Purple House

SOA Protest

2010-05-06T14:01:00.000-07:00

I have been remiss in getting my journals typed up and posted, so here goes an attempt to catch up! Most of these were written months or weeks ago, but when the incidents occurred is not important.

* * *

A wet and chilly early morning saw a silver Prius roll away from Grant Street. Alan relinquished his bike for the day and took the helm of his Dad’s car. I assumed the role of babbling co-pilot, thanks to a to-go cup of coffee. Katie, Alan’s friend, lay swathed in sweatshirts in the back seat. Poor Alan, he’s really not a morning person. My attempt at deep conversation was probably not appreciated at 6:00 am.

Arriving in Columbus, we pulled into a Wendy’s parking lot, absorbed the last bit of warm air, and dashed across four lanes of traffic towards the protest. This was the final day of the annual demonstration outside the gates of the School of the Americas (now renamed Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation). Located adjacent to Ft. Benning and funded by U.S. tax dollars, the school trains Latin American soldiers in combat and counterinsurgency techniques. Assassins of Archbishop Oscar Romero… trained at SOA. Two leaders of the Honduran coup this past June… trained at SOA.

We pushed towards the end of the street where a Mayan sun salutation was underway. Apparently the sun wasn’t convinced it should salute us back. Next, from the stage, several human rights organizations from Latin America stood with banners and testified to the murder of their families and neighbors by paramilitary trained at the School of the Americas. Then, we sang a few peace songs, some written especially for the occasion. It felt right to dance a bit to “Gonna Lay Down my Sword and Shield” (also good for keeping warm).

Sensing that we were too far from the action, we pushed (respectfully of course) past the port-a-potties and fair trade-shade grown-organic coffee vendor, closer up to the stage. Someone read statements about abuses perpetrated by the U.S. military machine in Latin America, Iraq, Afghanistan, etc. The grey misty air was cold with a shimmery sensation. I felt suspended in the coincidence, the irony of life’s seemingly disparate parts that suddenly reveal themselves to be integrated.

Back from Baghdad, my cousin Stuart had been behind these Fort Benning gates for months. Next week I would be eating BBQ in his honor before he ships out to Afghanistan.

* * *

Someone handed us each a white cross, two paint stirrers nailed together. We now grasped a marker of a life ended by SOA trainees. José Rosario Suarez, El Salvador. ¿Quién fue él? It seemed absurd that his life was condensed into his humbly Sharpied name on a cross held by a gringa.

Up on stage, a collection of leaders took turns singing the name of each victim in a melodic minor chant. After each name, we the thousands in the crowd raised our crosses and in response sung, “Presente.” Present and accounted for in spirit. I listened for José’s name, but mostly got lost in the chilling harmony of the call and response.

“Isabel Morales, doce años de edad”

“Pres-en-te”

“Oscar Romero, priest and martyr”

“Pres-en-te”

When the cold had penetrated all my layers, I wondered how much longer I could stand there with José’s cross before completely being distracted from what we were all doing there. Then we started to move. Slowly, cogs began turning in our machine of thousands, and we processed in a circle, continuing our dirge. As we rotated towards the fence, we walked up and fit our white crosses into the chain links.

La frontera se convirtió en una pared de cruces.

Chief Crazy Hair

2010-05-06T13:42:00.000-07:00

Maribeth and I made muffins for the neighbors to introduce ourselves as the newest Purple House residents. Our second stop was a dilapidated, unpainted except for an ornate paneled door, boarded-up house. I had assumed it to be vacant, but on a whim we tried the archaic buzzer mounted on the door. To our surprise we were invited in by a very deaf old man in baggy work pants held up by suspenders. He ushered us down the narrow front hall of raw plywood, past the pickle buckets of rainwater, into the kitchen with Haint Blue cabinets and what used to be a parquet floor. The gentle man proudly showed us the two pans of microwaved cornbread he had just made himself. The pans, one slice gone out of each, sat under an adjustable reading light, as if they had been undergoing an exam before we interrupted.

The next few minutes we marveled at our eccentric neighbor as he yelled (out of deafness, not anger) about everything from Moses to Hitler. He pulled his drooping right ear forward as he spoke to better snatch any sound waves. We tried screaming a few comments or questions into his cupped ear with little result. We did gather however, that this name is Marshall something or other aka Chief Crazy Hair. He is descended from the Native Americans (one of his relatives was buddies with Geronimo) and African Americans, and he does possess quite unusual hair. Despites his age, his long locks are white, fluffy, and curly. We wears them in a careless bun so that they hover around his head in a sort of aureole.

Chief Crazy Hair grew up in an orphanage on Memorial Drive, before it was Memorial Dr., and moved into his current abode in the 70’s. He says it was built in the 1890’s. Perhaps, but from the plywood and rafter shell that is left it’s hard to say. After about 15 minutes of nodding at his ramblings, we excused ourselves as delicately as one can by screaming in another’s ear.

Keith

2010-03-10T09:41:00.000-08:00

Keith is a neighbor of ours who comes over once every other week or so to talk and sing in our kitchen. He’s a 50-something year old African American man, about my size, with the humor of a class clown the voice of a choir boy who can’t hit the low notes yet. The Jackson Five are his favorite, but occasionally he throws in some original tunes. He usually doesn’t take us up on our offers to dine with us, so I thought this special instance merited a poem.

Keith came tonight and stayed

For dinner.

He sang us a clue

When I asked from where he hailed,

He held

The napkin over his mouth –

His momma said don’t talk with

It open.

I’s born in a dump…

Momma died and daddy got drunk

We smiled

And said we knew not the tune.

All his sing songs sound the same,

High-pitched

Swaying, head nodding.

In Gary, Indiana!

Hometown

Of the Jackson Five – of course.

He sings those boys on repeat.

Toothless

Eyes squinted, soul deep.

Adolescent soprano

Squeezes out

Against our kitchen door frame.

Three Widows

2009-11-19T05:07:00.000-08:00

The following is a reflection (not sure I'm qualified enough to call it a "sermon") I offered at Berea Mennonite Church a couple of weeks ago. It is best paired with the liturgy for the week:

I Kings 17:8-16

Mark 12:38-44

* * *

“In the case that the cabin should lose oxygen, masks will descend. Secure your own mask over your nose and mouth before assisting those around you.”

I have always thought these instructions were rather selfish. In essence, flight attendants instruct us to kindly let the airline passenger beside us gasp for air until we get ourselves situated. These directions stem logically from the ideals that much of society reinforces: make yourself comfortable, and then worry about others.

Today we read about Elijah who asks just the opposite of the widow of Zarephath. “First make me a little cake of [bread] and bring it to me, and afterwards make something for yourself and your son,” he requests. Elijah, the “anti-flight attendant,” is not a steward of earthly society but a prophet of God’s kingdom. The widow does as Elijah asks. She does not hesitate, but believes his words and God provides for her and her son. We read: “The jar of meal was not emptied, neither did the jug of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord that he spoke by Elijah.”

The New Testament lesson introduces us to another widow who also gives all she has. She contributes an offering, not out of wealth like the scribes in showy robes, but out of poverty.

Both of these women from our scripture today represent the epitome of worldly poverty. The widow is one of the three classic Biblical cases of the lowest of the low. Along with the orphan and the stranger, the widow is economically and socially vulnerable. The widow of Zarephath prepares what she believes will be her last meal, and the widow in the synagogue gives away her last coins. They relinquish the only earthly sustenance they possess, all for little or no assurance of what may follow.

Yet the widows give freely. According to the “oxygen mask” theory, the widows should worry about securing their own masks first. Furthermore, given their circumstances, they should be the last passengers on earth expected to reach out to their seat-mates first. The logic of this world concludes that the widow of Zarephath should prepare food for she and her son before providing for Elijah, and that if those two coins are really all the widow in the synagogue had, she should get a by when the collection plate comes around… But the two women do reach out; they give everything. This is God’s kingdom we’re talking about, and God doesn’t play by our rules.

So if the widow of Zarephath and the widow in the synagogue give despite their circumstances, what excuse do we have to hold back anything?

* * *

This year, as a Young Adult Volunteer (or YAV for short) through the Presbyterian Church USA, I am attempting to give of my time and identify and hone any talents that may be usefulin this kingdom. As a recent graduate of a liberal arts college, I feel prepared to do both anything and nothing. I have been trained to learn but lack specific “practical” knowledge.

My YAV placement is with DOOR Atlanta. DOOR (or Discovering Opportunities for Outreach and Reflection) is a partnership between the Mennonite and Presbyterian churches and is dedicated to “seeing the face of God in the city.” Through organizing short term youth mission trips and sponsoring intentional Christian communities in 6 U.S. cities, DOOR provides an opportunity to learn about urban issues and the ministries that respond to these problems. I spend most of my days volunteering in DOOR’s 30 plus partner agencies, so this placement allows me to be a generalist of many human service nonprofits throughout Atlanta. Currently, I know a little about a handful of nonprofits. Hopefully, by next August I will know a lot about many agencies and the issues they address. But for now, I am often in the dark about the social service network and I fear that my short time in each agency renders me relatively unhelpful.

Each day I struggle to maximize my ability to give. I try to emulate the humble, sacrificing widows, but frequently I fall far short of their example. First of all, I am giving out of wealth. I am educated, white, and supported by my parents. I have social connections, a car, and health insurance. Most of all, I have time to give without requiring a salary in return. All of these possessions place me in the “scribes with showy robes” category. Secondly, I often feel motivated by guilt. Why was I born into this life and not another? To whom much is given, much will be expected.

But God does not want us to be burdened with guilt – it is a poor impetus for caring for His creation. No, I have to remind myself that God wants us to act out of love. And too, my position towards the top of the world’s socio-economic ladder does not necessarily correlate with spiritual richness, as Jesus illustrates through the scribes in the synagogue. I am broken and am reminded often of my inadequacies.

A case in point came one afternoon last week, during an encounter with a widow of sorts:

As soon as I stepped out of my car in front of the Grant Park Clinic, a tiny but very pregnant young woman approached me. She was hungry and pled with me to buy her food. I looked around for a solution, not wanting to hand her cash but not wanting to venture down the street towards the penitentiary to buy her something either. I opted to go on into the clinic and told her I would see if they had any food. As I went inside, my stomach dropped. I was avoiding the situation when I had the ability to help.

Three hours and a pelvic exam, STD test, infected foot, and pregnant 14 year-old later, I emerged from translating at the clinic. The disheveled woman I had encountered earlier met me at the door. Part of me was relieved that she was still there, as I had passed the three hours inside feeling guilty for not finding some sustenance for her. In the meantime, she had managed to collect some change and wanted 80 cents more to purchase a hot sandwich at Mrs. Winner’s Chicken and Biscuits.

We chatted for a few minutes and introduced ourselves. Her name was Courtney and she had been living in an abandoned building up the street since her husband left her. She needed ID to get into a shelter. My heart raced as I felt the urgency of her situation and tried to recall any strand of the social network that she might be able to grasp onto. So far, I’ve learned that not only are shelters difficult to get into, but they are also quite the opposite of the refuges I previously understood them to be. In fact, some are so awful that people opt to stay on the streets. Regardless, I was ashamed to be at such a loss as to where to point Courtney. Despite living in Atlanta for two months, having visited 15 nonprofits, and having ready access to information and transportation, I was hitting dead ends. If I can’t negotiate the system, how then is a pregnant, out-of-state, abandoned, hungry, likely mentally disabled, and penniless woman supposed to figure things out? With shaking hands I ripped out a back page of my day planner and explained to Courtney how to get to Central Outreach and Advocacy Center downtown. There, if she gets in line by 6:30 am, she can apply for a Georgia ID and order her birth certificate from Florida. Then she can wait for at least 6 weeks for it to come.

I convinced her to meet me at the gas station where we purchased a loaf of Sunbeam, some PB & J in a jar, and a purple Fanta. This Fanta girl was probably not who inspired advertisers to design their curvaceous, dancing, Fanta-hued protégés. As we paid, Courtney’s grimy hand gripping the soda, she offered to pump my gas. I declined.

Courtney and I hugged goodbye at the pump. “God bless you,” she said and I told her to be strong and have faith – easy for me to say. She shuffled up the street, swinging the plastic grocery bag like a child. I pulled off, wishing she was beside me in the passenger seat and that I was whisking her away to safety.

* * *

I still wonder what would have been the best thing to do for Courtney. Hindered by my wealth or spiritual poverty or fear, I did not give freely of everything I could have. Where is the line between putting others first and damaging our ability to “secure our own oxygen masks” at all? Where and how do we start fully implementing God’s logic in our own individualistic society?

As I contemplate these questions, I am trying to soak up all I can, to store away bits of knowledge that will hopefully allow me to serve in a big way in the future. I am afraid of being paralyzed by complacency, stinginess, and guilt. I am afraid of falling short of the widows’ example. And this fear is probably realistic: I will fall short, we all will. But we must remember that we are never too poor – spiritually or otherwise - to give of ourselves. Sometimes all we can give is love, which is perhaps the best service of all.

Open Door Community and Execution Vigil

2009-11-01T16:24:00.000-08:00

Mark knew he would die at 7:00 pm.

…

“We will serve a feast today, a feast of resistance. Just as the state executioner and his minions will sit down to a feast before they take the life of our brother Mark McClain. The helicopters will swarm the state penitentiary and Mark will die today at 7:00 pm.”

Ed Loring, founder of the Open Door Community, was red in the face. He launched us into Bible Study with this tremulous, strained entreaty; "We will serve a feast today."*

For the next hour, we studied a passage from Leviticus 23 discussing the Festival of Shelters. God asks His people (or Her people, as Ed would say) to erect crude shelters and sleep in them for 7 days to remember their exile in the Wilderness. The Festival was be a time to take off work and feast together, but also a time to honor the humble past the Israelites emerged from. The Open Door was celebrating its own Festival of Shelters this week. Tonight, they will share a meal and sleep in the yard alongside their homeless friends. It will be an acknowledging of circumstances, an education of the body, a rejoicing, and a grieving.

Tonight, Mark McClain – on Georgia’s Death Row since 1996 - would die.

The vortex of emotion was palpable. Today at the Open Door, in our serving lunch, in our Bible Study, and in our own lunchtime meal, we would celebrate Mark’s life, mourn the loss and injustice of his execution , and most of all, we would resist the black hooded toll collector of the state (personal ethics aside, the Atlanta Journal Constitution points out that of 55 people convicted of murder during armed robbery in 1995 in Georgia, Mark was the only one sentenced to death).

…

A few of us from my house mounted our bikes at dusk to ride to the steps of the State Capitol for the execution vigil. The crisp fall air was electrifying. We pulled up to the steps to meet a diverse group including: the Open Door Community, several of downtown’s homeless, ministers from Central Presbyterian Church, and a Mission Year house. We lit those white Christmas Eve Service candles with the card stock collars, and I thought about the reverse circumstances under which we held them.

The sun set, bouncing off the gold dome behind us, and we sang “This Little Light of Mine.” The traffic streamed by, each single driver glancing at us between I-Phone texts, trying to remain aloof and uninvolved. We remained planted silently on the steps, our candles, t-shirts, and signs speaking and our prayers uniting with those of six other vigils held simultaneously around the state.

It neared 7:00. What was Mark thinking? Were the executioners wadding up cloth napkins, their chairs scraping away from a golden goblet-laden table? What do we think about before we die?

Ed Loring’s reflection on Mark reached a fever pitch. He lurched into traffic, screaming at the cars, imploring, “What are you going to DO ABOUT IT? DO ABOUT IT?!!!!”

The question hung in the air, unanswered by straight-forward stares and unopened steel car doors.

Silence.

“Condemned inmate Mark McClain was killed by lethal injection at 7:24 p.m. Tuesday in Jackson…As his death drew near McClain's ruddy complexion turned pale. His body lunged forward slightly as the potassium chloride raced through his veins, but otherwise his passing was quiet” (Atlanta Journal Constitution).

Across the street from the capitol steps, Central Presbyterian rang its bells. A MARTA bus swooshed by and I caught our reflection in the sides: a lump of human forms punctuated by flickering light. My eyes moved to the solid stone church bell tower. Just to the right, a shiny glass skyscraper stood on the horizon. The letters on the side read “Equitable.”

Equitable indeed. An eye for an eye. “Why do we punish killing by killing?” read a shirt in front of me.

After a significant length of verbal silence (my head and eyes were overwhelmed with noise) we broke into “Swing Low Sweet Chariot.” I wished we had sounded better, but the dissonance seemed appropriate too. Worlds were clashing there on the capitol steps. After the song, Ed came to the front again. “Good night sweet Mark!” he yelled. Over and over. “Good night sweet Mark!”

Our bike fleet departed. I can’t be sure if it was 7:24 yet, or if Mark was still waiting.

*The Open Door Community is a Christian community made up of formerly homeless and those making a conscious “downward mobility” decision. They have an active homeless and prison ministry. I have become one of their regular weekly volunteers in the soup kitchen, which serves a hot meal to 120 homeless friends 3 times a week. A mixture of residents and weekly volunteers gather for a Bible study before serving the meal, and stay to eat together and reflect on the experience afterwards. Not that I agree with everything that is said there, but The Open Door usual manages to blow my mind.

October 20, 2009.

Atlanta Union Mission

2009-10-11T14:06:00.000-07:00

Despite the almost militant volunteer orientation, a Tuesday afternoon revealed disorder at Atlanta Union Mission. I was passed down the kids’ hall from absent volunteer coordinator’s office to empty middle school classroom to confused elementary school after school program before landing amongst the 2 year olds. How unsettling it must be to be a child there, with verdant volunteers coming to play or observe every few hours, and burned out staff and emotionally drained clients as more permanent attendants.

This flux manifested itself in the 2 year olds’ play. None of them stuck to a single activity for more than a minute. Book reading meant pinching fingers in the cold cardboard pages with haste to turn them. Nothing could hold the kids’ attention except experiments to get my attention.

At 5:00 pm, mommies came for pick up. Or most mommies came. The attendants left. I was left too, with Aaron.*

Aaron led me to snack time in the cafeteria. I was glad for his little hand in mine – it gave us purpose. Like the new kids changing class at school, crowds spun around us. We ate snack with a few familiar faces we had followed over. They left.

Aaron wanted to be held. I was glad for his barnacle grip – it gave us purpose. New faces came in the cafeteria and left. Bystanders told him to get down, he was too big to be held. My arms were starting to hurt. But he wasn’t too big, I was too small.

We all need to be held.

*His name has been changed.

Project Open Hand II

2009-10-11T14:02:00.000-07:00

Rondo in Plastic Bags in Project Open Hand Delivery Sharp Major

White bag

Monday and Tuesday dinner

White bag

Monday and Tuesday lunch and dinner

2 cans of vanilla Ensure

White bag

Monday and Tuesday dinner

Black bag

Monday and Tuesday dinner for a senior

2 cartons of Milk! 2 cartons of Milk!

White bag

Monday and Tuesday dinner

White bag

Monday and Tuesday lunch and dinner

2 cans of chocolate Ensure

White bag

Monday and Tuesday dinner

Friendship Center

2009-10-11T13:58:00.000-07:00

And Susan just smiled and smiled.

I thought she was another volunteer; short, grinning peacefully, and shaped like a soft diamond with her middle-aged weight settling around the middle. We entered the ceramics room tighter, encouraging others to join us. The slabs of fresh clay in moist plastic bas shot tingles of excitement and nostalgia down my arms. I’ve always loved art class.

Helen, a regular volunteer, sliced off hunks of clay and we all three eagerly kneaded the grey globs. “Susan was an art major,” said Helen. “In New Mexico, right? Do you remember the name of the school?” she joked.

“New Mexico State,” laughed Susan without missing a beat.

I didn’t see what was so funny, but Helen seemed to possess a flagrant sense of sarcasm and outspokenness. So I gave my best ha ha that’s funny/too bad /surprising/ off color ambiguous laugh and waited.

“Susan has Alzheimer's,” Helen explained matter of factly. “So if you see her wandering around, just point her where she wants to go.”

“Yup. That’s right.” Susan smiled sweetly. “I just smile!” …. “And wear pink,” she added and continued patting out her clay.

My ambiguous laugh had never met a legitimate Alzheimer’s "joke" before.

“An Indian dace!” Susan giggled , stomping her feet and letting out a light-hearted war cry as she slapped her slab into a pancake.

We chatted and discussed the Cala Lily-shaped vase she was attempting. She had been trying since last week to figure out how to craft it. I marveled at her lucidity, especially compared to some of the other guests at the day program for the mentally ill. I wanted Susan to be able to move her vase along, so I tried to show her how we could maybe wrap it around a small plastic cup as a mold. I was thinking that she, the multi-degreed art major, should really be the one showing me.

Somewhere between dipping water out of a cup to rewet the weary clay pancake and introducing another cup as the mold, Susan started to slip away. She dipped her fingers in and out of the empty cup over and over, searching for the water. She turned the cup over and over… still no water. She set the clay pancake in her chair and followed me to the supply cart across the room. I suggested we start over with a bigger pancake. She looked at me blankly.

“Here, add my chunk to yours, and squish them together.” I handed her the two pieces. She smiled and recived them, but looked at the clay and then back at me with puppy dog eyes. Good natured, but waiting for some hint as to why in the world I had bestowed her with this “bit of earth.”

“Just like we did before,” I said enthusiastically, “Like this.” I grabbed a small hunk to knead in demonstration, attempting to act like nothing was wrong as my heart sank for her. I patted a pancake. “See, an Indian dance!” My eyes twinkled (I hoped) as they searched hers.

“What?” she asked innocently.

I met two empty pools of hazel.

And a smile.

Project Open Hand

2009-10-11T13:49:00.000-07:00

In the kitchen at Project Open Hand, I was isolated at the end of a long row of shiny silver worktables. There, I united over 600 wheat dinner rolls with mini butter tubs, sealing them in “whole-y” matrimony inside clear plastic baggies.

Right hand and left hand simultaneously grab roll and butter

Drop in baggy (mounted on a machine and inflated by a small fan)

Twist baggy

Whack baggy into mechanical sealer to close with obnoxious red sticky tape

Toss into large tub

I imagined the diners’ struggles to unstick the persistent sticky tape in order to access their dinner. Said sticky tape falls into that same frustrating category as the tape strip along the top edge of CD cases, which separates anxious listeners from feasting on fresh musical delights.

Roll and butter, twist, whack, toss

Roll butter twist whack toss

Rollbuttertwistwhacktoss

My hand hurts

Roll butter twist with other hand whack with other hand toss.

All the while I contemplated Industrial Revolution-era child labor, how I felt dizzy with the repetitive movements, and what it is like for the millions who do jobs like this all day every day for years. Worn out joints, frozen brains.

After creating frustration for hundreds of diners, I graduated to the meal assembly line as a Brussels sprout scooper. I felt ridiculous trying to make conversation with the Vegetable Medley Scooper and the Coconut Encrusted Miscellaneous White Fish Disher-outer. We seemingly had nothing in common except our task – which should have been enough- but I couldn’t break into their world, be on their playing field. I was a 3 hour volunteer among multi-year full time employees. A skinny white girl amidst rotund black women. I didn’t know the words to the hip hop remixes everyone was singing along to. I wanted to ask so many questions, to connect, to be a scooper in solidarity.

Had I been there longer, maybe we would have connected. But all I did was scoop my Brussels sprouts and pass the tray to Delores (who plopped on the veggie medley and tossed or added a few sprouts to my never perfect scoop). I felt debilitated by the awkward repetitions of roll/butter bagging and Brussels sprout scooping. If I did this every day what would I think about? Would I make the motions my own? I had an itching urge to shed all of my isolation and dance on those shiny tables, to break it down to the remixes on the radio.

Work and play in the ATL

2009-10-11T12:29:00.000-07:00

I am settled into my home and my volunteer placement site in Atlanta, and I am loving it! My job and living situation are full of acronyms so here are a few definitions:

Officially, I am a YAV (Young Adult Volunteer) with the Presbyterian Church USA. YAVs live and volunteer for one year in one of 15 sites domestically and abroad. Katie and I are representin' in Hotlanta this year.

My site placement is with a nonprofit called DOOR (Discovering Opportunities for Outreach and Reflection). This organization plans short term mission trips for youth. These youth groups come to Atlanta for up to a week to volunteer in different human service agencies around the city and to participate in reflection, worship, and programming focused on various urban issues. I am the assistant coordinator, which means that I help with organizing DOOR fundraisers, coordinating DOOR mission groups, and overseeing Dwell (see below) community activities. Because the majority of the mission groups come in the summer, in the meantime, I am volunteering in the 30 plus nonprofit agencies that DOOR groups visit. (That is not a type-o, t-h-i-r-t-y organizations). This is my favorite part of the job because I’m getting a great overview of the nonprofit landscape here and am gaining insight into how different agencies approach the same issues. I could not have created a better placement!

I live in a very purple house that happens to be an intentional Christian community called Dwell, also part of the DOOR program. There are two Dwell houses in Atlanta. My 6 roommates, all older than me by 2-13 yrs, have different jobs around Atlanta; they have much to teach me! There is a nursing student, a 2 year old kindergarten teacher, 2 ordained ministers, a graphic designer, and a middle school youth group leader. We share meals, chores, living space, and participate in a year long curriculum. To sit at the kitchen table is to be swept up in discussions about social justice issues, diseases resulting from genetic mutations, dating woes, reformed theology, website layout, and potty training 2 year olds.

A typical day in the life of this YAV? Every day is different! The schedule keeps me on my toes and tests my self discipline because I am in charge of deciding when and where I will volunteer. Below is a snapshot of what might happen in a week, based on the 6 I have experienced so far.

Monday:

Volunteer at Café 458, a soup kitchen that serves its homeless clients in the style of a regular restaurant.

Paint doors for the DOOR fundraiser (Yes, 22 actual doors were used as display boards. They were heavy.)

Cook dinner for 7.

Community night discussion about hospitality to the stranger.

Tuesday Volunteer at the Open Door, an intentional community that serves brunch to homeless friends.

Play tennis with one of my housemates.

Attend volunteer orientation at Atlanta Union Mission, a shelter for over 700 men, women, and children.

Wednesday Volunteer at Central Outreach and Advocacy Center, an agency that provides IDs, birth certificates, and other services to homeless guests*

Go to a peace rally/lecture by Ann Wright marking the 8^th anniversary of the war in Afghanistan.

Thursday Arts and crafts with the mentally ill at the Friendship Center.

Pick up tools for a Dwell house repair work day.

Read and summarize Mission Trips that Matter, a book recommended for DOOR mission teams.

Go to the Atlanta Philosophical Film Festival (as weird as you might expect).

Friday Deliver meals to recipients of Project Open Hand food.

Get lost. Get stuck in traffic.

Stroll around the nearby park with our house dog, Kai.

Go to a neighborhood party with members of the other Dwell house.

Saturday Attempt to tame the weeds in the front yard.

Have dinner with homeless neighbors that live under the I-20 bridge.

Go salsa dancing.

Sunday Bike/MARTA to church with one of my housemates.

Visit with my cousins/aunts/uncles that live in Atlanta.

I am trying to be a sponge and I can feel myself being stretched by new ideas and experiences! Each day is a new adventure.

* Note the different language used to refer to the homeless at each different agency.