9 minute read
He weaved webs of his history
He called me, with a raspy voice and poor connection, asking to meet. After months and years of smiles and waves, attempts to connect, he invited me in. I drove around the landfill looking for a place to park, fighting the fear that he wouldn’t like me or wouldn’t show. I walked, giddy, nervous and hopeful, preparing myself for the possible scenarios ahead. I approached the entrance; neatly cut squares from tarps once used for shelter were laid as a long red carpet, duct taped somehow to the moist and muddy ground. Tents, containers, suitcases and grills were everywhere, his significant awards. I noticed everything and knew I was missing much, and I felt a slight dread that there were no signs of him. I called his name. I noticed areas made for comfort to mimic the ‘other world’s’ versions of dining rooms and dens. His kitchen area, though cluttered, felt cozy and warm. I noticed a pile in the back area move and his cane poked out. I tried my best not to seem so excited. I worried he would not like me and would call me out for being too hopeful and cheery or not quite knowledgeable enough. I was concerned his requests would be too much, too daunting, and too heavy to take home. What might I uncover that I would not want to see, hear, or learn so I could remain in my current comfortable state of grace? These anxieties cascaded down on me, landing in that allfamiliar ache in my heart. So often, so much work feels wasted as you reach what you think is the finish line, but he is gone, and you must sweep up and start again. Sometimes you find the connection is permanently severed, and at other times, starting over is that Groundhog Day experience of begging, explaining, advocating, re-advocating, bargaining, and exploring. He probably scratched his head, wondering, ‘Will she let me down as they all do? Is she up to this? Is she passionate? Can I trust her to give me grace like I am giving her?’ I watched as his cane emerged from the pile. I was tense with questions about what this initial encounter could entail. Years of what felt like chasing him without outcome would finally come to a head.
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He fumbled and almost fell out, laughing slightly as he picked up his hat and walked toward me slowly, tears in each eye glistening as he thanked me for showing up. I wanted to take my mask off to show him how I was smiling and, simultaneously, found myself asking him to please wear his. He laughed again and reached for a fist bump before leading me to his den. He dusted off a box and a cooler, and we sat far apart yet close enough to feel seen. It felt like we were old friends. He couldn’t remember his birth date, but he vividly described his adventures with his mother some fifty years ago. I thought I was there to fix everything, to make things better, to find ways that would make him smile. I assumed that he wanted the same. Fairy, with her magic wand, had come to save the day. But no, there was little of that now, and I started to feel some good connection. The more we talked, the further we got away from resources and spreadsheets and learned what we needed, what he most needed. I slowly felt the weight of my ‘not good enough’ fall away and what was left was two humans sharing over milk crates. He cried and laughed and weaved webs of his story that kept me distant and pulled me in. His friends began to trickle in and sat in areas far away but close enough to hear our conversation. At first, I felt some distrust coming from them. His friends were also people I had outreached for many months without much success. I felt eyes and ears judging if they would allow me in, and then a joke, a relatable story and shared laughs found us all connecting. Someone commented on the time, which I had to consciously ignore, pushing aside that part of me so interested in schedules and organization, disliking the idea of being late. This was a different time zone, and I had to respect that. He weaved webs of his history, told in moments seen through windows of his youth, times of looking in and seeing the childish hopes and dreams of someone who grew without asking to. As if looking into a mirror, he continued, imagining the most pristine time of family and connection.
The fireplace makes the entire memory warm, cozy and sparkling with uncertainties, questions, and a lifetime of characters, now Instead of seeing mostly gone. His voice cracked at times, hanging like a tear in a broken heart. He would ramble, venture into what seemed new, projects or people and then pull back the thread to paint the picture in as clear a way needing help, I saw as possible for those now invited in. His history could now be seen in the treasures around me. Memories of his mom and dad were still people doing their best alive in the remains. in their version of life, I did not solve anything today. No miracles were achieved, no just as I do my best in outcomes to score in a spreadsheet. No gold star, no award-winning performance, but I was welcomed in. We figuratively shook hands, my version. tilted hats and winked. We all spoke differently as our masks fell off, even when our social distancing and use of Personal Protective Equipment, such as masks or visors to protect us from the COVID-19 virus, remained in place. Instead of seeing projects or people needing help, I saw people doing their best in their version of life, just as I do my best in my version. I no longer felt like a professional among people needing my help and left feeling hopeful, still a little worried, but full of love. Though some still looked at me, uncertain of my integrity, a seed had been planted, and all seemed willing to add some water. I was learning to see our sameness instead of the clothes or badges that distinguish us as somehow different. Now I was focusing on all the ways they were living well instead of all the ways I could help them. I walked away with a hopeful heart and looked forward to our next meeting without an agenda.
The professor asked them to quietly make notes on these questions for a few minutes: 1. Observation: What is your immediate response to the story? What strikes you the most? What emotions are evoked? 2. Reflection: What does it mean to connect? Can you comment on any moments of connection and companionship? 3. What theme/s came through in the story? 4. Do you think that God played a role in this situation? How?
In their group, Thea was the first to speak. “Well, I was struck by how Bree described the world of the homeless person she was to meet. Her description of the neatly cut squares, from tarps laid in the form of a long red carpet, somehow duct-taped to the moist and muddy ground! Though cluttered, his kitchen felt cozy and warm, and then the tents, containers, suitcases and grills everywhere were hardearned from his many days of foraging. I felt as if I was there!” Debra nodded. “She was quite brave to do this challenging work and to venture into unfamiliar territory.” Alex said quickly, “I saw her thinking she was the fixer, but in the end, she was blessed by the encounter.” Zachary agreed. “That is so true. I was moved by how she realized that she could not fix anything but had made an impact, no matter how small. She had been welcomed in.”
Amy, listening intently, now added. “I agree. I think that Bree knew that even though she tried to notice everything, she also missed so much! That humility almost gave her eyes to start seeing.” Alex looked around at their group members and asked, “What was the homeless person’s name? He had no home, and he was given no name. Was he dispossessed again?” Thea nodded, “Mmmm…. that is a difficult one in this case. I think that Bree could not name him. In the story, she had called his name, but it was not for us to know nor for her to share. She still needed to build enough trust. She had only just been welcomed in, and they had only connected - tentatively.” “So, what does it mean to connect?” Zachary asked. “We talk about it so glibly, but how possible is it?”
Amy answered. “We can talk about this or that act of connecting, but let’s first appreciate that the word ‘connect’ describes what happens at many levels and layers as threads of relationships that criss-cross society. Alex said quickly, “I saw her thinking she was the fixer, but in the end, she was blessed by the encounter.”
“This web of connections allows food, money, time and grace to flow to where it is needed and from those who need to give - economically, socially, politically and spiritually. ‘We’ are connections. Disconnect us, and we are no longer we! Sometimes the patterns of the connecting flows create large and sustained organizations, but the weave is often quiet and informal. “The other day, I witnessed someone in church bring a casserole to another who had suffered a loss. A simple gesture, but one of profound connecting.” Debra smiled. “I like that. I think that Bree’s connection was a quiet one. Instead of a casserole, it was a story woven by the homeless man. He gave Bree the gift. This was his casserole.” “Yes,” Thea said knowingly. “And then companionship was developed as they sat together on the milk crates around the fire, as his memories created pictures and his feelings poured out of his cracked voice. His loss showed Bree the common humanity they share. She wanted to be accepted by him, just as he wanted to belong to the ones he had lost.”
Alex was moved by all this, “When I think about some of the themes in the story, what jumps out for me are first companionship and accompaniment, which leads to healing through compassion and grace. Secondly, the move from judgment to curiosity and blessing from the other. I think it’s a move from being the helper-healer to one who is awakened and blessed by the person served.” Amy nodded. “Instead of seeing projects or people in need of help, Bree saw people doing their best in their version of life, just as she was doing her best in her version. The theme of awakening to nonjudgment and acceptance rings true for me here. Bree accepted that it was okay not to be the fairy with the magic wand and to let go of the weight of her ‘not good enoughness.’ She had to learn to accept herself, just as much as she had to accept that maybe the homeless man was doing his best in his version of life.”
