunshine. The brilliant, lively, fire like hues of the new autumn cannot even cheer the weeping trees. The last thing that I want to do is brave the frigidness and leave the radiant warmth of home, but I have an appointment to tour the most recent Habitat for Humanity rebuilding site with my dear friend Brad Haines. I have been praying all day long that God takes pity upon me and delivers big, bright, beautiful rays of golden sunlight, or at least make it stop raining. As time marches onward toward departure, He does not appear to be listening to this particular request. Since I have no control over the weather, I grab my heavy, warm, waterproof coat and head out the front door. As I travel through two townships, I notice that there is an unusually odd amount of traffic. I think to myself why aren’t any of these people holed up in their homes the way that I so desperately wish for? Or better yet, why aren’t any of these people headed over to the Habitat house with me today? Then again, when was the last time I have thought about going to actually help? I silently seek to find a legitimate excuse for not helping with Habitat for Humanity, but cannot find one. The Holy Spirit chastises me for judging others and for being in such a rotten mood. “Jesus, forgive me.”
Two blocks away from the site I am barely aware of, but not impressed with, the neighborhood’s newly remodeled, refaced, restructured elementary school. The newness of the building appears to be out of place in this dingy neighborhood. As the road slowly rolls along under the wheels of my automobile, the scenery transitions into something that is more nondescript. This not a neighborhood that many people would wish to live in. The older homes are lived in but not kept up. That is to be expected. The poor economy and extremely high New York State taxes have left people in this locale with little left over to fix up their aging properties. Drawing closer to my destination, a low income housing project lurks in the background and two “babies” pushing babies in simple, inexpensive strollers meander by too slowly for the nasty, cold, soggy drizzle. At last I recognize the Habitat for Humanity house, not because any shiny brass or burnished black metal numbers announce the location. Rather I know this is the place I am slated to be because of the nakedness of the dwelling. There is nothing cuddly about this house even though it is wrapped in a baby-blue blanket of insulation. I absent-mindedly lock the car doors and after being satisfied at the “beep, beep” of the car alarm being activated I hurriedly cross the street, dodging the many menacing coffee colored pools. Why didn’t I remember to throw on my dirty old hiking boots? In order to make it from the crooked concrete sidewalk, I now trek past the lemon yellow port-a-potty and a few wet boards littering the dewy, non-manicured yard that resembles a farmers’ field more than a front lawn. This is fitting as the silhouette of the two story house seems to be almost barn shaped. There is not the flurry of workers that I expect outside, but perhaps they are not relishing the thought of laboring in the coldness any more than I would. A couple of guys appear to be milling about checking the outside electrical system, which I find odd in this wetness. The only sound of
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construction comes from the incessant, aggravating bleeping of a backhoe somewhere down the street. Having not yet encountered Brad’s familiar, friendly face I scurry up to the front entrance of this humble abode. The front door opens quite quickly and startles me a tiny bit as a rather rough looking man informs me that Brad is upstairs. I thank God for this gift to be getting out of the cold and dampness, but realize that I can still see my breath once the door has closed quietly behind me. I glance around quickly. The inside is as bare as the outside, but I notice that it has coziness potential, if only there were some heat, finished floors, and sheetrock for walls. I find these things to be essential to a home. I cannot even appreciate the smell of freshly cut lumber, as I dreadfully fear that the foul weather is leaving me an unwanted gift in the form of a head cold. Feeling like an intruder in someone else’s territory, I do not rush up the stairs. Rather, I call out to Brad who yells “Come on up!” Trudging up the stairs I finally spot Brad. I need to give a second glance, as in this setting he reminds me of my own father, who has long since passed away. He is clothed in dusty work clothes; his dark hair and lighter beard are both a bit ruffled and give him a slightly fatigued appearance. Brad looks a tad thinner than usual. This could be the result of his recent two-thousand mile bicycle trip that he made to raise funds for this Chapter of Habitat for Humanity. Or it can indicate that his membership in Weight Watcher’s is working. As I patiently wait for Brad to finish the task of screwing something to the outside wall, I silently muse that he is a living, breathing contradiction. He is an avid bicyclist who feels it necessary to attend Weight Watchers to keep his weight down, but maintains a strong propensity for Burger King, other dens of fat laden, high caloric demons and Diet Pepsi. This is only made more humorous by the fact that Brad is the only male in the Weight Watcher group and is seventy-two years old. I feel a giggle rising in my throat but do not want to appear rude so I hastily stifle it.
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At last Brad flashes me a gigantic friendly smile. I cannot help but to smile back. We exchange brief pleasantries. I restate my purpose to Brad for this visit. “I am at this Habitat house to observe you in your natural element and to write of your amazing bicycle feats”. He scrunches up his elflike face and does not directly comment on this idea. Instead Brad proceeds to explain to me the ins and outs of what Habitat for Humanity stands for. He clears the common misconception that Habitat for Humanity gives houses away. “Habitat rather acts as the bank so that employed families with low income can afford simple, decent housing with no- interest loans, saving the families thousands of dollars in interest alone”. Brad proudly boasts that only two percent of all Habitat home owners default on their mortgages. Brad notices a woman working through the skeleton maze of walls. He says to me “Have you met Mary Fink? She is the ex-mother-in-law of the father of the family who will be moving into this house”. Without any other greeting, Mary tells me that she is “sanding spackling on the drywall”. Mary is also wearing a huge smile as she tells me about the family that will live here. “The family is a blended family with a total of thirteen children” Mary proudly proclaims and quickly adds that only eight of the “his, hers and theirs” children are living at home. I smile politely as I ask her, “Oh, is that all? Only eight, huh?” I glance around and quizzically wonder to myself, how are all of these kids going to fit in this house? I can clearly see from one end of the house to another, but then again there are no walls to hinder the sight. This house is smaller than my own and we are only four. Mary continues the conversation. “They can’t wait to get into this house. They live in an old farmhouse that has no heat, no insulation and the wind blows through the boards”. Brad rejoins the conversation. “This particular family has not only well surpassed the required five-hundred ‘sweat equity hours’ on their new home, but is also helping
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at another local site for another family.” I cannot imagine how difficult this may be to work on not just one home, but two at the very same time while you patiently wait for warm shelter. Brad tells me, “This build is unique to this family. Habitat has strict new building guidelines in the amount of square footage a family can have, regardless of the size of the family. Since this family has ten, a site for a rebuild was needed. Habitat has no limit on square footage of a rebuild. In order for this chapter to help this particular family; the family has been in their current living conditions for over two years since their application is accepted, while Habitat searched for a home within budget constraints that would accommodate them”. He continues with a sweeping gesture, “The square footage in this house is less than two-thousand square feet.” I feel a gut wrenching embarrassment begin to form in the pit of my soul for living in a home that is just about this size with only four occupants. Brad summons me to follow him. “Would you like a grand tour?” My eager head bobs up and down. I magically slip through the wall like an apparition and follow where Brad leads. In this upper level, there are four modest size bedrooms that are marked off only by the stark framework of solid wood. Brad says “The eight children ranging from four months to fourteen years will cohabitate according to gender and age. Habitat has strict guidelines regarding children in bedrooms. They have to be within the same age bracket and of the same gender, with no more than three to a room.” He brings me to one that is no bigger than some walk in closets I have seen. “This will be the teenage daughter’s room. She has it all planned out. It will be blue and she plans on hanging a lot of pictures on this wall.” Brad’s voice rings with a hint of pride at this, which tells me that he thoroughly loves his work on this home. In addition to the four bedrooms, there is a study area that is open to the downstairs. Brad explains, “So Mother can see what the kids are doing and on the other side of the stairway is
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where the kids’ bathroom is.” Seeing the bathroom reminds me of the “Legend of Brad and the Urinal.” He still endures teasing from mission trip team members as we remember his week long effort to install a urinal in the ladies room of a church renovation, as this is the only place in the facility to put it. I think about bringing this up, but there are more workers entering the house and I do not wish to embarrass Brad. Brad beckons, “Let’s go downstairs.” Brad just stands and grins as I glance around at the lower level. I sense that I am running a bit late and need to move ahead with this interview. I ask Brad about his role in Habitat. I am still attempting to extract the information that I came for before I must return home to cook dinner, attend Bible Study and tend to some homework. He acknowledges my request this time. “My first impression of Habitat for Humanity dates back seventeen years while Julie, my oldest daughter, attends blitz build sites in the Carolina’s during spring break in college. This local chapter is my baby.” I ask, “Are you the President?” “No, no. I’m the Vice President. And I write letters to potential supporters act as chief fundraiser and work on sites. I do something for Habitat every day of the week.” There is not even the slightest hint of bragging on his part, he is just stating a fact. Another work clothed man has now invaded our conversation niche. He must know that Brad is generally a long-winded creature, for he has no patience at the moment. He flips the on switch of a table saw erected upon a makeshift work table in the middle of what will become the family’s living room. The droning, high pitched, squeal and buzzing sends Brad and me on our way toward the back of the house to view what will ultimately become the kitchen. “This is where the counters, stove and refrigerator will go,” Brad maps it out along a small wall. “The sink will go under that window over there,” he continues. I spin around one-hundred-eighty degrees and Brad must know what is on my mind from the puzzled look on my face for he says
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“There will be a long table down this narrow hallway.” He once again smiles at me while I make another attempt to absorb all of this information. It is nearly too much for me to imagine the possibility that ten people will occupy this meager space, let alone a dining room table that is most likely to be two to three times the size of my own. I fear that the guilt I bear must be written upon my forehead in big black and scarlet letters. Another worker who appears before us like a phantom feels that she must chime in. She reiterates what Mary Fink tells me upstairs. “The insulation alone in this house is six-hundred times better than they have now, as they have none.” She did not wait for a reaction or a reply and as quickly and silently as she came, was gone to do whatever task that she had come to accomplish today. As Brad and I peer out of a crystal clear, albeit curtain-less, window off the back of the house, I now begin to realize a strong sense of urgency for this family. The sky is still giving forth the near frozen drizzle that has been haunting all day long, with no hope of ending anytime soon. “When will the home be finished?” I ask. It is the last day of September that feels like the first day of December. Brad loses his smile for the first time. “We are hoping and praying that they will be in by Christmas.” With a proposition of sorts in mind, “What would it take to make that happen?” He replies flatly, “Two extra months of time.” Immediately my wheels begin to turn. Like the weather that I cannot change, I cannot add that extra time. But as Mission Leader of our congregation, I can arrange for more workers. We discuss the possibilities and make plans. Brad is careful not to pass judgment of others who are not helping, noting “I can do so much because I’m retired and I have no kids at home.” I know this is Brad’s loving way of not letting me feel guilty, but it does not work. We continue the tour by glancing out the door at the big, barren back yard. “Are there plans for a great big swing set for all of these kids?” I ask pointing to a plot of land that is perfect for
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such a structure. “Oh, I don’t know. We cannot build a swing set, or even pave a driveway,” Brad answers as he points in the direction of the front of the house where pea sized gravel and mud lay in wait to dirty any potential vehicle that dares to settle there. Their goal is to provide simple, affordable housing. He speaks of past instances where there have been questions from donors or supporters that cause the local board to be cautious when providing so-called extras. “We have a professional painter in our group that volunteered to make one home special for the family. He donated all of the time and materials to do the fancy swirls on the ceilings. When the house was done and dedicated some supporters made comments that the ceilings were too fancy and not simple enough for a Habitat house.” Brad reinforces this with an example of an electrician who gave all of his own materials and time to provide the home of another family, data ports in the living areas of the home for easier computer access for homework. This apparently caused quite a stir. I shake my head at how petty people can be. Why would people deny others some simple comforts when they may have these so called “luxuries” in their own homes? Once again I shoot a “Forgive me, Jesus” toward heaven as my judgmental side once again rears its ugly head. While I lose the urgency to continue onward with the tour, Brad must want to return to the manual labor that he came to do today, for we hurriedly finish touring the downstairs areas of the home. The tour comes to an end as we round the living room, the mudroom that will double as a toy storage area, and the parent’s bedroom. No grand master suite here; that would definitely not go over well with supporters. The last stop on the tour is the downstairs bathroom, not yet outfitted with only a sink, a toilet and stand up shower. There is room for a washer and dryer if the family has one, but nothing more.
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The gentleman with the saw is anxiously peering over his shoulder and waits for us to finish to that he can once again begin the buzzing work that he needs to do. A few more workers are filing into the house and I check my cell phone clock. It announces that I must be on my way. I thank Brad for his time after making plans to discuss his bike trips in detail and hurriedly scamper out the door in which I initially entered this home. On the quick drive home I am determined that I will organize a work trip or two for our church to the Habitat site, which I do that next Sunday. I am excitedly making mental notes about what my family can do to help as I run into the local Wal-mart. While in the canned soup aisle, I run into a friend and we catch each other up on the latest news. I smile as I listen to her rambling about all that she has to do this weekend. She must prepare her twenty-five-hundred square- foot summer home on the Saint Lawrence River for winter and to get her husband to complete the renovation on her new kitchen at home. I recognize the same guilt showing on her face that I am feeling, as I describe to her what I did this afternoon and the family involved. I encourage her to grab her husband and join the crew to help this family. Whether she does or not is not the issue. Like the weather and time, I have no control over what others do. Leaving Wal-mart, I reflect over the afternoon’s adventure. I realize my foul mood no longer reflects the foulness of the weather. I note that I begin the visit calling the Habitat site merely a house, to rightfully christening it a home. I also learn that initially I want to honor the man that I know Brad to be by forcing him to be the main subject of this essay. In a true Christian fatherly manner, Brad taught me that while he does fill many roles in the local Chapter for Habitat for Humanity, he is not the lead story. He is just one story within the story. He did not even have to voice it aloud in order to be heard. I thank Jesus for using Brad to show me the truth.
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APPENDIX A One of Brad Haines’ major roles in the local Habitat for Humanity Chapter is Chief Fundraiser. His passion for Habitat plays into his unusual form of fundraising. In the past eleven years, he has taken to the highways and byways of scenic America by way of bicycle seven times. Before Brad leaves for a trip, he spends countless hours taking pledges from churches, groups and individuals to raise funds for Habitat. He is pleased to proclaim, “All funds raised locally are tithed to the international Habitat organization to build housing in third world nations.” In the summer of 2000, Brad takes the longest journey which covers roughly three-thousand, eight hundred miles from Florence, Oregon to the shores of York Beach, Maine. Brad announces, “I have bicycled nearly fourteen-thousand, six-hundred miles for Habitat.” A giant map in his family room proudly follows the route of each of the trips in different colors. Two of the trips have literally been from ocean to ocean. Brad likes to dip the back tire of his wheels into the shallow water of one ocean as he is departing and the front tire in the opposite body of water as he completes his journey. This year, Brad completes his seventh trip. “I began in a little hole-in-the-wall town called Bruce Crossings, Michigan and ended up in Charleston, West Virginia. I covered two-thousand miles and crossed into some part of twelve different states in thirty-two days. The trip actually took thirty-seven days, but I took a couple of days off”. “I camped in thirty different campgrounds during that trip” Brad adds as if it is a badge of honor. Brad concludes by giving credit where credit is due. “I cannot take these trips without my wonderful wife, Harriet for two reasons. The first is that she is my wing person. The second is that I would miss her way too much.” Harriet has driven the family vehicle on each trip, as she is
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not a bicyclist. They begin the day by Brad riding off into the sunrise and Harriet going ahead to explore the various towns and cities of America. As Brad peddles his heart and legs off, she meanders through small town stores, lingers in public libraries and talks to the homegrown locals. It is a good thing that Harriet’s goal is to visit every state capital in the United States, as Brad’s passion affords her to strive for such aspirations. Once Brad is exhausted from peddling an average of seventy or more miles each day, they meet up and set up their home-away-fromhome tent at a local campground, settle in for the evening and begin again the next day. This year, they spring for a hotel room for a few of the nights during the course of the journey. I ask Brad if this year’s journey is the last, as the ever more increasing limp from a faulty sciatic nerve is showing in his gait. “I don’t know,” is all he says. If I know Brad, it will not be for if it is only one other passion he has besides Habitat, Jesus and his family, it is bicycling.
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