Little Robert

It's been a while since I have posted. I've had a very busy few weeks. Last week was MissionFest....a gathering of youth from all over Mississippi that come to Millsaps College to stay and to do mission work in Jackson for a few days. Part of my job is to set up the worksites, supply needed tools, take pictures and put out any fires that spark up during the week.

The majority of the work of MissionFest gets done during the last few days before the kids arrive. My friend Earle and I get together to work out which kid goes to what site and the transporting of the kids. When you have 130 people to drop off all over Jackson, it can get tricky. In the midst of all of this chaos, I received a call from another agency in town. They had a client that needed a size 9 pair of shoes. I knew that I had them so I told them to send the person to Galloway.

In a few minutes, Little Robert walks in wearing a ripped pair of rubber flip-flops. I have know Robert for some time now. He was in prison at CMCF for while in his late teens and he came to the church for help when he was released. Little Robert is, well, little. He is 21 and about 5 ft. tall. The man that brought him to the church found him on the roadside cutting himself on his inner arms so that he could go to the emergency room. This guy picked him up and took him to the Stewpot Opportunity Center. They then called me.

Little Robert has also been in rehab several times and in many transitional houses. He can't go back to his family because of years of physical and sexual abuse. He is on the street again now because he was caught having sex in the half-way house.

I gave him a lunch bag and the shoes. We had to stuff paper towels in the toes because they were a little bit too big. I could see the numerous cuts on his arms. Situations like Robert always leave me frustrated because there is no place to take him that can really help. He needs a family and has needed one his whole life. The Little Roberts of the world are like scared animals, doing what has to be done to survive. When you are damaged at an early age by the people that are supposed to love you the most, what chance is there for recovery? I couldn't help but think of my own son, only a year older that Robert. Where would Robert be if he had been born in a different family? a different circumstance? a different time? Life is not fair. More than that, life is sometimes quite brutal. I am so thankful that our God is a God of redemption and second chances. I pray that Little Robert finds his way into the presence of God, the Healer. Only then, we he truly be at home.

Checkmate

The last few days have brought cooler weather. The highs have been in the 70's, but at night it has dropped into the 50's. I always look forward to warmer weather for my guys. Sometimes I imagine, as I am standing in the cold, what it would be like to try to sleep outside against the wind. I have always wanted to give it a try. Maybe one day I'll brave up and do it. You really cannot understand someone else until you walk in their shoes or sleep beside them in the elements.

Warmer weather has it's problems too though. Sleeping outside gets easier, but Mississippi is a hot state, there is high humidity, there are thousands of bugs and mosquitoes. I keep insect repellent and lots of clean white socks on hand for the summer. Feet take a severe beating in the heat and socks need to be changed often.

On of my favorite "cold weather" stories is about David. David is an alcoholic. He is tall and always wears a baseball cap. You never see him without earphones in his ears and if you get close enough to him you can hear what he is listening to….static. He is very difficult to understand because of his thick “African-American” accent and the fact that he slurs every word that he speaks. I have never seen David when he was not intoxicated. He takes what I offer him but never once has he asked me for anything. David is a chess player and carries a worn chess board in his backpack. During the last few days of February, when it was so cold, David was sitting on a wooden bench outside the church, wrapped in a blanket with only his eyes showing, playing chess with a friend. He loves the game that much and will play anytime, anyplace. I think somehow chess is his connection with the real world...and I understand that he is very good at the game. The memory of him all wrapped up like a mummy laughing with his friend makes me happy.

On the Sunday before Christmas, David came into the church and gave me a Christmas present…a bag of peppermint candy. I don’t know that I have ever tasted anything quite that sweet before.

Up in the House

Fighter pilot, heart surgeon, master of martial arts....all self-proclaimed descriptions of a man named House. My description? Boony House is a story teller, a gentleman, a checker player and a sweet spirit. He is what my mom used to call a character! He and my daughter Murphy (in photo) like to play checkers while he spins a tale. In his mind, he has lived in many places, had all sorts of careers and his life has been full of adventure. I can't separate the truth from the illness, but I do love to talk to House.

He is probably in his late 60's with gray hair and a beard. He seems to wear denim a lot. He won't eat meat after 5 pm. His grandmother once told him that you would get the "high blood" if you ate meat after five and he has adhered to this his whole life. He loves to tell a story, mostly about his experiences. In these tall tales he tends to puff himself up a bit, but sometimes he surprises me.

Once, while he was in Vietnam flying helicopters, Chuck Norris came to visit and to perform for the troops. House noticed during Chuck's demonstration, that there were some areas that could be improved. Since he is a martial arts master, he pointed these weak areas out to Chuck and subsequently found himself challenged to a sparring match. Even though I was sure that I knew the outcome, right on cue, I asked, "So, how did it end?" House looked me in the eye and said, "That Chuck Norris tore me up!" I still smile when I think about it!

House hasn't been around lately. I heard that his family had placed him in some sort of assisted care home. I hope he is getting the help he needs and I hope he is happy. Mostly, I hope that there are some folks willing to listen to him. He is a man with a story worth telling.

Drifting Along

There seems to be 3 basic categories of homeless. There are those that are addicted, those that are mentally ill and those that just enjoy the lifestyle of a drifter. I guess the latter group would be akin to the hobos of the past. Grace Place sees representatives from all three groups each day. The addicted and mentally ill are more needy, of course, and require more of my time and energy. They are generally pleasant, though, and I have only a few trouble makers. The drifters are just happy to be in out of the rain or sun, thankful to receive coffee and for the most part very interesting people to talk to.

Two such drifters are Mr. Marvin and Richard. Mr. Marvin is white and in his late 50's. I have no idea what is story is or from where he hails. He appears to have no addictions. He gets clothes at Stewpot or in our clothes closet and eats breakfast here almost everyday. If you didn't know that he lived on the street or in shelters, you would think he was a church member. Nothing about him has the look of homelessness. There is a fine line between chatting with someone and "getting up in their kitchen." I would love to know more about him, but I've never felt comfortable just asking him flat out about his life story. I like to think that one day he will open the kitchen door a little bit and maybe I can gently step inside. Time will tell...

Richard sleeps in his car. He and I have talked several times and he has shared parts of his life with me. Years ago, he burned down his house and since then he has been without a permanent home. I guess at one time maybe there was some mental illness, but he has been on medication for years. Richard doesn't like shelter living. He got a job at the Salvation Army here in Jackson and saved enough to buy a car. He parks the car in truck stop parking lots at night to sleep. So technically, his car is his home. I really can't tell how old Richard might be. He is chubby and missing his 2 front teeth. He isn't as regular to Grace Place as he once was, but I still see him now and then. I don't think he likes to stay in one place for very long periods of time.

Personally, I don't understand the appeal of this lifestyle. Let's see, you're are not bound by a time schedule or job expectation, you don't have to pay bills, you are responsible only for yourself, you live where you want, travel where you want and do whatever you feel. Who in the world would ever want to live like that?

The Walking Dead

For the most part, I have had great experiences with the homeless. They are some of the most interesting people that I have ever met and I consider most of the ones that I know my friends. Some people ask if I ever get fearful or if I ever get taken in a scam...the answer to the first question is no, I am not afraid...I'm cautious, but not afraid. The answer to the second question is yes, I get taken and lied to quite often. The funny part is that I usually know when I'm being lied to and I usually recognize someone "running game." I try to look beyond the lie and concentrate on the need, but sometimes it is very hard. Some people that I work with know how to push my buttons and are what my husband and I refer to as "sandpaper." They will just rub you raw if you come in contact with them for too long. My negative experiences are few in number, but they stand out in my mind...

Miss Bobbie is a large, African-American woman in her early 60's. She is the embodiment of the word hustler. She and her daughter and her granddaughter and her great-granddaughter run scams all over Jackson. I met her in Smith Park several years ago. The whole family would show up at the church from time to time asking for assistance. Miss Bobbie is the type that if you give her a sandwich she will demand two, if you give her a blanket, she will need a pillow. Nothing is ever enough. We had words a few times and for the most part, she gives me my space. Over the last 3 years I have helped her off and on when I felt it was a legitimate request. She and her crew began showing up more and more frequently and after her daughter changed the amount on an assistance check (for electricity) from $30 to $80, I called it quits.

She didn't come around for quite some time and about a year ago she showed up at the door with her fiance, a young man around 40. She told me that she needed help because her granddaughter Katrina (the same granddaughter that scammed with her) had died in Baton Rouge from complications of AIDS. She was so pitiful and I agreed to buy two Greyhound tickets to get them to Louisiana. Miss Bobbie seemed grateful that I had agreed to help.

One morning, right before Christmas, I went down to visit the guests at Grace Place and there sat Miss Bobbie! I hadn't seen her since the funeral. Funny thing though, Katrina was sitting beside her! I walked over to her and commented on how lovely Katrina looked for someone that had been dead for over 6 months. Bobbie never missed a beat. She looked me in the eye and said, "That ain't Katrina...that her twin sister, Katrina." I told her that I found it odd that parents would give twins the exact same name. She turned away and mumbled something under her breath. She hasn't been back to the shelter since that day, but I expect that she will show up after an acceptable period of time has gone by. For some reason, she seems to think that I will forget if she waits long enough between visits.

She is welcome to come back anytime. I will give her breakfast, coffee and a place to rest for a while. She shouldn't, however, make the mistake of thinking that I have forgotten what happened. When you see a dead girl walking around with a sausage biscuit in her hand, you tend to remember it for a very long time.

Chuck or Don?

I normally wouldn't post twice in one day, but this is on my mind. Chuck has been an on again/off again guest at Grace Place (our day shelter) since it opened in 2007. He's 50ish with a ruddy complexion and a white beard. If he were a little taller he would look like Santa Claus. Chuck lost a leg in a motorcycle accident in the early 70's so he walks on a crutch.

Chuck's drug of choice is alcohol and he has been losing weight for the last 6 months. His prosthesis doesn't fit well anymore and causes him pain when he puts weight on it. My friend Leigh, who volunteers at Grace Place, recently took Chuck to have a new prosthesis made. Upon arrival, Leigh introduced Chuck to the doctor. Chuck looked at him and said, "Actually, my name is Don." From that moment on he has been Chuckdon to us.

I was told this morning that Chuckdon was found dead two weeks ago. I guess his lifestyle finally caught up with him. I hope he wasn't alone when he died...no one should have to die alone.

Bye, Bye Sophie

I've always had a heart for the underdog. I'm fortunate to have a job that allows me to "live into" my passion. Everyday I get to do something that I love and believe in. In Matthew 25, Jesus talks about separating the righteous from the unrighteous as a shepherd separates sheep from goats. The difference in the two groups will be determined by how we have treated "the least of these." The righteous group will feed the hungry and thirsty, clothe the naked, visit the sick and imprisoned and take in the stranger. The unrighteous group will not. Jesus made it clear that when we minister to the unwanted, the unlovely and those on the outside looking in, that we are ministering to him. That's good enough for me.

“Miggy transit! Train tracks! Arista tomato pop! You don't win if you don't get nothing. It's been a long time since you got crushed. She ain't nothing but a tadpole! Bye bye Sophie. That's who did it. You watch. He a scientist. She walked out when she found out. She don't miss nothing. Cobalt needle. Synthetic? Synthetic! Sophie's in the mix. She bought them again, true lips. They wanna know where it's at. Carl! Carl! Plaza dalmation!”

Kenosha is mentally ill. Long before we opened the church to the homeless, Kenosha would knock on the door and ask to come in. He would sit on an old pew outside my office, rock back and forth and talk…not to himself, but to the voices that he obviously hears in his head. A friend of mine wrote down the above conversation one day while Kenosha was here. Some days he would laugh, some days he would cry. But every day that he visited brought elaborate conversations with the voices. Some days he would come in angry and curse everyone. Some days he was just hungry and needed a sack lunch. One day he told me that he loved the diamonds that I wear on my legs.

Kenosha is a young man, late 20’s or early 30’s, lost in a world of schizophrenia. He wears what he can find or what is given to him. When I see him in downtown Jackson, he is usually walking down the middle of the street. I wonder if he has family and where they are. I wonder if they know what shape he is in or if they even care. I worry that he will be hit by a car or that someone will mug him. I worry when I don’t see him for several weeks. When he’s not around, I miss hearing his conversations. He has better visits and is better engaged with his imaginary friends than most of us are with our real friends. Sometimes when I think of Kenosha, I have a strong urge to yell out, “Miggy transit, miggy transit” in his honor. I guess that is sort of a solidarity thing. He still comes by our day shelter every month or so. I'm always glad to see him when he walks in. We are connected in our disconnection….I think that is called being friends.