Refuge

The clock read 1:35.

It was the second time I'd woken up. The first time was shortly after I fell asleep, not long after 11:30.

But I was in my home, the home I'd lived in for almost five years, in a comfortable bed, the wind noisily stalking the opposite side of the sliding glass door. I was warm, and I was safe. The thought that roused me from my slumber was of my friends who weren't quite so lucky.

Former site of "Golan Heights" homeless encampment

Approximately twelve hours before, I'd learned that another homeless camp was being dismantled. This one was home to a dozen residents, first settled in January. Unfortunately, the land they were occupying was privately owned, and they were forced by the landlord to vacate the premises.

They'd just received a visit from Monmouth PATH social workers, who had vowed to help the folks there in whatever way they could in terms of supportive housing and other resources. They'd also been visited by my friends from Be The Change, as well as a kind woman named Kelly, who came bringing a generous amount of food that she had prepared for them.

Now, they were being scattered to the four winds once again. I was certain Minister Steve would find them at least a temporary place to stay, but wasn't sure where it would be. And with more snow on the way, the thought of whatever uncertainty they faced weighed heavy on my heart.

The clock read 2:20. I sat up; the dim room silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves outside. A vague sense of helplessness gnawed at me. I checked my phone. No new texts, no calls, no recent chat room messages, no replies to my Facebook post. I got up, paced for a bit, let the cat into the room; he promptly took his usual spot at foot of my blanket. I checked on the kids, who were fast asleep, and inadvertently woke up the dog, her paws tapping against the wooden floor as she trotted to the bottom of the stairs.

And my mind raced. Vera and her boyfriend had just lost their apartment. Nancy was already sick, and would she be able to keep her dog? Jeanine needed propane for her stove, and without being able to cook, was she hungry? These people had started to bond as a community; would they be separated? Did the owner of the property, in his sense of urgency to reclaim what was his, realize it was going to snow?

I went back to my room and sat at the edge of the bed. I took a deep breath, said a short prayer, curled back up under the covers. I wondered what the woods might sound like through the thin walls of a tent.

Things will work out, I told myself. Everyone is safe. Minister Steve will see to it.

The time was 3:11. I'd have to be up in just under three hours. There had to be something for me to do during the day once the kids were at school: make more calls, drive people to shelter. Something. Anything besides just standing idly by.

I shut my eyes, took another breath, and thought of the last song I'd heard before going to sleep: "Candle On the Water."A permanent musical fixture in my memory since childhood, and this night, a lullaby to myself.

And somewhere between "lighted by a prayer" and "keep holding on, you'll make it," I drifted off.