Mission of My Soul

Left to right: Me, former Tent City resident
Lisa, and Linda of "Be the Change"

Linda and I waited at Boston Market as the meals were being prepared, mapping out a route between local motels and other locations where former residents of Lakewood's Tent City were being housed.

"What's the deal with ten people living in the woods?"

"I heard four or five. They're in tents over by the intersection. Did anyone find out about the new couple?"

"Joan's meeting up with them later. Bringing them food and sleeping bags."

Shortly thereafter, we were joined by Dr. Norma and several members of Be the Change. They loaded the still-warm meals into their truck. Our first stop would be the Capital Motel.

With only scant information on the people housed there, we tried to locate the lobby. The hallways were dimly lit; mezuzahs were affixed to the door frames of each room. Linda approached a man in a yarmulke with the names of residents. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to locate them. We agreed to return in the evening.

Our next stop was the Grand Motel, which was just up the road. We were fortunate to see Nancy, also a former Tent City resident, serving as the manager. She was able to help us get a headcount, set up a table, and find the folks we were seeking. As I was about to turn and lend a hand unloading the food, I saw a woman come down the stairs, and I recognized her immediately: Frances, the first Tent City resident I'd ever met. Before long, others joined her; we filled the table with the meals, water bottles, and utensils.

Motel manager Nancy assists with a headcount
of residents who will receive hot meals.

Next was a brief drop-off at Lakewood Town Square, followed by a stop in Brick. Finally, just as it was beginning to get dark, we reached an apartment complex in Jackson. Irene and her husband Rob greeted us warmly, and directed us to each unit.

Two of the men were just arriving home from work, and as we handed them their meals, they talked about one of their neighbors who had taken a sick day. As if on cue, he emerged from his apartment, and I recognized him as another former resident named Chris. We talked for a bit, and I learned he received a grant to study in Puetro Rico. We visited another couple, Lisa and Will, and then parted ways soon after.

On my way home, as the air grew noticeably colder, I thought about how wonderful it had been to see everyone. It was comforting to know they had a roof over their heads, and they had food in their bellies; some had jobs and new opportunities. But something still felt off. Perhaps it was seeing them outside the context of the community that gave me pause. Or maybe it was the thought of the "new couple" Linda and Joan had mentioned earlier that afternoon, who were homeless and scared with nowhere to sleep and only the clothes on their backs.

My family asked me how things went, and I replied that it was good to see everyone, but I was feeling tired and therefore would be getting take-out for dinner. One of my kids asked, in typical childlike fashion, "if you're so tired, how come you do it?"

I thought on that for a moment. There were many reasons, of course. Because while it's about providing food to the hungry in a physical way, it's also about feeding a different sort of hunger - one that I think lives in all of us. Because everyone, regardless of circumstances, deserves to know that they're thought of and cared for. It's about the fact that even though the powers that be in the township of their former community treated them as "out of sight, out of mind," they still matter.

That was my answer to him. "Because, those people matter."

He was satisfied with that, and went back to his toys and badgering his brother and other kid business.

But, since in that simple question he reminded me of why I do what I do, I was glad he asked.

Familiar Faces

Tomorrow I'll be accompanying some friends with pre-Thanksgiving food distribution to former Tent City residents.

Some are in hotels. Some, as part of the conditions of the encampment's closure, qualified for a year of free housing - and that year, mind you, is close to over. A few are still on the streets or elsewhere in the woods. I heard about one couple that has obtained housing and is now determined to give back by providing the homeless with propane and other supplies.

You'd think anyplace must be better than a tent in the woods. But when a community - a family of sorts - is torn asunder, any sense of victory is bittersweet at best.

I've been wondering - how do you gauge a homeless "success story?" Is it determined by housing alone, by employment, by their ability to give back? At what point do we ascertain that a once-homeless person is officially a productive member of society, or not counted among the "less fortunate?" And, if they're not progressing, or if they're backsliding, at what point do we draw a line in the sand between generosity and enabling?

There are no simple answers.

I firmly believe that, regardless of circumstances, no human being should have to go without food, clothing, or shelter. While self-reliance and autonomy are the ideal, there are some for whom it's either an excruciatingly long road or an altogether unattainable one. It doesn't matter if they are to blame for poor choices they've made, if they're the victims of a system that is stacked against the economically disadvantaged, or a combination of these things. And especially in the spirit of the holiday season, I don't feel it's my job to judge them.

The continental United States was hit by an arctic blast that resulted in record snowfall and freezing temperatures. At least one homeless person, who was living in a vacant home, has died as a result. No human being deserves that.

Tomorrow, they'll receive a reminder that wherever they happen to be on their life's journey, there are people who care about them enough to ensure that they have a warm meal on a cold night.

In the absence of their former community, it's the very least we can do.

There Ours Shall Go Singing

Performing at the Thanksgiving Fundraiser
for Kean University's "Be the Change" on
November 14, 2014 at 10th Street Live,
Kennilworth, NJ.

There's a lyric from one of the songs I performed last night ("Hands" by Jewel) that proclaims, "We will fight, not out of of spite / But someone must stand up for what's right / For where there's a man who has no voice, there ours shall go singing."

That is exactly what a bunch of us did last night when we came together to raise our voices (and some funds) for Kean University organization "Be the Change."

Accompanied by guitarist Joe Colucci, I came prepared with four songs: (1) the aforementioned cover of my favorite Jewel tune, (2) "City of Ruins" the Springsteen tune that accompanied a video montage of Tent City in the wake of its closing; (3) "Sugar Sand," my newest original song, and (4) "The Soldier," a song I wrote for a former Tent City resident.

What I didn't come prepared with were songs for an encore, and to my great delight, it turns out I actually needed them.

With both Joe and me drawing a complete blank, I announced to the audience that I was happy to take requests. Norma, who'd invited me to sing at the event, asked me to sing "Angel" by Sarah McLaughlin in honor of our mutual friend Doug. Of course, I gladly obliged.

And at the end of the evening, I joined the golden-voiced Gabrielle Rose for an impromptu rendition of "At Last" and an audience-interactive version of "Lean On Me."

The proceeds from the event will purchase hot Thanksgiving meals for the homeless of Newark and former residents of Lakewood's Tent City.

To all who participated: those who attended and donated, those who organized, and those who lent their talent: I need to personally commend you for your time during a season in which sentiments of home and hearth seem most paramount, and during which we are called to be thankful for all we have and mindful of those who go without. Our little corner of the world is much brighter because of you.

You, friends, are the miracle the world needs. THANK YOU.

If You're Not Outraged...

You'll have to excuse my tone for the time being, but upon reading about the folks in Fort Lauderdale who were arrested for feeding the homeless, I am absolutely seething right now.

This, friends, is our America. Where the accursed "affluenza" spares a rich, irresponsible brat from a prison sentence for killing four people after drinking and driving. Where the law permits citizens and police to shoot unarmed teenagers with minimal consequences. But where a compassionate individual can face a $500 fine and possible jail time for, as a friend of mine put it, using his own time and resources to do what our government won't.

I'm angry at people who call themselves "Christians" but align themselves with politics that exalt greed and legislators who blatantly oppress the poor.

I'm angry because even as people came out yesterday and exercised their right to vote, there is little comfort in the knowledge that both political parties are bought and paid for by corporations, the wealthy, and special interest groups. And there's no little blue pill for electile dysfunction.

I'm angry because the media would have our eyes fixated on the escapades of the Kartrashians and their ilk, and averted from our neighbor whose minimum wage job can't even cover the basics of living.

I'm angry because the average American is so engrossed in eking out a living and so fearful of making waves that they have little time, interest, or energy to be spent outside their comfort zone.

I'm angry because there are people who want change. There are some truly ingenious ideas about how to implement that change. But good ideas aren't enough. Because when folks come together with multiple, misaligned individual agendas and no unifying force, even the best and brightest ideas are doomed to fail.

Maybe, just maybe, this is a wake-up call. Perhaps through simply acting in accordance with compassion and humanity, we can be the change we seek. The real challenge is mobilizing concerned people with a clear goal, for a tangible purpose, And while that does not necessarily require power or stature, it DOES require a certain (rare) type of leadership - one that can instill an indivisible and uncompromising sense of purpose and unity.

In the meantime, we should keep feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, befriending the lonely and disenfranchised - without fear and without compromise. Because this is what our place in this world and our shared humanity requires of us.

If you're not outraged, you haven't been paying attention.

So, pay attention. And get angry. It's okay. Be careful to not let it consume you, but as fire burns the impurities from gold, let your indignation and your hunger for what's true and right burn through your fear and sculpt your soul in the shape of justice.

Go forth, friends, and let us continue to be the change we seek.

Womankind

My mom is moving to a new apartment at the end of the month, and this past Saturday we sat together sorting through the papers in her filing cabinet. In one folder, labeled "Memories," she discovered the following piece I wrote for The Catholic Advocate back in September of 1997, following the deaths of Princess Diana and Mother Teresa. Mom read it aloud, cried, proceeded to share it with my fourteen-year-old daughter, who also cried, and then insisted that I share it with my blog audience so you all could cry too. And, because when I reread it myself I found it extremely empowering - and also because I know better than to argue with an Italian mother - I agreed to post it.

Ladies, this one's for you.

WOMANKIND

We are not merely extensions of man. We are the essence of all being, of all nature. We are not merely caretakers, but taking care - of ourselves of others, and from others in a careful balance. We are children of God and givers of life, ideas, dreams, and adventures.

We will not succumb to labels, nor will we stand kindly in the presence of those who disrespect us in mind, heart, soul, or body. We will not resign ourselves to bitterness or envy for that which we lack. And we, who were made by Divine hands, shall not abhor our own beings. Every cell of our body breathes holiness and uniqueness.

We will embrace the other women in our lives as sisters, not enemies. We are as varied as the flowers of the field, yet one under God and as part of this earth. We form and bear life; we fortify it; by living, we beautify it; by dying, we allow it to continue.

We bear many burdens, speak the language of many hearts, and soothe many fears, careful not to lose ourselves in expectations, hopeless imaginings, or untruths. We surround ourselves with reality, and we face it with strength and dignity.

We are the hands of the saints. the great mothers who came before us, and of our mother earth. Our hands are made soft with tenderness for those in our care and rough from building and tearing down, stained from creating. They are clenched in rage, slapped away, clung to, and let go. Above all, with these hands, we mold our own souls. And joined together, those hands are Fate itself.

We stand young and old, rich and poor, with skin of earth, ivory, sane, clay, amber, and night. We are here, all Womankind, for a purpose. Seek it, sisters, with the help of the Lord, and know you are loved.

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.