In Search of Compassion

It was a sleepless night following the Howell Township Committee meeting attended by members of Destiny's Bridge, our Howell homeless, and a number of supporters, as anger and indignation left me no cause to dream.

One lesson I take from this encounter is that people in power define "compassion" differently than we commoners. The deputy mayor and others lauded themselves for showing "compassion" to the homeless, and rightfully so. Thanks largely to the former town manager, Jeff Mayfield, Destiny's Bridge became the first government-sanctioned camp on the east coast, and one of the very few in the country. With the knowledge that the land was earmarked for eventual auction, we set about creating a community that offered the otherwise-homeless residents a sense of belonging, dignity, and purpose.

With the land now sold to Dr. Richard Roberts, a Lakewood resident (and, worth noting, a donor to Promoting Responsible Government, a Howell PAC run by Deputy Mayor Robert Nicastro's wife), Mr. Nicastro stated that "municipalities cannot solve the problem of homelessness." Attorney Jeffrey Wild responded by citing New Jersey's POOR statute, indicating that not only did local authorities have a responsibility to help the poor, but that our state has laws on the books that mandate it.

Mr. Nicastro also expressed the sentiment that the homeless problem merely shifted from Lakewood (which housed the original tent city) to Howell, disregarding the reality that homelessness exists everywhere - likely because local governments tend to ignore the problem or, like Mr. Nicastro, regard their well-being as less important than their housed, taxpaying constituents.

In this commoner's opinion, conceding to provide the bare minimum to those in need and then seeking to repudiate the issue when the opportunity arises is indeed a skewed definition of "compassion."

Moreover, the attitude of Mr. Nicastro and Councilman Robert Walsh towards the homeless and their supporters can best be described as patronizing at best, and blatantly hostile at worst. I was aghast at their repeated attempts to gaslight various speakers, including a Destiny's Bridge board member whose education and moral integrity they challenged with a false claim that they never gave a deadline for the homeless to leave the property. I was further appalled when they insisted that "no progress" had been made in the eighteen months that the camp occupied the land. In a year's time, upon finding a safe place to call home, residents obtained jobs, found solace in caring for their own as well as communal space, and formed a genuine community of neighbors and friends - a community that these "compassionate" council members see fit to tear asunder in the name of benefiting Howell taxpayers.

As one member of the community-at-large - my mother, Terry Ferrara - stated to the council, "We are sick of politics. These are human beings - people's lives. They have a garden, and chapel, and each other to lean on. You need to keep that in mind while you're making your decision."

That, friends, is real compassion - the sense of empathy she raised me to have for my fellow man. Real compassion is not watered down or relinquished in the face of challenges. It stands to unite and encourage, not mock or demean - and to remind us what really matters.

I thank each and every person who attended last night's meeting in support of Destiny's Bridge and the homeless individuals in our care, for YOUR compassion as well. And I continue to hope against all hope that the people we voted into office not only reconsider the true definition of compassion, but choose to demonstrate it to all people, no matter their economic status or circumstances.

Uprooted

Imagine, if you will, what you would do if you for whatever reason, you found yourself cast out, ostracized, and disconnected from all you held dear - your family, your friends, your community. Whether it happened as the result of a choice you made, or because of circumstances beyond your control. Or perhaps others’ perception that you were no longer worthy to be a part of it.

If you have never experienced it, then you are among the rare and highly fortunate few. But again, try for just a moment to imagine your life without the people and things that define you. How painful and isolating that must be.

No matter our background, culture, or beliefs, I believe our common thread as human beings is our need to connect to one another. To have a sense of belonging, and a sense of community.

The notions of “home” and “neighbor” are so much more than just having a roof over one’s head. That is why the notion of the Howell homeless encampment, a community of the disenfranchised, being uprooted as the Lakewood tent city was years ago, rends my heart on a profound level.

Because I believe nearly every human being has, at some point in their lives, felt a sense of loneliness so powerful that it rocks the foundation of who we are. It makes us question and doubt ourselves and our very identity. After spending a good deal of time with the residents, I know that is what the people of Tent City are feeling right now.

That is why I call upon not only the leaders of Howell Township as well as the community at large to look deeply into your hearts, find it within yourselves step outside your respective comfort zones. And after you look deeply into your own hearts, raise your eyes, and without fear or reservation, look into the hearts of others. Get to know the people who comprise Destiny's Bridge. They are not as different from us as you may believe.

They have created a true community, an alternative to traditional homeless shelters - something sustainable, comprehensive, and dignifying. A sustainable community where people uphold and support one another - one that you can proudly say are YOUR neighbors.

I truly hope that the Howell community at large does not permit profits to come before people, and that Howell will continue to work with Destiny's Bridge towards a mutually beneficial solution.

Who Is My Neighbor?

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

“What is written in the Law?” he replied. “How do you read it?”

He answered, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”

“You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”

But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

 —Luke 10:25-37

Who IS my neighbor? Well...there's the couple next door with the cute new puppy. The older gentleman whose wife volunteers at a local food pantry. The mom I always see at the bus stop with the purple hijab. The woman with the contagious laugh whose adult son owns a Triumph motorcycle.

I live in a small townhouse development, and I am fortunate know many neighbors, their kids, and their dogs on a first-name basis. As I took my daily walk and passed by the rows of houses, I thought about the neighbors who have come and gone; I thought of the families that sought to move up to something bigger and better as their families changed and grew.

A few people who were out and about with strollers or walking their pets stopped to chat. As much as I try to be a good neighbor, it seemed like the bare minimum at best, compared with another community I call "home:" a homeless encampment in Howell that I've begun to visit weekly.

Today we were gathered in the chapel for fellowship after the Sunday sermon, and I listened as one resident mused about how grateful she was to live in a place where she was never alone, where everyone helped one another, and save for the occasional disagreement or conflict, for the most part everyone gets along. In turn, their neighbors in the community - locals with compassion and generous hearts - would come to the camp and give what they could.

That, to me, sounded like a real neighborhood - at least the ones I'd seen in those golden-age TV sitcoms. And there was a time in my life when all the kids on the block played together until the street lights came on, and we left our doors open so neighbors could just walk on in for coffee and company. We weren't just neighbors; we were friends too.

In Luke 10:25-37, Jesus answers the lawyer's question with the parable of the Good Samaritan. And he reveals that the man who showed mercy to a stranger was a good neighbor.

As much as I marvel at technology, I also believe it has a way of making us less neighborly. As a species, we're already inclined to stay within our respective comfort zones, which seem to grow ever smaller with the passage of time. With new gadgets to occupy our attention, we grow increasingly disconnected from one another, even within our own homes. Like many parents, I've adopted the "no electronics during family meals" rule in my house without exception. It's beneficial to everyone, parents included, and it's necessary. I for one have a lot more to learn from connecting with my kids than I do from Google.

As of late, I'm also seeing social media driving friends, family, and neighbors further apart. Facebook, for example, is a hotbed of inflammatory political comments, relationship and family drama, and time-wasting nonsense. We forget that it's merely a tool, and we treat it as a lifestyle, replacing real-life interaction with the virtual variety. Meanwhile, the impersonal nature of online communication allows civility and basic decorum to be swept aside. We are so determined to make our virtual voice heard that we forget there are living, breathing, feeling human beings on the other end of the keyboard whose emotions are just as valid as our own.

We're not going to change the mind of a stranger, folks.

But we can - and should - reach out and touch the hearts of our neighbors.

I know who my neighbor is. Some of them know who I am too.

I want to be a better one. How about you?

Just A Little Patience

My world feels a lot more empty as of late.

Throughout my childhood and teen years, my maternal grandmother, Nanny, was my rock. She lived with us on and off from the mid-80s up to 2005, when she moved into her apartment. The last time I'd visited her, she was happy and alert. She gave Julia and me boxes full of clothes and shoes and assured Julia that she would inherit her collection of little angel figurines. When we left, I hugged her goodbye and told her I loved her and we talked about meeting for lunch. She said she would order Chinese food and I could come to her apartment on my lunch break or the weekend.

But she went into the hospital a few days later, where the doctors discovered she was terminal and gave her six months to live. She didn't even last six weeks. I was supposed to see her on a Sunday, but she died on Saturday morning. My mom had seen her the day before she passed, knew she was suffering, and told her it was OK to let go. Mom wasn't in the wrong; Nanny was tired and ready to leave this life. But, perhaps selfishly, I do wish she would have waited just one more day.

The weeks immediately following her death were a whirlwind: coming to my aunt's house immediately after the phone call, just before the coroner took Nanny away; the wake with the gathering of friends and family I hadn't seen in ages; the funeral where I'd sung her favorite song; sorting through photos and belongings and memories; wondering if mental paralysis was completely outside the realm of normal grieving; constantly reminding myself that the world wasn't about to grind to a halt to mourn along with me, as much as I wished it would at least slow down.

On Sunday, I was digging through a pile of papers, and I found a birthday card Nanny had sent me. I paused to read it, recollecting a time many years ago when I considered myself blessed that I'd never lost anyone close to me. I pondered how many experiences I've been forced to relegate to the past tense: having a father, having perfect health, being someone's true love, and now, having a grandmother. But, I thought, such is the nature of growing older. I put the card in my purse, and headed out to where I knew I would find solace.

I was a few minutes late, but undeterred, I ducked inside and sat in the back. The sermon centered on Esau selling his birthright for a mess of pottage, and on the notion of instant gratification - how often we choose to live in the moment, forsaking long-term gain for the sake of short-term satisfaction. Individuals who seek to mute their pain with drugs or other substances. Government officials who sell out human beings for profit and power. And I reflected on these things. I thought of all the times I'd found a smug sense of righteousness arguing with friends and strangers online about how ignorant I thought they were. I thought of the time I'd wasted on avoiding reality instead of confronting my problems, or ruminating on things I couldn't possibly change. When we bowed our heads to pray, the words of the Serenity Prayer seemed to whisper right to the core of my being: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."

I spent some time in fellowship with new acquaintances and familiar friends, then took a walk out to the prayer garden. The foliage had taken on drab winter tones; the pond bore crinkles of ice patches. I was greeted with the calls of chickadees and blue jays. I leaned against a nearby tree and took a deep breath, letting the calm of the afternoon settle into my soul.

Suddenly, a flash of red caught my eye. Two cardinals, a male and a female, had just landed in the brush on the left side of the pond.

I didn't have much time to activate the camera feature on my phone before they flew out of sight, but I managed to snap a picture as they were gathering branches and building what appeared to be a nest.

I marveled for a moment at how those little birds stood out from the gray of the sleeping woods, refusing to blend in with the scenery. They were, in the literal and metaphorical sense, the bright spot in an otherwise murky backdrop. Indeed, having appeared in the prayer garden, a little message from heaven.

I can't say for sure what it was, but it brightened my soul just as it brightened those woods.

Life indeed goes on.

A Grown-Up Christmas Wish

My two sons and I climbed the three little stairs into the house, adorned with a hand-drawn depiction of itself with the words "Home Sweet Home." Others that day followed suit. They had come to Faith Community Church in Bayville for Destiny's Bridge's "Hope for the Holidays" fundraiser despite inclement weather, and they had seen the tiny home up close. It had taken a good deal of effort and patience to get it to our event after one of the wheels on the home went flat and needed to be replaced. And so we appreciated its presence even more.

It is the pinnacle of our vision to help the homeless, supporting the notion of everyone, no matter their income, having a home of their own, because housing ought to be a right and not merely a privilege. That tiny home, however, does not have a home of its own at this time.

That morning, our area experienced the first winter storm of the season: a light snowfall mixed with frozen rain. It didn't pose much more than inconvenience for the average person, but for those living in tents, it required some diligence; the sheer weight of the precipitation could cause a tent to collapse.

Fast-forward to Christmas Day, when my sons and I delivered a feast to the Howell encampment that several of my friends call home. The little tree in the center of camp was lit and beautifully decorated; the donation tables were loaded with cups of soup, coffee, and packaged salads from earlier in the day. We all gathered in the chapel as the sun set; we ate, drank, talked and laughed. Their genuine gratitude paired with their interconnection - their reliance on one another as friends and neighbors - made us feel welcome. They reminded us that the greatest gift one can receive is presence.

It brought to mind thoughts of not only the true meaning of the holiday, but also the months ahead. When I consider my friends who live in tents, hearing others talk about the so-called "war on Christmas" gives me pause. I hear this often from well-meaning but misguided, along with phrases like "keep Christ in Christmas."

My thoughts? Perhaps the first step ought to be keep Christ in Christian, as opposed to Christmas. Christmas is one day a year, while being Christian is a lifelong commitment. Many, unfortunately, wish to wear the badge of Christianity without really knowing or understanding what it means to follow Christ.

It's hard for me to imagine that while they balk at the design of a paper coffee cup, or refuse to utter the phrase "happy holidays" because it somehow invalidates their own religious beliefs, they celebrate the birth and divinity of someone who came into this world as a refugee and lived his life as a homeless man. A man who healed the sick, gave sight to the blind, and fought for the rights of the poor and downtrodden. A man who was seen as a troublemaker by those who desired wealth and power.

After the trees and lights are taken down, after the songs of peace on earth and goodwill to men are relegated to silence, what exactly are Christians doing to ease the burden of the poor of their community who have resigned themselves to living in a tent?

Are they fighting to ensure that all people have a safe, secure place to call home? Are they speaking out against unfair zoning laws that discourage tiny homes, or against corporate greed that prevents workers from receiving a living wage? Are they reminding their government officials that every human being, despite their circumstances, deserves to have their basic needs met? Are they, as the saying goes, living simply so others can simply live?

Do they think throwing change into a beggar's cup while they hurry to pick up the newest iPhone is enough to fulfill their Christian duty?

Standing inside that empty house with my kids, I already knew the answer. It's not. It's definitely NOT enough.

If you're willing to fight for religious principles but not for justice and equality, then you've got Christianity all wrong. Jesus instructed. He healed. He lived a simple life, devoid of the extraneous and the wanton. His "religion," was love for His fellow man.

With Christmas behind us and the promise of a new year just ahead, perhaps we can hold these ideals in our hearts, thus keeping Christ in our Christianity. And as you celebrate surrounded by friends and loved ones, do not forget to keep in mind those who spend this holiday season in isolation.

The Great Divide

"I found a note with your name
And a picture of us
Even though it was framed
And covered in dust
It’s the map in my mind that sends me on my way

They say it’s never too late
To stop being afraid
And there is no one else here
So why should I wait?
And in the blink of an eye, the past begins to fade

So have you ever been caught in a sea of despair?
And your moment of truth
Is the day that you say, I’m not scared..."

-- Shinedown, "Unity"

Friends, take note: this is more than a comeback from a long hiatus, and more than a mea culpa for being divisive, stubborn, and unrelenting. I don't like to think of myself as part of the problem, but as an emotionally-driven person, I certainly can be. Admittedly, I will occasionally go to great lengths just to be heard at any cost.

However, too much negativity is toxic to a creative soul, and I'm still navigating the whole process of letting it go. Inhale, exhale, lather, rinse, repeat. And so, as inspiration begins to flow once again, here I am.

But, show of hands: how many of us, in life and/or social media, prefer to create an echo chamber of like-minded sentiment, shutting out anything that challenges our beliefs?

How many of us have sneered at opinions that don't match our own, dismissing the other party as uneducated, out-of-touch, ignorant, conformist, attempting to label and belittle their views, to demonize and otherwise cast "us" as superior and "them" in a light of wrongness?

Come on. Hands up.

Yep. I see you. That's a lot of hands.

Recently, I declared that friends, associates, and family would have avoid any sort of political discourse with me, lest they be ignored or ostracized. I made the decision to disassociate with those whose views starkly challenged my own.

Eventually, I realized that by refusing to listen, I am missing out on the opportunity to grow. And I am missing the connection I had with people in my life who, like me, just want to be heard.

It started with a very nice talk I had with Mom earlier today. We talked about the RNC and the upcoming election. And I came away with a better understanding of where people I don't agree with are really coming from.

One thing just about EVERY American agrees on: our nation, and our society, is horribly broken. We are disillusioned. We are frustrated. We are furious.

And we want change. Real change. No more empty promises, no more lip service, no more platitudes. People on all sides of the political spectrum figure until we do something completely different, it's going to remain that way.

The only thing separating us from real unity is how we believe these problems ought to be solved, and by whom.

For the record, I personally abhor everything Donald Trump says and everything he stands for. I don't believe in singling out blaming an entire race or religion for our problems. Nor do I think he has the intelligence, tact, or experience to fix our country. But you know what? I totally understand the appeal.

When people look at Trump, they see a major deviation from the status quo. First and foremost, that he is not a politician. And many have deduced that since traditional politicians cannot be trusted, someone who is not a politician and who doesn't adhere to conventional party lines (or political correctness), must be, by default, the "real" voice of the people. Moreover, Trump capitalizes on people's most basic fears and prejudices, and sells himself as the solution. He might be obnoxious, and he might represent the wealthy 1% and everything that is wrong with this country, but many Americans believe anything - even a billionaire reality TV sideshow - is better than another lying, corrupt, out-of-touch bullsh*t artist.

They aren't really voting for a candidate, but rather against a candidate. By supporting Trump, folks believe they're voting against corruption, division, and, more importantly, societal stagnation.

Truth be told, I think no matter who wins the election, it's going to be another case of "meet the new boss, same as the old boss." The type of change we need isn't just in our leadership.

Real, lasting change begins with us. With "we the people." With us realizing that the mass media (the true scourge on our society, in my opinion) and the powers that be on all sides are not ever going to operate in our best interests. With us, as individuals, learning to be a little more tolerant, a little less fearful, a little more giving, and a little less selfish. With us banding together, seeing past our differences, and with one voice crying out, "ENOUGH." With grassroots efforts, commitment to morality for the greater good, dialogue, and an unwavering sense of community, including the abolition of this all-pervasive us/them mentality.

That, friends, is what will bring about real change. I know we're all just struggling to survive, hold down a job, feed our kids, stay afloat in the murky waters of an uncertain future, vent our frustrations whenever and wherever we can in the vague hope that we will find someone to listen. But for the moment, what we change within ourselves and our own little corner of that world doesn't have to be monumental. It just has to be.

It can start with all of us doing a better job of listening to each other. No judgment, no accusations, no name-calling, no waiting to interject with our own words of presumptive so-called wisdom. Just listening, because every human being deserves to be heard. Simply heard.

Anything less, friends, will get us nowhere.

Starting today, I promise to do better. How about you?

Awakening

Since my first drive up that dirt road in 2013, people close to me had a lot of questions. What was it about that place in the woods that pulled me in so hard, inspired me, and transformed me? Why would I bother to fight a losing battle with the municipality and the government? And, knowing what I knew about the conditions there, and how Lakewood Township stole its morale, why in the world would I keep going back? Why, almost two years after it was shut down, does a big piece of my heart remain in those woods even now?

My mother in particular didn't fully grasp my newfound calling. But as a social-justice-minded Christian, as well as a former civil rights protester and child of the 60s, she always supported me, was always there to lend an ear and some solid advice. And even though she had no inclination to visit the homeless camps (largely due to mobility issues), when opportunities arose for her to help Destiny's Bridge, she jumped in and assisted in whatever way she could, even got her own prayer group on board. They were particularly instrumental in getting our first major fundraiser off the ground.

I don't blame people for their reaction. The sad truth is that most house-dwelling folks don't know what to say or do when they encounter a homeless person.

Yesterday, when Mom came to the Easter celebration for the homeless hosted by the Colonial Coffee Shop in Howell, she got it. I mean, really, really got it. She got to see the faces behind the stories and the names. She got to laugh and joke with them, dine with them, see and hear them. They were not invisible. They became real.

She met Hollywood John, and they had a conversation about music from the 1960s. She met Clarence, and he joked that she was his "future mother-in-law." She met Igor and complimented him on his woodworking skills, but wasn't sure if he'd heard or understood her. She was amused and touched by many of us - homeless and friends of the homeless - dancing and singing together.

After the event was over, she immediately started talking about planning another event, possibly a Memorial Day BBQ to honor homeless veterans. I loved the idea, and I loved her enthusiasm. Most of all, I loved what she said next: "They shouldn't be scattered like this. They need to be together again. They need each other, and they need a place where all the volunteers can get to them."

At that moment, I wished she would have seen Tent City - the Chapel, the "makeshift rooftops," the chickens up in the trees, the artists who found their respective muses there. There were more people I'd wished she'd gotten to meet. Some had since found housing. Some had moved out of the state. Some, like Doug, Dawn, Walter, and Marek, had passed on.

But in the people who once lived there, she saw, heard, and felt the soul of that place, and fully understood what it was all about.

Thanks to everyone who was a part of yesterday's celebration, and may your light continue to shine!

The Walk

Yesterday evening, a fellow advocate informed me that one of our homeless friends, Ted, had been hospitalized after a bout with the flu caused pneumonia, which resulted in a collapsed lung. He'd been on a ventilator for nearly a week, and there was little hope of recovery. They were talking about "pulling the plug" if he did not improve.

I used to visit Ted regularly when he lived in a nearby camp. He had a fantastic, goofy sense of humor and never failed to make us laugh. He loved to tell stories, especially of his hunting escapades and his misadventures on his beloved dirt bike. Whenever any of us came by with a meal, coffee, blessing bags or warm blankets, he was always so gracious and appreciative.

I went to the hospital with a friend to see Ted today, not sure of what to expect, and quite honestly, I was feeling uneasy, even scared. The thought of seeing this usually jovial, feisty man hooked up to machines and tubes was unnerving. We were told he was heavily sedated and might not even know we were there. 

But when we reached the ICU, we were met with a very pleasant surprise.

He still had his oxygen and feeding tubes, but three hours earlier, they'd removed the ventilator. And even though he was still coming off the sedatives, his entire face lit up when he saw us. He lifted his hand to reach for mine, and I only wished I could have hugged him proper at that moment.

Despite some difficulty communicating, it was clear to us that he was on the mend: joking, cussing, asking the pretty young nurse if he could please have some breakfast, unaware that it was already dinnertime. She said no; he would have to wait until the next day; aspirating on solid food was still a concern.

There's still the question of what awaits him once he is released - if he will resume his life on the streets, or if Ted's miracle is only just beginning. But for now, we took comfort in his recovery, and we continued pray for his continued healing.

Hills, valleys, slopes, rocks, puddles, and landings: that is the nature of the walk.

It is a handful of success stories. The man who moved in with his cousin in California and, to this day, hand-writes letters to his New Jersey friends. The young mom who left her abusive relationship and sings at her church. The couple who worked and saved their way from a tent to a new apartment. The animal activists who, with the help of like-minded advocates, found a home down south with an acre of property so they can tend to their furry and feathered family.

It is frustration. The myriad of people who received a year of housing under the consent order that closed Tent City, but who ended up back on the street or in the woods. The struggle between honoring the humanity and dignity of every individual, regardless of circumstances, and wondering how much is genuine help, and how much is enabling. Watching people deteriorate from substance abuse, wondering what sort of demons they are compelled to drown, numb, or feed. Learning to forgive the toughest ones - the defensive souls who lash out like rabid dogs, the master manipulators to whom empathy is merely a weakness to be exploited. And realizing they, however flawed, are human too.

It is introspection. Realizing how just one choice, one catastrophe, one stroke of bad luck, can mean the difference between a roof over one's head and a flimsy cot in a rain-soaked tent. Looking at one's own life with newfound, overwhelming gratitude. Admitting that sweating the small stuff, life's little inconveniences, is time spent poorly. Wondering if my kids are absorbing the lessons of our encounters with the homeless, and feeling proud when, in ways great and small, they demonstrate principles of charity and generosity in their own lives, to all who cross their respective paths. 

It is profound compassion rooted not only in what we feel, but in faith. The full realization that, in the words of Katherine Henson, "having a soft heart in a cruel world is courage, not weakness." It is possessing such a heart, one that has borne slings and arrows of the worst kind, but beats on, driven by a fierce, unrelenting, life-affirming love. It is leaning on one another as brothers, sisters, confidantes, and healers, and on He who has brought us this far, giving us the strength to soldier on.

This is not the life I've chosen, but the day I followed my heart down an unpaved road in the Pinelands, this life chose me.

Days like today, I'm thankful that it did.

Bread and Ten Thousand Roses

"Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for—but we fight for roses, too!"

The sermon at church yesterday morning centered on social justice, so the choice of that particular hymn, "Bread and Roses," was befitting. It called to mind the 1912 Lawrence textile strike in which people of all nationalities united for worker's rights, as well as my fondness for the musical talents of the late John Denver.

Later that day, I was still pondering the lyrics, and how accurately they surmise the human condition. We have the practical needs that keep us alive, and the spiritual needs - love, acceptance, dignity, and respect - that make life worth living.

The song remained in my head as I made my way through the snow heading towards Tonya and Mark's trailer. It was the first time I was seeing the place up close.

I greeted both of them with hugs. Mark seemed so frail, his face sunken around the hole where his nose used to be, and in obvious pain. Yet, he remained upbeat.

They were using the gas burner on the stove to heat the trailer, and I found the dry propane heat made breathing slightly uncomfortable. It was hard to imagine how it must have felt for Mark, who, with his missing nose, was only able to breathe through his mouth.

Mark offered me a bottle of water from their "fridge," a little crate just outside the trailer door. They had some power, but weren't allowed an actual refrigerator; it would have cost the property owner "too much money in electricity."

This was the same property owner who had sealed the door to the trailer's bathroom shut, requiring Mark and Tonya to walk to the main house to use the facilities. Who refused to hook up a pipe to allow for running water, again, citing the expense. And yet, who charged this ailing couple several hundred dollars a month for their crude accommodations.

My suggestion was that a recent cash donation might buy them a night or two at a hotel where Mark could enjoy a bath, where they could watch TV, have running water, and a comfortable bed.

As Tonya contemplated it, she reminded me, "It could always be worse."

And for a time, it was. They had previously lived in a shed, contending with spiders and other vermin; she mentioned one time when she was bitten by a spider and took months to recuperate.

Yesterday was also Super Bowl Sunday, and my kids were looking forward not as much to the game as to the halftime show. Over iced tea and green bean fries and other assorted appetizers, they sang along and marveled at the spectacle. A spectacle to rival the show itself: the ten thousand roses sent to halftime performer Beyonce by her husband, Jay-Z.

And I thought about how that degree of excess - a standard to which the rich and famous are accustomed - are not the "roses" we ought to be fighting for. Especially when there are people at the opposite end of the economic in this country who are homeless, sick, and forgotten.

Especially when only an hour or so before, I heard a penniless, suffering man praise his partner, saying, "I don't know what I'd do without her. I definitely wouldn't still be alive."

But I'm sure if he could afford to send her ten thousand roses, he most certainly would.

(To donate to "A Home for Mark and Tonya," click here.)

Unhealed Wounds

Tonight was the second time Tonya and I had spoken on the phone. Tonya was soft-spoken, articulate, and tired. Extremely tired. Every word sounded tinged with a sigh.

Even before she'd started telling me her story, I'd seen Mark's picture, I understood.

Home Coming

Sam is presented with the keys
to his Tiny Home during a special
event at Monmouth University

Mention the word "homecoming," and for many it evokes thoughts of football games, reunions, and school dances.

This month, however, it carries a much deeper meaning to those of us who serve the poor, with two tales of hope, kindness, and transformation.

Two days ago, through the efforts of an organization called "Make It Rain," a former Tent City resident named Sam Dill was given a tiny home all his own. Both New Jersey 101.5 and 6ABC News covered Sam's story.

But there is also another story for which there was no news coverage, no unveiling. Yet it is a story that reminds us that the simple act of caring for one person at a time is how we can change the world.

In February, I wrote about two Tent City alumni, Igor and Marek, neighbors and best friends. When Marek passed away, Igor truly believed his life was over – “Finito,” he’d said.

Igor’s health wasn’t optimal either –back injuries, lost sight in one eye, cognitive challenges – and his

Igor in front of his tent, with a table and bench he constructed

heavy drinking only made things worse. It’s only natural to lose hope when you feel like you’ve lost everything else.

But today, I write about how through one family’s love, Igor has hope again.

A few months ago, a Ukranian-American couple, Svitlana and Aleg Papirnik, opened their hearts and home to Igor. They provided him with food and clothing. They took him to church and doctor’s appointments. They helped Igor replace important documents that he’d lost over the years of being homeless. They helped him find and reconcile with his family back in Ukraine.

Igor and his latest artwork: a coffee table designed
from donated materials

Since then, Igor’s progress has remarkable. With his hope renewed, so was his interest in woodworking. He began crafting tables, benches, and other items out of old tree limbs and donated plywood. The artwork currently adorns his tent and impresses anyone who happens to pass by.

And this past week, Lana and Aleg got Igor into a Ukrainian rehabilitation center in Pennsylvania, where he will be spending the next few months in recovery from his alcoholism.

Imagine if more people were willing to help just one homeless person in the same way. Not just with food, clothes, and other necessities, but with genuine love and friendship. Imagine how the world would be changed. Imagine how many people who have lost hope would be transformed, just like these two men.

Or, we don’t have to imagine at all. We could reach out to a person in need, offering them more than just corporal needs. We could truly give a bit of ourselves, just as the folks at Make It Rain did, and just as the Papirniks did.

 "To the world you may be one person; but to one person you may be the world."

Seventeen

Seventeen.

That is the number of homeless people who live in Ocean County, according to the Point in Time survey conducted by the State of New Jersey.

That is the number Ocean County Freeholder Gerry P. Little referenced in an interview with the Asbury Park Press, to counter claims that they are not doing enough to help the homeless.

I am furious, because that number is an ugly, bold-faced lie.

I know this because I have been serving as a voice for Ocean County’s homeless for the past two years. I can tell you with complete certainty that there are more than seventeen homeless people in one Ocean County town alone. And I can also tell you that these individuals would not come forward and take part in a statewide survey because by doing so, they could be risking police harassment, destruction of the meager roofs over their heads.

What Freeholder Little is really saying is that the homeless who were not counted don’t matter. That, in essence, they deserve to remain invisible.

On Saturday, I saw the movie “Freeheld,” which tells the true story of a terminally ill Ocean County police lieutenant, Laurel Hester, who wants to give her pension to her female life partner but is denied this right by the Ocean County Freeholders.

The names of the freeholders are changed in the current film. But in the 2007 documentary of the same name (which won an Academy Award for Best Documentary Short), we see Freeholder Joseph Vicari blaming the state legislature and John Bartlett blaming union contracts as reasons for the county to uphold their denial of benefits to Laurel. Freeholder Jack Kelly invoked his personal beliefs, stating that recognizing domestic partnerships would violate the sanctity of marriage. Laurel’s partner on the police force, Dane Wells, compared the Freeholders’ denial of benefits to gay couples to laws in the segregated South. “The freeholders had a different excuse every time we asked them about this,” said Don Bennett, a reporter with the Ocean County Observer.

Ultimately, public outrage and a call from Governor Corzine pressured the Freeholders to reverse their decision. Until that point, however, they refused to acknowledge the basic rights of same-sex couples.

Just as now, nearly ten years later, the Ocean County Freeholders refuse to acknowledge their moral obligation to institute a program that will benefit the homeless. And again, by their words and actions, the Ocean County Freeholders are sending a message that certain people don’t matter.

But “we the people” includes ALL people. All people matter. Equality matters. Human rights matter, far more than votes or surveys or the self-serving interests of those in power.

And if those in power choose to remain out of touch with the economic realities “We the People” face every day, then they do not deserve to represent us.

You. Yes, You. Listen.

You. Yes, you. You're going to be okay.

When I was younger, I recall someone saying that it helps to think of life as a needlepoint. From where we stand, looking up at the underside of the canvas, it seems like chaos: tangled, knotted threads, nonsensical, messy.

But from God's point of view, the design is being stitched to perfection. We just need to remember to let God fill in the holes. He's got this. We're not there to figure it out - just to help it along, even when we don't have answers.

I know, I know. It's not that easy. I haven't walked your path. I can't possibly know your pain.

Which of course is true. But I have felt that sense of helplessness, frustration, anger, and uncertainty. I've been overwhelmed to the point where I wanted to just run away and start over. I've had times when the pain was so great, I couldn't even summon the energy or the resolve to take on the day at all. It didn't seem worth the effort. It was easier to let the darkness win, crawl back into bed, and let life pass me by.

Today, I am grateful that this is not one of those days. I did get out of bed, and as I went about my morning routine, I was greeted by the most beautiful sunrise. And that was when it occurred to me that you - yes YOU - need to know this.

Right now, stop. And listen. Listen to your heart. Listen WITH your heart.

All we need to do is come from a place of love, for our neighbor, God, and ourselves. We are so apt to forget that last part. But friend, be gentle with yourself. We need to shine our love, with every bit of who we are, from wherever we are, with whatever we have. But just as importantly, we need to let ourselves BE loved. Be held. Be listened to. It's that simple. The rest, all the details, will surely follow.

I'm glad you're reading this. Because while I have your attention, you can take a step back, and remember who you are. You are getting strangled by those threads, exhausted from trying to untangle the knots. But you need to stop. Just for a moment. Remember that you are precious. You are needed. And you are loved, more than you could ever imagine.

If it was entirely up to me, I would reach through the screen, put my hands on your shoulders, and tell you all this face-to-face, and then hug you for as long as it takes to put your broken pieces back together. I don't have much more to give you than these words, but I hope they reach you and achieve the same effect.

Breathe, friend, I'm here for you. And we're all in this together.

You. Yes, you. You're going to be okay.

"Finally Home" - submitted by Theresa Ferrara

Tiny house vendors in Chester, Vermont.
(Photo by Denis Paul)

One cold dark night, in my travels
I thought I'd make a stop
I saw the cutest little village
Tiny homes with all blue tops

I came upon a sweet old man
Standing outside a little store
It all seemed so remarkable
He explained just what I saw

"This place is my salvation
This place is my new home.
I was cold, and I was hungry
And for so long, all alone.

But then, my prayers were answered
By some folks with real big hearts
I got a bed, and I was fed
Love gave me a brand new start.

I'm safe and warm and dry here
And the people oh so kind
I'm working hard and learning
Back to normal just in time.

You see, I had a good life,
But poor health and a few bad breaks
Left me broken and forgotten.
But one voice is all it takes.

It took one spark to light the flame
And just one great big dream
Hands joined as one to build a bridge
Across this troubled stream

No longer are we sad and lost
No longer do we roam
God bless these kind and generous folks
The homeless have a home."

What About the Humans?

Thank you, Christi Peace and the Asbury Park Press, for addressing the issue of youth homelessness in your July 31 article, “How Many Homeless in Ocean, Monmouth” But as an advocate for the homeless, allow me to remind readers that the statistics and issues cited in the article barely scratch the surface of homelessness in New Jersey.

The article mentions that Ocean ranks among the top counties for homelessness in our state. Thus, it is beyond shameful that the closest homeless shelters – as in, shelters serving the two-thirds of homeless folks not mentioned in the article – are in Atlantic City and Asbury Park. And it is worth noting that due to the recent influx of homeless coming in from Ocean, the Atlantic City Rescue Mission will no longer accept people from outside of Atlantic County. Moreover, Ocean County boasts four animal shelters, while homeless humans are largely ignored by the powers that be. Certainly the sad-eyed puppies and kittens in all those TV ads elicit our sympathy, but are human beings not worthy of at least the same level of care and compassion?

And for those who are slipping through the cracks, failing to qualify for government assistance and other emergency housing programs, the situation is growing increasingly urgent. The 2015 Point-in-Time survey states that the number of chronically homeless individuals in New Jersey has risen by over 70% in the past five years to nearly 1500 people. Peace’s article emphasizes another important point: that without an address, it is impossible for people to find employment. And so the cycle of extreme poverty continues, and the odds of the homeless rejoining society as functioning, productive members are lowered even more.

We are left to wonder how much worse the problem needs to get before those in power take notice, and take action.

As an alternative to traditional shelters, which address neither the underlying cause of homelessness nor the emotional needs and dignity of the individual, I am working with other advocates on a more comprehensive solution: an intentional community known as “Destiny’s Bridge.” Our mission underscores the belief that “each person is deserving of dignity and validation regardless of their circumstances.” Our plan is to provide not only shelter, but also medical care, opportunities for rehabilitation, holistic healing, and most of all, community and emotional support. More information is available on the Destiny’s Bridge website, www.destinysbridge.org.

I strongly believe we can do better, and need to do better, to ensure that shelter is recognized as a basic human right for all people.

Thank you.

I Think It's Gonna Rain Today

The date was July 2, 2014.

The chairs were arranged in neat rows, facing the big white screen where the chapel used to be. I set down my tray for the potluck - a vegan version of beef stroganoff - and made room for the cups and utensils on the table next to it. I was quite pleased to watch friends go up for seconds even before many guests had arrived. I searched the supply tent for paper towels; I hated that there were so many flies. We killed some time with an impromptu singalong, accompanied on ukulele. The words to "Hallelujah" felt heavier than usual that evening...or was it just the humid July air that hung like a weight amid the trees?

Before long, a handful of familiar faces began to trickle into the nearly-empty camp. Minister Steve kept a close eye on the weather forecast, as there were storms rolling in, threatening to eclipse our last gathering in Tent City: appropriately enough, a screening of Destiny's Bridge.

Just before dusk, Jack approached me and asked if I could position my van so that in the event of rain, I would be able to switch on my headlights to expedite the process of dismantling the projector and other equipment. I did as he asked, not fully realizing that I'd parked on an incline. That, mind you, would come back to haunt me later.

The adrenaline coursing through my veins made it nearly impossible to sit and watch the film. I'd seen it many times before, so I set to scurrying about between the back of our "theater" and the refreshment tables. We'd already had a visit from the men (and woman) in blue earlier in the evening, but they didn't seem to mind that we were gathered there. Twenty-four hours from that night, their presence would be far more foreboding and, accompanied by their demands to vacate the premises, would feel far less welcome.

I stood still for a moment, my eyes glued to the flickering screen as my mind continued to pace. I pondered the different types of good-byes. There's the "see you later" kind, when you know - or at least believe - it's only temporary. There's the abrupt kind, when either you or the other party is in such a hurry to leave that it almost feels like a relief, or when it happens so fast you can't quite accept that it's real. And then, there's the drawn-out, gradual kind. The kind that burns slowly, bit by bit. You know the inevitable is happening, and you know that soon, the place or person or situation you once knew will be no more. So you take those little steps in stride, one more piece of your reality stripped away, another space left in the big picture.

That night was so close to the last good-bye, but not quite there, and hanging in the balance felt torturous. As if sitting down to immerse myself in the familiarity of the lines and the songs that I knew virtually by heart would have done that spot in the woods a gross injustice.

But fifteen mere minutes before the film ended, the rain began.

I snapped to my senses, dashing to my car and turning on the headlights. Success: the area was well-lit, and the equipment packed away in no time. One of the patrons commented that it seemed as if ever time she'd try to watch the film, something got in the way.

My hair was clinging to my face as I grabbed what I could and tucked it under tarps, into the supply tent, or elsewhere. I looked around and realized I was the last person there, save for the residents. And it was getting late. I ducked into the driver's seat, turned on the ignition, and put the car in reverse.

It didn't move.

I shifted into drive and cut the wheel as far as I could and still, nothing. I saw some sand being kicked up by the tires, muttered a few choice phrases under my breath, and got out of the car to seek help. It took both Brighams, two shovels, and a solid twenty minutes before I was free. The elder had used the phrase "sugar sand" - the name of the finely-textured soil that was unique to the piney woods of New Jersey. Worth noting that, several months later, it would also become the name of a song.

"God bless you!" Minister Steve called out, even as he was drenched and muddied to the skin after digging me out. Grateful, unstuck, but somewhere between mildly amused and slightly embarrassed, I started down the winding dirt road, back to the traffic light.

I've never been very graceful when it comes to good-byes.

What About the Humans?

Every time I hear of another former Tent City resident losing their housing, my heart sinks. I’m engulfed by that same feeling of helplessness and indignation that I felt watching bulldozers demolish people’s makeshift homes a year ago.

It’s been almost exactly a year since the last residents were evicted from the Lakewood encampment. And sure, a year of free housing under the consent order that closed the camp was better than nothing. But without resources in place to help these folks readjust to society, or any consideration given to their emotional needs, the outcome was predictable: they are back on the street, or in the woods, or elsewhere without an adequate roof over their heads. And now, they are also without the sense of community and ownership that Tent City provided them.

The fact remains that it would have been far more cost-effective – not to mention far more humane – for Lakewood Township and Ocean County to work alongside advocates to build a comprehensive, sustainable community for the homeless in the absence of a shelter. Sadly, such a solution was met with not only a lack of political will, but also the ignorance and prejudices that exacerbate the “Not In My Backyard” mentality. Ironically, the homeless ARE in our backyard - in some places, quite literally, relegated to the shadows behind our homes and in our towns, because they have nowhere else to go. To this day, there is still no homeless shelter in Ocean County.

Having seen the Ocean County political machine at work, I stand firm in my belief that the primary goal was ultimately keeping the homeless out of sight and out of mind. But where exactly does that leave the poorest of the poor?

It is worth noting that Ocean County does have multiple animal shelters. Perhaps it is a hard truth that human beings do not elicit as much sympathy as a sad-eyed puppy or mewling kitten. But honestly, that speaks tragic volumes about our society. The bedraggled individual with a history of substance abuse or mental illness might not be as cuddly as a stray dog, but he or she is still deserving of compassion, dignity, and the basic necessities of life.

There are some of us who believe that a little bit of our own comfort is worth sacrificing for the sake of others. We take the phrase “live simply so that others may simply live” to heart, without questioning whether or not someone is deserving. We believe that maybe, just maybe, if enough people felt this way, those in extreme poverty would not be so inclined to give up on themselves as many often do.

For some, Tent City was a means to a better end: an opportunity to step up and do better, and many did. For others, it was all they could hope to have. With affordable housing, jobs, mental health resources, and addiction counseling out of reach for those people, a tent in the woods was their only option. They had food, clothing, and shelter. They had access to hygienic facilities, transportation, and caring volunteers. They had neighbors. Friends. Continuity. Predictability. Dignity. And it was enough.

Tent City was by no means a perfect solution by many people’s standards, but compared to overcrowded shelters, unsanitary motels, or the despair of the streets, it was better than many could have hoped for.

Meanwhile, we who serve the homeless still do what we can to help individuals with their most immediate needs, even in the face of financial and logistical challenges. We also still believe it is possible to take the lessons learned from Tent City and build upon them, creating something even better. But thus far, our pleas to those in power still go unheard – and worse, the situation for the homeless in our area grows more desperate by the day.

So what will you, dear reader, do for the least of your brothers and sisters?

Because we – and the homeless themselves – need your help more than ever.

Inspiration

"This song is brand new. I only wrote it a few weeks ago, so if I forget the words, bear with me."

It was an artsy, intimate setting over at the Asbury Park Music In Film Festival, and many of the faces - my Tent City friends, a mix of volunteers, advocates, and former residents - were quite familiar. Nevertheless, as I stood in front of the crowd, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, my adrenaline soaring. That studio may as well have been a stadium.

But as I heard the introduction of my newest musical composition, "I've Got a Story" start to play, I jumped in. My eyes struggled against the bright stage lights as they scanned the outlines of my friends' faces. Indeed, as the song proclaimed, they all had a story. They all had a name. And we were not very different at all. I sang to and about each and every one of them, as well as those who were there only in spirit.

The day was a joyful one, a reunion and a reminder of the paths that crossed along a winding dirt road. I felt proud that my video for another song I'd written, "One Voice," had been accepted as an entry into the festival, and prouder still that I had the opportunity to perform live.

But there was more work to be done.

About two weeks after the Asbury Park Music in Film Festival, the tremendous degree of inspiration I'd received along that dirt road came to fruition. The album I'd been working on - composing, producing, mixing, remixing - for the past year was finally complete and sent to the distributor. It is due for release on May 5 - which is now less than forty-eight hours away.

I've got a story too, one that I've attempted to condense into ten songs. I wonder if my listeners will be able to hear the elusive bits of my heart poured into each note: the subtle shifts when powerful emotions hindered an otherwise-flawless take; the allegories and the metaphors in lyrics scribbled on the back of a Harbor Freight receipt; the piano progression that took me weeks to perfect.

I wonder how many are aware of the number of times I was filled with doubt, questioning not only the journey itself, but what would come of it. There I was, never having been homeless myself, never having pitched a tent, never having slept outdoors, suddenly drawn into a world I knew nothing about and a calling I didn't think I was equipped to handle. I felt so strongly that providence had led me there, yet there were many moments I tried to walk away, returning to the life I knew before the people of Tent City left their footprints on my heart. At times I didn't have much recourse but to just strap myself in and take the ride. But with each song I wrote, another doubt disappeared.

My listeners may never know the full breadth of my experience, but whenever those songs are played, I hope they are able move people in spirit and to action.

I hope they will inspire their audience just as the people and spirit of Tent City inspired me.

I hope I sell so many copies that I'm able to single-handedly finance an intentional community for the homeless where people need not fear harassment, demolition, or eviction ever again. Hey, I can dream, right?

Yes, I can. And I will. Because as grass can still grow through cracks in the sidewalk, even amid hopelessness and uncertainty, there will always be room for inspiration.

And always, ALWAYS room for dreams.

COMING SOON!!! :-D

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.

"Get A Job..."

A burden to bear: Jack (left) and Joe load up their belongings
after being evicted from their room at the Capitol Motel.

Lakewood is home to what's known as a "muster zone" - an area where day laborers gather awaiting employment by contractors. Former Tent City residents Joe and Jack frequent the site, but are still struggling. Winter is generally difficult for day laborers, as manual labor and landscaping projects are in short supply. When it snows, that might mean some work shoveling and the like, but such jobs are few and far between.

Both men own a fair amount of tools, accounting for roughly a quarter of their belongings, which gives them an advantage. Even still, they must compete with a sizable Latino community, for whom the going hourly rate can be stretched further by the communal living situations to which they are accustomed. Not to mention that, over the course of the past six decades, it has become increasingly difficult to afford housing on one salary.

The room shared by the two men, at a cost of $800 per month.

When Tent City was demolished by the local government, Jack opted to take a $3500 buyout in lieu of the year of free housing. He used the money to pay child support. Meanwhile, Joe had arrived in Tent City after the census and was not eligible for either the housing or the buyout. Fortunately, Jack and Joe decided to team up, pool their resources and make do sharing a hotel room at the Capitol for $800 per month - until work slowed and they started to fall behind. When Joe's employer fell ill and could no longer provide work, they lost their housing.

Now, they've resorted to once again camping in the woods.

"Why can't they just get a job?" That statement reflects one of the most common misconceptions about the homeless.

The truth is, a New Jersey resident would have to bring in more than twenty-two dollars an hour just to afford the basic necessities: a one-bedroom apartment, a used car, utilities, phone, food, and clothing.

For those who rely on manual labor, and who were not privileged with the silver spoon of a good economic foundation for education or job training, it's a losing battle. Moreover, the ratio of affordable housing to people in need is scarce at best, waiting lists are several months or even years, and with unskilled labor in lesser demand, the need is not shrinking anytime soon.

"Get a job." Often, people work two and three jobs. But if they fall behind because of illness and lack the insurance that many minimum-wage jobs do not provide, they could easily lose everything. Including their jobs.

Folks like Joe and Jack are working, yet cannot afford housing. If we as a society cannot supply more jobs or $22 per hour as a living wage, the only feasible solution is to lower the cost of housing.

With limited options and employment prospects waning,
Joe and Jack set up camp in the woods.

It’s been proven that a Tiny Home can be built and rented for as little as $150 per month – an amount that is within the economic means of workers like Jack and Joe. Tiny Homes ensure that even those working a minimum wage job would be able to afford the basic amenities.

Anyone who says “get a job” to a homeless person ought to be pitied for not understanding basic economics – and you can pity the homeless person for having to exist in an insensitive society that fails to provide an economic niche in which he or she can survive.