An Open Letter to God

Hi God,

Driving along the Interstate one day, doing nothing particularly blessed or interesting or special at the time, I embraced a promise that I have been struggling to receive. This has been a difficult season in my life, sometimes for reasons even I do not understand, yet I know your love is strong, your intentions are good, and your joy and mercy will prevail.

You know in the last several years I have experienced strange variations of the so-called dark night of the soul, each time so unique in the way that I was aware of your absence and aware or unaware of your presence. I know that dark nights are not all that rare, and I'd figured each person's experiences are unique to them, but I never dreamt that one person could have such varied experiences under a common category. This year, the theme has been a sense of your absence and in the most bizarre way to me yet; with it came a deep sense, somewhere in me that I can't identify, in which I - thought, believed, heard, understood? - 'This' is important. This is not eternal; you will feel differently again. It is part, and only part, of the journey. Continue on it.



I had never been aware of your "distant presence" before. In the past, we have wrestled. I would try to pin you down and before I knew it you'd wriggle free, amorphous and magnificent as ever. You never seemed to want to pin me. You took more joy in the movement, the tumbling, the energy. Even when I was stubborn and doubtful and angry, you loved me; loved that I brought my questions and frustrations to you.

Later on, we wrestled again, but instead of actively participating, I broke away, wandered off. I didn't want to fight anymore. Unfortunately, it wasn't just that I didn't want to fight you, but also that I didn't want to fight for you. And while at the time I occasionally recreated the scene in my mind to show you as the one who walked out, it became clearer to me that, even in my longing for you and recent growth in you, it had been me who had to get away. It was soon after something of a spiritual transformation, simple and yet significant, and perhaps I was scared, or resistant, or even unsure that what I had discovered was real. And even when I thought I had dug myself into a pit, you reached in and swept me up into your arms. All I had to do was look up. There you were.

But this time, it has felt like you have withdrawn from me, even without truly abandoning me, and I still don't really know why.

Have you left this time? Or am I recreating the scene in my mind that way to spare myself the truth that I have strayed again? I have so many questions, and I find it difficult to bring them to you when I can't seem to tell where you are. I don't know how you will come back to me, or how I will come back to you, or why I'm in the midst of a dark night even as I keep finding myself to be where I ought to be.

And while I knew when this experience began that this is indeed part of the journey, part of what I must learn, whether so that I can do the work you would have me do or simply so that I can be the soul you intend for me to be - I think I "know" it now. Thank you.

Looking forward to this being more of a dialogue again. Wrestling match would suffice as well.

With love,
Kimmery

One Man's Trash

As I've mentioned, I've worked as a porter in New York City. Although it wasn't inherent to the job itself, I had frequent direct and indirect contact with the homeless in the area.



One day, the task of "cleaning up around the garden" included throwing out some personal effects - clothing, a couple of books, a binder. We were to treat everything as though it had been discarded, even if it may have still meant something to someone. The age-old issue of "trash" versus "treasure" comes to mind.

A couple of days later, I was removing cigarette butts from a planter when a businessman struck up a conversation with me.



Finally, he said, waving his own cigarette as he indicated the planter, "You're screwing over the homeless, you know. If you throw those out, they can't relight them and smoke them. Don't you feel guilty?"

I was somewhere between heartbroken and livid. I told him how I felt about having thrown out the personal items.

He said, "Why don't we just throw the homeless out, too?"

Since then I saw too many more faces and sleeping bodies and desperate placards and paper cups. Whenever I swept the sidewalks I had the urge to sit down beside the people leaning against the walls. It was only in my final weeks with the cleaning company that I brought food and water to a woman I'd had to pass with my dustpan and broom about every ten minutes during my shift that afternoon. I wish it hadn't taken me so long.

One of my earliest childhood memories is walking hand-in-hand with my mother in New York City and seeing someone asleep in a cardboard box on a door step. Only his blue denim jeans and brown boots were visible.



Like any loud, naive child, I asked, "Is that a person?"

The memory used to make me uncomfortable, because I wondered if I had embarrassed my family or if I'd disrespected the sleeping person. But sometimes I'd like to go back to my mindset of that day - the sheer shock of the sight, rather than this decreasingly naive adult response of sadness without surprise.

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During my image search, I came across a post at Free Range Talk called "The Criminalization of Homelessness." There is a well written narrative of the destruction of a tent camp and some information about the unlawful camping law, which is punishable by a $1000 fine and up to 90 days in jail. Please do check it out when you have a moment.

If you're interested in more solid research material, here are resources specifically on homelessness, recommended by a fantastic professor at Sarah Lawrence College:

First, R. J., Roth, D., & Arewa, B. D. (1988). Homelessness: Understanding the dimensions of the problem for minorities. Social Work, 33(2), 120-124.

Hagen, J. L. (1987). The heterogeneity of homelessness. Social Casework, 68(8), 451-457.

Hall, J. A. (1990). Homelessness in the united states., 159-174.

Helping mentally ill people break the cycle of jail and homelessness.(2001). Psychiatric Services, 52(10), 1380-1382.

Khanna, M., Singh, N., Nemil, M., & Best, A. (1992). Homeless women and their families: Characteristics, life circumstances, and needs. Journal of Child and Family Studies, 1(2), 155-165.

Kim, M. M., & Ford, J. D. (2006). Trauma and post-traumatic stress among homeless men: A review of current research. Journal of Aggression, Maltreatment & Trauma, 13(2), 1-22.

Liu, W. M., Stinson, R., Hernandez, J., Shepard, S., & Haag, S. (2009). A qualitative examination of masculinity, homelessness, and social class among men in a transitional shelter. Psychology of Men & Masculinity, 10(2), 131-148.

Mowbray, C. T. (1985). Homelessness in america: Myths and realities. American Journal of Orthopsychiatry, 55(1), 4-8.

Newman, S. J. (2001). Housing attributes and serious mental illness: Implications for research and practice. Psychiatric Services, 52(10), 1309-1317.

Pickett-Schenk, S. A., Cook, J. A., Grey, D., Banghart, M., Rosenheck, R. A., & Randolph, F. (2002). Employment histories of homeless persons with mental illness. Community Mental Health Journal, 38(3), 199-211.

How to Fail in an Emergency

This is one of the most embarrassing and humbling of my life experiences that I also believe to be worth sharing. Embarrassing because of my thoughts and actions at the time. Worth sharing, I hope, in spite of them.

One day, while I was working as a porter for a cleaning company in New York City and canvasing the sidewalk for trash, a drunkard called out to me.

"Hey, wanna go out with me?"

He was sprawled out on the steps leading up to 2 Penn Plaza. Positioned between Madison Square Garden, the taxi stop, and the entrance to Penn Station, he was in just about everyone's path. Six empty beer bottles accompanied him in disarray.



His lips bulged around crooked teeth. His short hair was tousled; his clothing smeared with the grime of the City That Never Sleeps. Travelers, entertainment seekers, and business employees bustled around us.

When I realized he'd addressed me, I mumbled, "Uh. No, thanks," and went back to sweeping up cigarette butts and ticket stubs.

"C'mon, go to dinner with me. Just once or twice."

I imagined my acquaintance picking out something tasty from a dumpster around the corner. I imagined him falling over himself here on the steps. But I didn't imagine what he did next.

He raised his arm and sort of chuckled. "My hand is bleeding."

"Oh, my gosh!" I cried, surely seeming hysterical compared to his far-too-casual demeanor. His hand was absolutely covered in blood, a painful sight no matter what the size of the actual wound. "Are you okay? How did that happen?" I was genuinely startled and sympathetic. But I closed none of the distance between us.

"I got beat up."

I must have subconsciously decided that what he needed first and foremost was to get cleaned up. I looked around at the nearby buildings, trying to remember the way to the nearest public restroom. I imagined myself sneaking him into our employee bathroom in the industrial depths of Penn Plaza. Then I imagined my supervisor's response to that bright idea, and the proverbial light bulb flickered and died.

I chased after a co-worker just a bit down the block. As the two of us tried, as usual, to work through our slight language barrier, I told him about the bleeding man on the steps and asked what we should do. He said something dismissive, perhaps frustrated with either the problem I'd posed to him or trying to communicate with such a frantic and monolingual mess.

By the time I spotted another co-worker, the premises' security staff were walking across the plaza toward the man, who by this point had slumped over a bit more onto the sidewalk. I was utterly relieved that someone had alerted security, and even more so when the police and an ambulance arrived, but also utterly ashamed - ashamed that I hadn't thought to call an official of any kind. Ashamed that I saw a bleeding man and my instinct said, "Clean him," rather than, "Heal him." Ashamed that I saw him as dirty before I'd even seen the wound.

After that event, I promised myself that I'd do whatever the conscious part of me could to react better in any sort of medical predicament. I've tried to remember that it's only in these experiences that we can learn how to respond to them.

And I've been listening for that voice of utmost wisdom beyond my humble understanding - the one that knows what it is to smear mud and spit on a blind man's eyes to restore his vision (John 9:6-34). The one that commends "clean," sure, but most actively seeks to "heal." The one that would have embraced the opportunity to share a meal with the man on the steps.

Do I Look Illegal?

Before taking Religion and the Social Process (i.e. fantastic mandatory course about diversity and social justice, and how the church both helps and hinders in different contexts), I confess I knew little about immigration.



Thanks to J. for sharing this video with our class!

As one who never knew before quite what to say in discussions about immigration, I particularly appreciated a document from the Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service debunking common myths. View a copy of it here.

Among the debunked myths are the alleged "illegality" of the majority of immigrants (63% of 31 million foreign-born residents are documented), correlations between immigration and crime rates (U.S. born are incarcerated four times more than the foreign-born), and the supposed drain on the economy (most immigrants arrive after age 18, at which point the U.S. receives "the benefit of their labor without the cost of their education"). Other facts focus upon education, employment, taxes, difficulties in obtaining citizenship, and the struggles particular to families.

It's accessibly written and very much to the point, but it's easy to get lost in the statistics. If just for that, I found one of the other sources we read to be particularly compelling. The American Friends Service Committee provides personal testimonies from an affected population with relatively little self-sovereignty: youth and children.

From the mouths of babes, we hear difficult truths.

To thirteen-year-old Kadiatou, one's worth depends on "having papers," and she believes that her older brother "does not have a chance to be something good in life like the other kids who have papers."

In caring for five younger siblings, including an infant, Jocelyn learns that being a "mother" is much more difficult than she imagined.

In one testimony, a family's lack of new clothing is only exacerbated when the clothing that the children do have is the cause for much of their victimization at school; what could be an insignificant opinion about fashion becomes a vehicle for bullying and aggravated trauma.

Vineta longs not only to fulfill her parents' wishes for her to "have a better future than they had," but also to pass such aid along to others in need, having dreamed of education and career not only for the sake of having them but also to help those without homes or parents. She acknowledges the difficulties that her family faces as well as those that challenge families who may lack even what little she herself has.

Voicing a similar understanding of the prevalence of these problems, Bassidi likewise hopes that his own story has an impact and that Congress will take action.

I have since found audio for many of these testimonies. Hear them and read more about the kids at this link.

I knew little before I read the words of Kadi, Jocelyn, Vineta, and Bassidi; before I saw their photographs and their drawings; before I read the statistics from the LIRS and thought of these families' faces. And I may still never know just what it is to be an immigrant, perhaps to be not only "undocumented" but also labeled "illegal," as though my very being were a crime.

But here is what I do know.

I recently worked full-time as a porter for a cleaning company.

I worked with many immigrants and first-generation Americans. My first supervisor was a competent, respectable man from Egypt. My usual cohorts were the Latina ladies who helped me practice Spanish, lent me hair-ties when we swept 31 hot staircases or weeded the sun-exposed rooftop, and taught me how to function in a uniform intended for a man's body - apparently one without pores that require air.



There, I was in the minority in almost every sense: one of the few females, the youngest, one of few Caucasians, a fourth-generation American, and decidedly not bilingual despite having studied four other languages. And, whereas most either were regular employees or hoped for longer-term work, I knew at the time that it was a temporary position; I was already preparing to attend graduate school this fall. Yet the limited time that I was there and the differences between us did not hinder our ability to forge friendships and work cooperatively and efficiently.

In another building placement, I generally had to work independently and did not get to know many of the other employees, who often arrived en masse for an evening shift. Of those whom I did meet, many had emigrated from Latin America and Eastern Europe.

Before they heard me speak, however, they had little way of knowing where I had been raised, and one evening as they arrived and I packed up to go home, they speculated to one another: "Maybe she's German. Maybe she's Irish. Look at her hair," until one person finally approached me directly.

It was bizarre to be in a position of "defying expectation" – to be a U.S.-born student working toward graduate school in an entry-level job involving restrooms and dumpsters.

However, most intriguing to me in retrospect is that overhearing the group's conversation influenced how I then identified myself. I automatically responded with my ancestral heritages when I really should have just replied, "I'm American. I'm from New York."