If These Walls Could Talk...

Welcome. Thank you for coming. If these walls could talk, this is what they'd say.

The story of how I came to be is intriguing, for certain. Upon these walls, now painted over, are the unseen fingerprints of many helping hands. Calloused hands, manicured hands, hands that were skilled with sheet rock and circular saws and paint rollers, and some, not so much, but all of them moved to labor by love. Within and just outside these walls, children painted under their parents' watchful eyes. The roof was masterfully laid by a retired schoolteacher who earned the nickname "Coach." One day, a homeless man who'd come to assist carefully and ever-so-bravely taught a woman how to operate a nail gun for the first time in her life. I'd laugh and tell you he still has all of his fingers and no stigmata-mimicking wounds.

I'd tell you the paintings that hang here were created by a kindhearted, determined man - the same man whose faith and compassion compelled him to do something different. Something innovative that would serve the less fortunate. So he raised not only his own voice, but the spirits and hope of those around him. He and other like-minded individuals formed a group known as "Catholics and Friends with a Heart for the Homeless," joined forces with a local engineer in whose mind (and driveway) I was conceived.

I would thank those who consented to showcase me, those who transported me, those whose curiosity brought them here this past week. I would ask for a place where, without the support of concrete blocks beneath my floorboards, I can settle onto the earth, wherever that might be, because even a house needs a home. 

I might speak to the earth and say, we're cool. I don't need much power, much water, much heat or much cooling. I won't disturb you. I'll be hardly any trouble at all. But should your seasons and ever-changing moods challenge me, I can take what you can dish out.

And I would speak to my future occupant. Perhaps my words would echo those etched on the Statue of Liberty, along the lines of giving me your tired and your poor. But as my modest girth cannot accommodate huddled masses. I would beckon that single soul in a quiet way. I would tell him, no matter where you've been and what sort of burden you've carried, you're safe now. You can close the door behind you and take a rest; you can look out at the stormy world through the windows of my soul (which are actual, not metaphorical windows). A cool drink, a warm meal, a soft bed, the greeting of a neighbor, are all yours. However far you may have wandered, you are no longer a stranger.

And ever grateful to serve my intended purpose, ever thankful to no longer stand empty, I would say, every moment, for whatever the duration of his stay might be, "welcome home."

If these walls could talk, that is what they would say.

Compass

The lesson of the airline instructions is one I need to keep relearning: always put your own oxygen mask on before you attempt to aid others with theirs. If you're particularly prone to following wherever your heart leads, it's far too easy to forget that you're just as worthy of care as the people you love and serve.

And, as my friend and fellow blogger Angela pointed out, sometimes it's necessary to lead your heart instead of following it.

That's what I've been trying to do. I'm focusing on all the positive things in my life: my kids, my job, and my health, to name a few. I'm excited about the Tiny Home exhibition next week. I went to an open blues jam after months of promising a friend I'd come check it out. I joined a women's wellness group. I went back to church.

Following the service, as coincidence would have it, I bumped into a former Tent City volunteer who was there with her son. We had a decidedly pleasant conversation; I had some of the Tiny Home flyers on me, and she expressed a lot of enthusiasm about it.

Then, she asked the whereabouts of some former Tent City residents.

And not surprisingly, even as I answered her to the best of my ability, the pain started to resurface. I smiled and carried on our discourse as the ache in my heart took hold.

I know it's all part of the process. I've experienced loss before; I've grieved before. This is not new to me. And I knew, after only a few months after I first set foot on my sojourn, how the story would end. I said to myself, it doesn't matter. I can handle it. I know I'm meant to be here. Bring it on.

Despite those fleeting moments of sadness, I don't regret it one bit.

Experiencing loss and pain in life is inevitable. But how we handle it - how we use it to make us stronger as individuals, more closely aligned with Truth, and more connected to one another - is what matters.

Whenever I feel the darkness creep in, I don't fight it. I embrace it. I experience it. I let it speak. But then, I release it, and I refocus. Because one of the dangers of following your heart is that sometimes it would rather entertain the comfort of the familiar - even if the familiar is painful - than endure the challenge of the unknown.

Whatever lies ahead, I am fully prepared to face it with strength, courage, grace, and hope. I pray that those whose paths have crossed with mine are able to do the same.

Today, that is the direction in which I will lead my heart.

Unchained

My work with the addicted and mentally ill prior to my sojourn into Tent City prepared me at least somewhat for what I would encounter there.

Somewhat - but not completely.

It certainly didn't surprise me that some residents would ask me for money; I never carried cash, so refusing wasn't a problem. Some asked me for rides; again, unless I knew for certain that it was somewhere legitimate like Social Services or the grocery store, I wasn't about to cave in. And over time, I was able to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.

Because although there were plenty of folks there who were merely victims of tough economic times or personal tragedy, there were also people for whom manipulation tactics were second nature - a survival mechanism in which fellow human beings were merely a means to an end.

Certainly, Jesse (not his real name) was not one of them. He was smart, articulate, industrious, kindhearted, and seemed as sincere as a person could be. 

Jesse was not just a resident. He became a friend, and a very dear one at that. Although most of our interaction was within the context of Tent City, we'd meet up outside of camp as well. There was never a shortage of laughter or interesting conversations, but we spoke a lot through quiet times as well. 

Over time, I realized something was amiss.

In particular, I started noticing that our friendship seemed dramatically one-sided. If he asked me for anything - and even when he didn't - I was there like a soldier at the ready. But if I reached out to him and wanted to talk, he'd reach back begrudgingly at best, or not at all.

I knew of the term "co-dependency," and swore I'd never be that person. But the signs were all there. The grandiosity and magical thinking. The refusal to address his emotions, particularly the anger that always seemed to simmer just beneath the surface. The preoccupation with power and attention. The abdication of personal responsibility. And because I believed he truly needed me, I kept justifying my enabling behavior.

Releasing him was a slow process, but it got easier with time. It started with one bold step: I said "no" to him. I told him that if he wanted to engage in self-destructive behavior, that was his decision, but that I'd have no part in it.

Then, I indicated that I was tired of watching him use and hurt people - myself included.

Ultimately, I made the decision to stop reaching out to him altogether.

How badly I want to tell the folks who continue to enable him, STOP. Stop getting dragged into his game. Let him start taking responsibility for his own life. But I also know the feeling of being needed, that illusion that they're the exception to his machinations, and the belief that by "helping" him, they can change him. Those are powerful emotions, and can themselves be as strong as any drug.

Still, the truth remains that if you feel like you're being used, you probably are.

And sometimes loving someone means loving them from a distance. 

I hope that if you've gotten this far, you will keep this man in your thoughts and prayers. I do, every day. Because loving from a distance does not mean giving up hope altogether. Miracles do happen. People can and do change. I've seen it.

I pray for all those who love a user/addict, and who have had to exercise tough love. Even when it meant taking the risk of losing their loved one altogether.

And, dear readers, I ask you to pray for me as well.  

Thank you, and God bless.