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.