No Permanent Address

2007-11-23T06:00:00.000-06:00

Thanksgiving 2007

I spent the day visiting my homeless friends on the streets. I cooked Thanksgiving meals around the campfire.

Okay, it might not have been a traditional turkey and stuffing dinner, but it was traditional fellowship and conversation; the turkey wraps were hot, and the coffee, tepid.

Willie plans to get a place inside early next week. He says he’s getting too old to live on the ground. He adds, “But, this has been good life.”

I ask, “Willie, what do you like about living like this?”

He responds, “Gee, I haven’t given that much thought!” Then, he squeaks out a laugh.

Being elderly and disabled and living on the streets is a miserable and lonely way to live. Still, Willie manages to find gratitude in his heart … gratitude he expresses every time I see him.

He’s a better man than me.

May God bless Willie, all our homeless friends, and all folks who hold the homeless and poor in their prayers.

gwwd

2007-05-28T18:00:00.000-05:00

Been awhile!

I never left. Just livin large!

gwwd

2007-03-30T17:33:00.000-05:00

I'd like ...

I’d like to write, but it’s like I’ve lost my verbation.
(ability to write what I vision)

I see so much, everyday.
I don’t know what to write about.

Guess, I’ll just go on experiencing life …
to the fullest of the depression I see everyday …
for now.

I guess I’m happy. But, there've been some grey days!

2007-03-28T15:00:00.000-05:00

Been there ...

Done that!

Fastest thing I’ve seen
Lately, is …

Eddy!!!

2007-03-22T18:00:00.000-05:00

On my regular route, I saw Willie today.

Cooked him and his best friend a meal.

Fellowship at it's finest ... if you ask me.

2007-03-15T13:35:00.000-05:00

We're back. Maybe.

At least, Willie (William) survived.

I think I did, too.
Phew.

2006-12-01T07:00:00.000-06:00

Still Here and There

There came I time in my life that I wanted a change.

The trouble was, the world didn't want to change with me.

I went ahead with the change anyway. The world has finally caught up.

I've been investing some of my time writing at No Permanent Address, Too ...

I hope you click on the link. It's the same old story, just a different format. Sorry about the confusion, but change has a way of confusing things.

Kelly

2006-07-12T21:00:00.001-05:00

Grandpa Oscar's Rules

Grandpa Oscar had rules; a code of conduct by which he lived his life. Most of his rules were unspoken, unwritten and untold unless asked. But if you watched Grandpa Oscar, you could learn his rules right quick, and he never had to say a word. ‘Always give of your best.’ ‘Don’t complain about others.’ ‘Care and pray for the needy.’

My favorite Grandpa Oscar's Rules were taught on Thursdays as I was growing up. Thursdays were Grandparent’s Day at our house; Grandpa and Grandma would visit and help mom with chores and dad with repairs and otherwise, run general errands. I spent every moment of every Thursday I could with Grandpa Oscar.

My favorite times with Grandpa were on our trips into the country to get birdseed. Grandpa fed critters and birds in his yard, and I doubt he ever paid for seed or feed as long as he could get it for free at the country grain elevator. Before Grandpa and I would leave, Grandma always cautioned, ‘Now, you be careful of those hobos down on the tracks.’ As a kid, I had no idea what she was talking about.

When we arrived at the grain elevator, Grandpa would always have me get the tools out of the trunk; steel pails, a shovel and brooms. Then, he’d grab a brown paper sack from the front seat, tell me to wait at the car, and disappear behind the elevator. Moments later, he’d return to tell me the boss said we could sweep up seed. Off to work we’d go, filling every pail to overflowing.

It was years later that I learned what was in that brown paper sack Grandpa Oscar carried behind the grain elevator; a six-pack of Falstaff beer. And it was years after that that I learned what Grandpa Oscar did with that beer; he took it to the hobos down on the tracks, visited a few moments, and then continued the day as if nothing special ever happened.

I imagine something special happened for those hobos on the tracks when Grandpa Oscar stopped by with his beer and a prayer. He never told me about the visits or how the hobos lived or whether he saw them on other days of the week; that remained unspoken.

But I do know that something special happened for me every time I got to spend time with my Grandpa Oscar. And everyday I get to visit with my homeless friends, I learn more about Grandpa Oscar’s rules; that story is spoken here.

2006-06-22T22:00:00.000-05:00

Grandpa Oscar's Gift

My grandpa lived with my mom during the last ten years of his life. He spent much of those years in the sitting room at the back of the house. He ate breakfast, lunch and dinner in that room. He entertained visitors and pastors and great-great-great-grandkids from an easy chair in that room. Grandpa spent most of his time in that room in prayer.

Grandpa Oscar was a ‘prayer warrior’. As he got old, he couldn’t do much else, but pray. He prayed in silence; he prayed out loud. I think he even prayed in his sleep. He prayed for family, he prayed for friends, and he prayed for the President of the United States everyday. Grandpa Oscar suffered from macular degeneration, old age and dementia. He went deaf and blind, but not dumb; he just mumbled his prayers.

When grandpa wasn’t praying in the sitting room, he was staring up at two large pictures that hung on the sitting room wall. He couldn’t see the pictures clearly; he was technically blind. But he’d squint up at those pictures, close his eyes and nod his head while mumbling agreement. When Grandpa Oscar died, I made copies of those pictures.

Today, I take copies of those pictures with me out to the streets. When my homeless friends ask me to pray with them, I give them the pictures. I don’t tell everybody the story of Grandpa Oscar and how he gave to others through his prayers; I just give everybody the pictures.

I imagine that my friends make up their own stories when they look at those two pictures. Maybe they show the pictures to others. Maybe, they just give the pictures away. It doesn't matter … most of my friends end up sharing the pictures with others, along with prayers.

A prayer is a gift we give others … and nobody ever has to know.

Grandpa Oscar gave our family many precious gifts. Here’s two …

e e

God bless us, all.

2006-06-11T21:00:00.000-05:00

New Homeless Shelter Opens Soon

Guthrie on the River

The Guthrie will close the doors of its facility near Loring Park after the March 4th skid-row production of "Homely Please Help," the same capital campaign that launched the homeless shelter in the 60's.

But the Guthrie won't close for long. This June, the shelter reopens in the new Guthrie Gospel Mission on the River-a $125 million, 250,000-square-foot, 27-bed homeless shelter overlooking the Mississippi River. There will be an Open House on Sunday, June 25 with lunches served on all three floors.

From the cantilevered lobby jutting toward the river, 27 shelter users, staff and drop-in guests will be able to look below to the graceful stone-arch bridge and upstream to the North Side recycling yards. Next door to the shelter is the Minnesota Historical Society's Mill City Museum where many homeless used to live. Along the riverbanks lies Viking’s Cave in the city’s Mill Ruins Park, a cave named for a homeless man that used to live in the cave.

The Endless Bridge
One of the signature features of the new Guthrie Gospel Mission, the cantilevered lobby known as the “Endless Bridge” is an observatory of the Mississippi River homeless community. The designer’s primary goal was to create an exciting and endless place where folks with no permanent address could camp near the river. The only endless bridge for homeless camps in the world, the Guthrie’s Endless Bridge is quite a benevolent feat.

A new Depot Liquor is expected to open at the nearby Metrodome site by 2008. Officials expect that the 27-bed shelter will fill up quickly!

2006-05-31T21:00:00.000-05:00

The War Today

I don’t know much about the wars going on today, except for what I see on TV or hear on the radio or on the streets. I don’t watch TV much and I don’t listen to everything I hear. But somebody somewhere decided that we have to put an end to tyranny and oppression, so we’re fighting big wars against terrorists and dictators in more than one foreign country. With the wars come bunches of uniforms, a variety of weapons and assorted rules of engagement. A whole lot of money gets spent and a horrible bunch of death and violence gets inflicted upon the guilty and innocent alike. I guess that’s just the way it has to be; like I said, I don’t know much about wars, except that wars will never end, at least not by the hand of mankind.

Today, somebody decided that we have to put an end to homelessness and poverty; that homelessness is cruelty and poverty is oppression and that we have to fight it together. So, we have a war on homelessness with weapons and uniforms and ‘rules of engagement’. We spend a whole lot of money, and the business of homelessness and poverty continues to grow just like any other war machine. Plus, we inflict a whole bunch of horrible pain and misery on the guilty and innocent alike!

A local non-profit got a big donation of shoes to pass along to the homeless, and all of the sudden, half the homeless were wearing the uniform: ‘microsoft-blue’ sport shoes with Velcro fasteners. You could spot the homeless a mile off (about as far the shoes would last)! Rules of engagement include “No Trespass” signs in city parks, “No alcohol” rules posted near the “whiskey stage” at the church social, and “poor personal hygiene” guidelines published at the new library. Hey, if we don’t give ‘em a place to shower or socialize or recreate, we can make them disappear, right? (Like capturing a dictator will put an end to oppression!)

And just like the business of war uses a variety of weapons, the war on poverty has its own … from propaganda (raising millions to build an orphanage that never gets built), to defoliation of shaded areas (so the homeless won’t have a place to rest), to placing punji sticks under bridges for God only knows what reason?

When terror strikes close to home, everybody seems ready to go to war, as long as the war is not conducted in our own backyards! Maybe that’s the answer: finding a different backyard to play ‘war on poverty and homelessness’. If only we could find a country nearby that we could ship all of our poor and homeless to, like maybe Mexico? Hey, it’s already illegal to be homeless in many American communities, and we’re about ready to ship Mexican immigrants back to Mexico like we did in the 1930's. Maybe we could even make a trade; Prisoners for Hostages (keep the Mexicans who work in this country and send the homeless to Mexico who will otherwise always be with us)?

Hell, I don’t know. I’m just a plain chap in this war, but I know of what I speak. I work in the trenches, out of the sight and minds of people who've made this a game. I know any war is hell and most victims of war are innocent in God’s eyes; especially, victims of a war waged against the poor and the needy.

2006-05-04T21:00:00.000-05:00

Let The Pilgrimage Begin!

At the corner of a major intersection in Minneapolis is a large Catholic church. The church entertains thousands of visitors each week and is often bustling with the business of religion. On Sundays, the church is busy the entire day and even requires the assistance of police to direct crowds and traffic for church services.

Basement doors to the church are left open during business hours giving visitors access to church bathrooms, and a moment of shelter in inclement weather. The church serves coffee and sandwiches to visitors from a side door on an adjacent church building.

On the front lawn at the base of the church steps is a statue of a church official. Visitors to the church often meet at the base of the statue using it as a center of operations for the coming day.

The church has placed a handsome brass plaque at the foot of the statue listing rules for visitors and tourists. The rules are simple: No alcohol or drug use … No fighting … No Panhandling … No peeing outside on church grounds; just the kind of rules you'd expect to find posted on a tourist attraction.

Obviously, the plaque of rules has been targeted for a specific group of visitors; visitors with no other place to be, no bunches of people to see, and no permanent address to call home. The statue has become a sort of refuge for the homeless … a safe zone on sacred ground with important things like God and bathrooms close by.

The statue has become a place where the wearied wait away the day in relative safety. It has become a place where the tired put down bedrolls and backpacks and fannies, if only for a few minutes.

The statue has become a place where family and friends leave notes and messages for friends and family gone AWOL; it has become a place where people leave homemade cookies and clean socks for those who need socks and cookies.

I salute the church, church officials and church members who have worked hard to make our less fortunate friends feel welcomed at our Father’s house …

And the homeless will always be welcomed ... at least until setup for the church’s annual Block Party Fundraiser begins.

So, let the pilgrimage begin! Is anyone really bringing a donkey?

2006-04-27T21:00:00.000-05:00

How It Feels Right Now

I have a compliment for the Earth Day 2006 volunteers and officials who cleaned up this year. This year, there was a kindler, gentler spirit in the cleanup efforts around homeless camps; at least, that’s how it looks and feels right now. It could be there were fewer volunteers and officials to clean up this year, but I’d like to think it was because folks were just plain kinder and gentler.

Past years’ Earth Day Celebrations have been tough on our homeless friends. Earth movers and dumpsters were called in to bulldoze entire camps, taking everything in their path; including the library and the shitter. (Two different places; I’ll explain another day, Lord willing.)

This year, it looks like some camps have been spared and in fact, cleaned up! Litter left by years of traffic was collected, sorted and recycled to a whole different landfill in a whole different world. The litter included tires (from trucks), rotting railroad ties (from the railroad) and construction demolition debris (from neighborhood redevelopment), items which could not be moved by our homeless friends. Of course, the litter collected included anything and everything left by the homeless, including personal items. In one camp, all the pails and stumps and seats were taken (items that might offer one moment rest for a wearied traveler), except for a single, solitary chair.

Was the chair left in the bush as a stroke of kindness by an official? Or, was the chair just missed by a volunteer - out’a sight, out’a mind - completely overlooked, kinda like the old man that’s going to sit in it? Can you imagine how much a simple place to sit might mean to a broken-down, handicapped man whose legs have done tuckered out on him right now?

When a fellow man or woman or child is trapped in the bonds of a handicap without even a chair to sit on, there’s not much the handicapped can do but put ‘er down whenever, wherever, however one can.

I hope your legs never stop working for you and your Creator.

2006-04-21T21:00:00.000-05:00

Happy Earth Day!

This notice was posted under bridges and in homeless camps today in celebration of Earth Day 2006, tomorrow.

I can already hear them shouting, "Get the garden first, or they'll come back and eat!"

2006-03-29T21:00:00.001-06:00

Dreaming of The Real World

I was sitting alone at a long table in the food court at City Centre, a downtown strip mall. I didn’t have any food or beverage on the table in front of me, only an empty cup I’d dug out of the garbage earlier. I had to at least look like I’d purchased something, or security would roust me right quick! A few of my possessions – empty soda bottle, wore-out gloves, a wadded up pile of day-old newspapers – sat neatly on the table as well. My pack was on the floor between my feet, one leg holding down the shoulder strap, a habit I developed so my pack couldn’t be easily stolen out from under me.

My head was buried in my pack as I sorted through a bunch of old rags that would be my next change of clothes. I didn’t pull any items out of my pack; someone else might scope something they wanted and steal it from me or extort it from me or beat me up for it. That shit happens all the time to people who don’t hide their stuff from prying eyes. I had a pair of clean socks hidden in my coat just in case my pack did get ripped. I supposed the stuff I was wearing must have stunk. I’d worn the same clothes all winter and already smelled pretty bad to me; a sure sign that I must stink to anyone who dared come too close.

All of the sudden I felt like I was being crowded, but I didn’t want to look up. The noises of people shuffling over me and talking around me grew louder and bolder. Somebody bumped my chair. I tossed my head back and glared.

“Sorry,” exclaimed this old lady. She smiled and I thought, what the hell is she smiling for? She smells like one of those old ladies that always sit next to me in church; like a perfume factory! I ‘bout gagged. That’s why I don’t go to churches anymore; I can’t stand the smells of laundry softeners and fake flowers and old spices that pour from a bottle. I’ve sniffed the smells of the street for so long now, this is home; inside things smell foreign to me, like they’re from another world.

Four men sat down at the table where I was sitting. I figured they must work in the buildings near by; they all wore ties and they all had clean finger nails. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand and brushed it against my pants. My hands didn’t look that dirty to me; they kind of matched the stains on my coat and the shine that had grown on my pant legs. I buried myself deeper into my coat, and stuck my head down in my pack. One of the guys whispered, “Hey, mister!”

I looked up as he pushed a cup of steaming coffee towards me. I shook my head in disapproval, but pulled the cup closer anyway. I hadn’t smelled steaming hot coffee that close for a while, and it sure smelled good! But I wasn’t about to take a sip from that cup; I’ve heard that some people put things in coffee and pop and then give it to the homeless to make them sleep. Then, when the homeless person is asleep, somebody comes and takes them off to this place with bars on the windows and they give the homeless people drugs in their meatloaf and that make them sleep all the time. Yeah, I wasn’t about to drink that coffee, leastwise, not until it cooled down a bit; and anyway, not right there in the food court.

The man who gave me the coffee scooted his chair closer. I looked deeper into my pack. He said something about if I was okay or if I needed a cigarette. What was he doing? I don’t smoke; I quit years ago. Plus, I sit at this table everyday at this time. And everyday, I’m never okay at any time! Besides, I didn’t even recognize this guy; how’d I know if he was my friend?

As I leaned over to put my papers back in my pack, I heard a commotion coming from behind. Two security guards were running towards my table at full speed waving flashlights over their heads like Billy Clubs. I jumped up and cried, “I’M LEAVING!” but the guards ran right by me towards the stairs. People were jumping around and screaming as the guards scrambled through the crowd. Then, I caught a glimpse of what was causing all the commotion; a bunch of puppies running loose through the food court!

The dogs ran around wagging their tails and barking; everybody tried to capture them! As they ran towards my table, I squatted to the floor and the puppies slammed into me, almost pushing me over. The littlest pup snuggled against my leg. I wrapped my arm around his neck to protect him from all those dog snatchers and yelled, “Leave this puppy alone … we’re leaving NOW!”

Just then, I jumped up in my bed in a cold sweat. It was all only a dream, but it seemed so real … the sights, the sounds; even the smells. As I pulled on a shirt, I shook the fuzziness out of my head. I sat at the edge of my bed for a moment and wondered how I could have been fooled so completely; it was all only a dream that I couldn't escape! I wondered ... What if my bad dreams were actually my real-life world?

I sat at the edge of my bed and thought about my homeless friends. I wondered about what they must dream at night. I imagined that their worst dreams could be their real-life worlds!

I can't say what goes on in the minds of my homeless friends. I know that when I talk to them, I hear some pretty weird and scary stuff. I often wonder how they could even dream up some of the things they tell me. Then I realize that my friends don’t live in a dream world, they live in a real world just like I do, even if their world sounds like a big bad dream to me.

If you ever want to imagine what it’s like to be homeless, imagine your worst dream being your everyday real world. Imagine that you could never explain your world to others; they wouldn’t understand if you could explain. Besides, if others did understand your world, there’s probably nothing they could do because all they’d really want to do is fix you so you’d fit into their real world; and some things and some people just can’t be fixed – everybody knows that!

If you think the answer to homelessness is to give everybody a home, forget it; some folks can’t live under a roof like you and me. And if you think that society will ever come up with a catchall, ten year plan to answer the real needs of the homeless, forget that too. Just as there are times you can’t escape your own bad dreams, there will be realities that some people can’t escape, no matter how miserable those realities might be.

I don’t believe that poor people need more money and programs tossed at them. Poor people need brothers and sisters who will hold out a hand in God’s Love, and then lift! The handicapped and disabled don’t want pity or sorrow heaped upon them; they want to feel the courage and the hope that each of us brings to our own, everyday worlds. Homeless folks don’t need homes, they need entire families of friends who are willing and able to share a common faith in a Living God Who cares for all His children.

If we only toss money at broken systems and ineffective programs, we can never hope to repair broken dreams. As long as we stand unwilling or unable to bring the homeless, the poor and the disabled into our own homes, our own churches and our own families, we will never bring an end to some pretty terrible realities for some pretty incredible folks!

I hope there’s no more bad dreams.

"God, I gotta stay awake for this life!"

Kelly

2006-02-28T21:00:00.000-06:00

We're in Trouble Now!

Every time I see my friends on the street, it’s like we haven’t seen each other in weeks or months. Sometimes, it’s only too true.

I’ve left a friend on a cheerful day; only to find him days later just as gloomy and broke down as I’d ever seen him before. And I’ve had to leave a friend sick, sorry and sad on a Sunday (unable to help); only to see him weeks later, and it’s as if he’d just won the lottery!

Too many times when I see a homeless friend and ask “How yah doin’?” the resolute reply is “WITHOUT!” Often, the reply is “Got a beer?” (I don’t even drink.) Sometimes, I don’t get wordy replies from my friends; only outstretched arms eagerly grasping for hugs – I love times like those!

When I found our friends on the eastside this past Sunday morning, I noticed that the group was particularly on edge. Even while some were drunk or high already – usually meaning a ‘spirited’ Sunday of celebrating ahead – there was an air of apprehension among the group. The family had a problem; I just didn’t know what the problem was – yet.

As I set out boxes of chips, I offered pop and sandwiches and asked, “What’s up, guys?”

“Oh, we got money,” one says.

“Yeah,” adds another, “And we started with a-half-a-G, but that’s gone.”

With a brief laugh, Robin blurted out, "BUT WE’RE IN TROUBLE NOW!”

Painful moans and groans of agreement rose from among the group. He continued, “We’re in trouble now … cuz’ our bootlegger started drinkin’!”

“OH, OH!” I thought, “That can’t be good news; especially on a Sunday in Minneapolis!”

If you’ve never had an addiction, never a nasty habit, never a hurtful manner about you (if you’ve never sinned before), you probably don't understand; but, if you can imagine …

It’s Sunday. You’re alone in a crowd, stoned and chasing the high. You have money, but no liquor stores open; no way to keep your broken-self fixed. Like every other Sunday, you figure to call the bootlegger who delivers: vodka (five bucks a half-pint); beers (a buck a can/case price); and weed (nickels or dimes). But it ain’t gonna happen today!

If it's our bootlegger started drinking, then our bootlegger isn’t driving. And if our bootlegger started drinking again, that means there won’t be any bootlegging going on in the near future; or until another bootlegger rises up to drive in her place.

Already that Sunday morning, the booze had run out. Petty arguments had sprung up among the group of friends, afraid to face another day of uncertainty. Young Ricky was off and pouting, ‘sit-signing’ the corner, so despondent he wouldn’t even get up to take money from passerby drivers. Asking Ricky “What’s up?” he snickers, “Cost of doin’ business!”

I don’t understand everything there is to know about addiction and poverty and homelessness. No man can. No man ever will. But I do understand what it means to be ‘without’ on a day already full of foggy uncertainties. I know what it’s like to not have a friend.

But today, I’m with family and friends. And I know what it means when a brother-in-arms exclaims, “We’re in trouble now!”

It means it’s time to circle the troops; time to take inventory; time to be strong when every individual is weak; time to take another’s hand and lift, because nobody is leaving this earth alone!

Sometimes, I wish I had more to give.

Kelly

2006-02-17T21:00:00.000-06:00

The Coming Day

There are days I’m just grateful to be home, safe and warm. Today is one of those days.

It started out minus-zero in the double digits when I woke up. As Mr. Coffee spat out breakfast, I thought about the coming day and our homeless family and friends who had to wake up on the cold, hard ground. OUCH! I’ll bet some woke up without hats or gloves or warm coats. I imagine there were a few who woke up without a prayer.

My mind rushed as I planned the coming day.

But before I could head out to the streets, I had business to conduct; the business of nonprofit. I don’t like doing business because I’m no good at administrative stuff. I don’t even understand the term ‘nonprofit’ as it refers to organizations that are supposed to help others. Plus, I don’t think of helping others as a business. I think of all the people who have been helped and profited by churches and foundations and institutions, all in the name of ‘nonprofit’.

But, as a volunteer for a faith-based ‘nonprofit’ organization that helps the homeless and working poor, I’m responsible for minding a mailing list and our PO Box. I keep tabs on contributions and expenses, and I perform sundry administrative duties. I collect and sort and distribute donated clothing and personal items. Plus, I make sandwiches. I’m also the ‘designated driver’, the ‘keeper of the gas-guzzler’, the ‘nut behind the wheel’ of The FellowShip, our mobile canteen and passenger van.

I enjoy picking up the mail at the PO Box. I enjoy opening cards and letters from those who support our ministry with prayers and financial contributions. Today, we were especially blessed with mail, receiving several hundred dollars in contributions. WOW! As I opened our mail and sorted through ten and twenty and hundred dollar checks, I nearly came to tears! I praised God for our blessings and I imagined a hundred ways we could share our prosperity with those in need.

I had to get the van gassed and I’d be off. While fueling, I noticed a green liquid dripping from under the van, from somewhere near the front of the engine. OUCH again! There’s never a good day to be stranded on the streets with a brokeback van, but today would be an especially difficult day, with the twenty-something below zero wind chills! BURR! Plus, come Sunday, I’ll have a van full of disabled and handicapped friends. I thought I’d better have the van checked out.

I could have guessed the bad news: bad water pump, bad serpentine belt, bad various parts, plus three bad hours of shop labor. Total, about $700.00 or 700 meals served to 700 homeless friends. What should I do? Without the van, there’ll be no meals served, no friends ministered to, no hope delivered to the hopeless. Considering the contributions we just received, I figured we had to get the van fixed.

I sat four painful hours in a repair shop waiting on the van. I read every old magazine I could find. I read the entire newspaper twice, with all the ads. I even paged through a Corvette parts catalog (?). And the whole time I sat there, I thought about the friends I missed and the money we’d have to spend on repairs; and all the things we couldn’t do because of our broke down van.

Then, my thoughts turned to praise. I thought about opening the mail and counting up donations earlier. And I thanked God for providing us with an answer to our needs that day before we even imagined we’d have needs.

As I sit back now, safe and warm in my comfortable home, I pray for all of our friends that have to find a bed tonight on the cold, hard ground. And I thank God that He chose me to His service.

Does God have His hand outstretched choosing you?

Kelly

2006-02-12T21:00:00.000-06:00

Given Half A Chance

This past fall, I asked Willie what he was planning to do this coming winter. Thoughtfully, he replied, “Gonna’ avoid it!”

Willie couldn’t be so lucky. No one could be so lucky as to avoid time and chance and cold, things that happen to every resident Minnesotan in the winter. And while this winter hasn’t been too tough yet, winter is never easy for the old and disabled, especially when the old and disabled makes his home in a little clump of woods.

This winter, temperatures and snow totals have been up and down, respectively. If global warming is happening for real, our homeless friends will be the ones least affected. The homeless are quick to adapt to changing conditions, and are hearty survivors when given half a chance. Then again, so is a drowning rat.

But this winter, Willie is a lucky one, because he’s being given half a chance at survival in a little clump of woods. A vehicle barrier was built recently to keep John Q. Public off nearby property (and to fence Bridal Veil Creek in?) As far as I can tell, PoPo has respectfully ignored Willie – maybe even avoided him. Now, that’s about the best luck any homeless person could ever hope to have; the Police and Public ignoring you. It means you must be keeping your nose out of business – but if you are homeless, you got no business anyway.

So what, Willie’s lost a toe or two; like he says, ‘At my age, who’s counting?’ And yeah, he’s still trying to rest his old bones in a frozen-stiff pile of bedrolls; he reminds me, ‘Just when I get all warm, it’s Rise and Shine!’

No, this winter Willie is a lucky one because he’s being given half a chance, and he has family and friends to help him!

OK, OK! Willie’s family may be all volunteers who have adopted him (like you, right?). And Willie could probably count all of his friends on one foot (now, that’s a short count!). But, Willie does have family and friends who care about him …

And that’s more than many of our homeless friends have, even given half a chance.

2006-01-08T21:00:00.001-06:00

A Lumbering Sort of Way

Willie joined us at the fire for fellowship, today. We were all glad to see Willie.

I recognized Willie coming from a long way off. You see, Willie has a lumbering way about him. When I say lumbering, I picture Willie as this big sawed log meandering aimlessly down a ragging river … bobbing and weaving with no particular place to go, except downstream.

Willie sat by the fire, puffing his smoke as we talked. I asked him where he was laying his head at night. He lifted his hand and pointed, “In them trees over there.”

Willie pointed across the frozen yard to four majestic cottonwood trees. Those trees must be a hundred years old; they are HUGE. They only stand now because they stand on an abandoned section of City street; public property that has missed the developer’s axe up to this point.

Willie continued on, “I sleep there, on the roots of them four trees.”

After a contemplative stare into the fire, Willie added, “I warm up those trees when I sleep on the roots … they told me so.”

A gust of wind whipped flames into our coals. Willie leaned closer. “Something’s happenin’ to those trees. I know. I warm up the roots when I sleep on them and the branches move and tell me that something’s happening to those trees.”

Willie must have an inventive imagination piling up inside his old self. Maybe he doesn’t remember as well as he used to, either. I’ll bet Willie gets so lonely that when he finally does come around for a visit, all of his rememberings come out in a lumbered sort of way … kind of like when he walks into a scene.

Willie must see things in an incredible way, too. But, I could never call Willie crazy because I know that Willie is right: something is happening to those trees.

Those majestic cottonwood trees that warm Willie each night are destined to disappear in a near-future development. The trees must know that and are just telling Willie because if Willie keeps on getting any older, he’s gonna’ go the same as those old trees ... in a lumbering sort of way.

I think about Willie everyday. I hope he's around forever!

Kelly

2006-01-05T21:00:00.000-06:00

Righteous Prayers

When I wake up in the morning, I think about our homeless friends. I hope they all got a good night’s rest and coffee with their breakfast. I pray they will be blessed as they walk the streets today. I think about our homeless friends a lot.

In Hebrew, God is called ‘The Heart-knower’. Throughout the Bible, He’s the only Reader of Men’s Minds. So, I was thinking … our thoughts are conversations we have with God, ‘heart-to-hearts’ that no one else knows about. As I speed through another day, I think … so, I pray.

Speeding through the internet, I saw a picture that made me think. It was a picture of a homeless man leaning against a broken down shopping cart in an abandoned alley. The cart was full of plastic bags tied together in odd assortments. The man was overly dressed in clothes way too big for what was likely his meager frame. He wore two stocking caps at the same time, and held a crusty plastic jug close to his chest. I don’t know what he had in that jug.

I’ve seen hundreds of shopping carts in a thousand different shapes being pushed by only a handful of same-looking people. I recognized the kind of man in the picture, but there was something odd about that cart: the wheels were way too fat. I’d never seen such fat wheels on a shopping cart.

I was thinking that the man in the picture looked just like our friend, Eugene. In fact, they could be brothers! Eugene has walked the streets on the North Side for as many years as I can remember. He leans against a shopping cart full of odd plastic bags, too. He’s way overly dressed for his small frame, and he wears two stocking caps. But, that shopping cart?

I clicked a link at the bottom of the picture and up pops Bor’duxe de Zillieh or something. The picture was taken in France of a homeless French guy with a French shopping cart that had fat wheels!

I studied the picture of the homeless guy from France for some time. I prayed about Eugene. I wondered if the two men thought about the same things. I imagined that the French guy must think in French so … Yeah, God hears a French man’s prayers; just like He hears Eugene’s prayers or my prayers or anybody’s prayers. And, just like He knows what I’m thinking, He knows your thoughts as well.

As we walk through this life, our experiences will provoke thought. Some of our thoughts, or prayers, will benefit the world around us, some will only hurt.

As we see things, we will think things. And when we think things, we pray. God hears and answers prayers, regardless of what we think.

As we see the poor and less fortunate trying to survive around us, I hope we all have righteous prayers.

Kelly

2005-12-31T21:00:00.000-06:00

Happy New Year!

... from the DumbWoody Crew!

Hope we live to share another day!

Kelly

2005-12-27T21:00:00.000-06:00

A Peculiar Trail

I know a man who follows a peculiar trail. He’s one of the kindest men I know. He’s a freegan by weekend; a guerrilla gardener by week day; and a full time caregiver to at least two retired veterans every other day of the week. He’s driven by a Chinook wind; the Chinook’s name is Boris.

A rest for BeBe and Boris, with Tank and Iris. Looks like a pretty good team!

BeBe’s walk in life is a dog trail crossing a frozen tundra; at least for this Minnesota Winter.

But I’ve known BeBe in the spring; I’ve worked next to him in the summer; and we’ve enjoyed more than one fall harvest together.

Spring Faith

Summer Disappointment

Fall Reflection

Today, we share the warmth and fellowship of the family hearth … a brief respite along a peculiar trail.

Kelly

NEEDS: Harnesses, Boots

2005-12-25T21:00:00.000-06:00

A Christmas Tradition

Christmas morning. As my first cup of coffee perks, I look under our tree and see loads and tons and bunches of gifts. Most of the gifts are for the kids and the grandkids.

We have a Christmas tradition in our house ... the family gathers every Christmas Morning for breakfast and Santa stuff and opening gifts. There'll be more sausages and eggs and cheese gravy than we'll be able to eat. And it looks like there'll be more presents than we could ever hope to open. Nah, the grandkids will make short work of the gifts.

Any morning I can gather with family is a blessing! I'm especially blessed to be able to gather with family this Christmas morning. I know a lot of homeless people who won't have so much to do this Christmas morning. You see, it's Sunday morning.

Oh yeah! It's Sunday and I gotta’ get going!

You see, every Sunday, I go out to the streets to visit our homeless friends, bringing them food, clothing, and Christian fellowship. I don't miss a Sunday, except for bad weather, vehicle problems, and I think once I was sick. This Sunday's not going to be any different.

Someone said, "But it's a holiday." Gee, God doesn't take a holiday. And neither does homelessness.

"But what about your family and the grandkids and all the gifts?" askes another. Gee, I can see my family and grandkids any day of the week, except Sunday. And Thursday. And some Tuesdays and most Fridays and often Wednesdays. You see, those are the days I try to visit our family of friends who live on the streets. Of course, I'm always around evenings for my grandkids.

This Sunday will be no different for me. Except now, I look outside and see we got some freezing rain last night. I hope the roads are OK and that my friends made it through the night and that I'll have enough sandwiches and coffee to go around. I do have some long johns and socks and boots to share if I come across a friend in need.

Now, I've got to go! I have to load the cooler and scrape the windows and warm up the van and ...

Oh, by the way; if you are thinking of giving our less fortunate family and friends something for Christmas, it's not too late. Shucks, if you're reading this in July, it's not too late to give a gift we all could use everyday; the gift of heartfelt prayers from family and friends.

You probably already pray for the less fortunate.

In fact, in your family, it may already be A Christmas Tradition!

GOD'S BLESSINGS!

Kelly

Christmas Day With Family and Friends

I got to spend Christmas Day with our family and friends on the street. I left home about 8 AM and got back about 6 PM.

Kinda makes for a full day, when you have as many family and friends as I do.

I saw friends today I didn’t even know I had. And, I didn’t get to see some family I was hoping to see. You probably have a lot of family and friends like that, too.

Family and Friends, you know there’s a difference between the two.

I have stories of both family and friends. I share some of those stories here with you.

I take pictures of both family and friends. I share some of those pictures here, too.

I have so many stories and so many pictures and there are so many names to remember that I often get them all shook up. I tell a story and mention a name and show a picture … and you can’t tell who’s who or even if the story is for real.

Unless, you are family.

Cool Harley was happy this Christmas morning. He got an orange, not another lump of coal!

Trailer Tom awoke with a smile as big as the sunshine this Christmas morning!

Not all of my friends are homeless; not all in my family have homes. And I don't share all of my pictures and stories with you; I don't know if you are family or friend.

So, when you look here for a picture of family and read here for a story of friends, I’ll let you decide which is which and what is true.

I just hope for this Christmas, you have as many family and friends as I do.

Kelly

2005-12-23T21:00:00.000-06:00

Cuzsin' Bill Lived on a Hill

One of the first homeless friends I met on the street was Cuzsin' Bill. I learned right away that most everybody on the street, all of the homeless anyway, have ‘tags’ … nicknames used more to tell each other apart than to preserve anonymity. There was an Uncle Bill, a couple of Wild Bill’s, a TooTall Bill … even a Hillbilly Bill, to name a few. Then, there was Cuzsin' Bill.

Cuzsin' Bill lived on a hill behind the potato factory. But as far as I could tell, Cuzsin' Bill was from all over the United States. He could tell you a story from anywhere, right down to the year and the street corner, with the name of the local barmaid tossed in for good measure.

Cuzsin' Bill sometimes tells outlaw stories; Jesse James being his favorite character. He tells a lot of stories from real life, too; himself being the favorite character.

And Cuzsin' Bill sings like he talks; in an over-exaggerated drawl with a twang that echoes country and bumpkin at the same time. At least, that’s how he sounds when he’s drinkin’ singin'.

When I saw Cuzsin' Bill last, it was about 20-below zero, minus the wind chill. He was sitting in his kitchen; a make-shift shelter of pallets and tarps tied up against some trees. A spike pail sat in the corner and served as his cookstove. The stove spit black smoke at a small hole cut in the ceiling, a hole way to small to let out much smoke. Everything in the kitchen was cloaked in black soot.

Cuzsin' Bill was sitting hunkered over the warmth of his fire, elbows on his knees. He poked his soot-covered face out at me and choked … “Chap’lin Keah’lee … yOU Thin’ I’mm crayZeee?”

He looked at me, hazy-like; his white eyes sticking out from his soot-black face. I about laughed, considering Cuzin Bill's the most prejudiced white man I know. His head bobbed as steam rose from his seat forming a foggy mist about his middle. It’s twenty below zero; Cuzsin' Bill’s drunk and just pee’d himself; and he’s askin’ me if I think he’s crayZeee?

I put my hand on Cuzsin' Bill’s shoulder and said, “Billy, you’re not crazy; you’re sick.”

I didn’t know what else to say. I think that’s what they call alcoholism, isn’t it – a mental illness? I probably didn’t need to say anything, but Cuzsin' Bill was asking. He probably didn’t remember anything that day anyway, he wasn’t in the remembering mood; he was in the drinking mood.

That drinking mood happened to Crazy Craig a few years back. Craig lived in an abandoned grain elevator by the river. One winter night, he and his buds were drinking and Crazy Craig passed out in a snow bank and pee’d himself. His friends found him the next morning, half-froze. Craig got an ambulance ride to the hospital, and ended up loosing both of his legs to the infection that followed the frostbite that came after the fool night he spent in the snow bank.

One day, Crazy Craig went back to the river and pushed his wheelchair over a cliff with him in it. I guess he didn’t want to have to think about much of anything anymore. Maybe, he got really tired and lonely; I don’t know.

Like with Cuzsin' Bill; I never know what to say. He sure looks tired and lonely sometimes, and there’s nothing I can do about that. Except I can be there for him if he’s ever in the mood for a friend that doesn’t mind so much when he's just pee’d himself.

When someone tells me I have to walk a mile in their shoes ...

I think there are sometimes I just can’t.

Kelly

2005-12-22T21:00:00.001-06:00

This Little Piggy ...

This little piggy went to market.

This little piggy had no home.

This little piggy ate all the roast beef.

This little piggy got none.

This little piggy went wee wee wee ... till it was gone.

An Early Present ...

If you've been wondering about Willie, he found us!

In the bitter cold after Thanksgiving, Willie found his way to a hospital. I'm not sure how, his feet were probably froze. All I know is; Willie was gone and now he's back.

But Willie's missin' a digit. The doctors had to amputate one of his toes. I don't know the particulars. I do know that Willie is outside today. And he joined us for lunch.

I think Willie's looking pretty good. What do you think?

Willie has a voucher to stay at the Salvation Army. I'm not sure what kind of service he'd get at the SA; he would stay with other vulnerable adults there. I've heard that the 3rd floor can be a tough place. Willie says he doesn't like it there. Maybe he doesn't like the food. Maybe he'd miss his family.

I know that my Grandpa didn't like staying in an old folks home, but he did until the day he died. I think my Grandpa died of homeless-loneliness. I knew my Grandpa pretty well.

So ... Willie's back. And, I'm not so lonely now!

I can't speak for Willie though, I don't know the particulars.

Kelly

2005-12-14T21:00:00.000-06:00

Willie Took to the Dogs

Word went around; we're looking for Willie'. But, Willie's gone AWOL.

Friends talked to friends, who talked to the cops. A body was recently fished out of the river, but it wasn't white, so it wasn't Willie. Someone asked the DETOX van driver, but he hadn't seen Willie. We haven't checked the hospitals, yet. I'm hoping that Willie went back to the wet-house.

Willie got hit by a car some years back, and ended up in the hospital. He 'recovered' from his injuries in a wet-house. Willie says he didn't like staying there much, as far as having company or making friends went. Says he spent too much time in his room, a-vegetatin'. When he wasn't a-vegetatin', he was a-salivatin' at the sneeze-bar.

They say they feed you good at the wet-house. They do take their share of 'ker-chink' from your SSI check, but when you stay at the wet-house, you get all you can eat. And, you drink all you can get. ('Wet-house' ... get it?)

Willie says he stayed at the wet-house for seven-something years. He says he blew up to over 500 pounds or something, so he left the wet-house to live in the woods. That's when I met Willie.

Back when Wille moved to the woods over 30 years ago, he says he took to the animals right away. He says he got to know the geese, the squirrels ... even, the bats.

One day, he was sittin' with some friends in a little clump of woods down on the tracks. Somebody had some beer; someone else, some weed. Another had brought cherry-filled donuts. Everybody sat around eating cherry donuts, drinking beer and getting stoned - or so Willie tells it. In fact, when Willie first told the story to me, I didn't believe a word of it.

Willie says he was sitin' there, eatin' a donut, and the cherry stuff falls out on the ground. As he looks down, something dropped from a tree, bounced off his sholder, and fell in the cherry stuff. Willie says he looked closer and saw it was a bat. He says he stuffed the bat in a pillbox he had, and then put the whole thing in his pocket.

Willie says he saved the rest of his cherry-filled donut to feed to the bat. Eventually, he forgot about the bat in the pillbox, until the day he got hit by that car. Willie says he woke up in the Emergancy Room, technicians standing over him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a nurse pull the pillbox out of his jacket. When the nurse opened the pillbox, Willie says things got crazy-loud. He says they quick stuck him with a needle or something, and that's all he remembered until he woke up. Nobody ever mentioned his pillbox. And he hasn't seen his bat since.

But, Willie still likes the animals. He's alway talking about conversations he has with the animals. I can't hardly understand him sometimes. But then, I don't hardly understand animals, either. At least, I don't understand the wild ones so well.

I do understand my dogs. And, when I introduced my dogs to Willie, Willie took to the dogs, right away!

I wonder if Willie misses his bat?

I sure miss Willie.

Kelly

2005-12-12T21:00:00.000-06:00

The Business of Homelessness

"Caring for the poor and homeless has become a business in this generation. The poor and homeless who receive services are referred to as clients. Businesses that provide services to the homeless are not funded by the quality of service provided, they are funded by the number of clients served."

On any given day, over 20 thousand people are homeless across the State of Minnesota, according to a non-profit business that censuses such things.

The city of St. Paul recently announced a five-year plan to end chronic homelessness in the city. Included in the 131-million dollar plan (that’s $26,000,000 per year, or over $2,000,000 per month): $64,000,000 is for 920 new or existing ‘supportive housing units’ (about $70,000 per unit); $36,000,000 is for ‘rental assistance’ ($7,000,000 per year, or $600,000 per month); $31,000,000 goes to ‘supportive services’ not yet determined. Plus, another $11,000,000 will be, or has been, or is going to be set aside for one of the biggest faith-based charities in the country to build a 120-bed, single occupancy facility (that’s over $92,000 per bed). I think the facility is called a ‘wet-house’.

And, this is only Phase I of a five-year plan to end chronic homelessness, in only one city in Minnesota. Turn that into a ten-year plan, double the money to 260-some million bucks … Now, that’s a business!

Already, most, if not all agencies that provide ‘overnight shelter’ to the homeless get paid by the County or State to provide beds for the homeless. Agencies receive up to $40 per night per person, and that’s dorm-style sleeping with 10 or more beds per room. Where’s Motel 6 when you need them? I don’t know what kind of money the agency receives that shelters 250-plus men on floor mats each night. The men try to sleep while packed in one large room like sardines. They have to dodge the ‘crackers’ (crack smokers and dealers) and gang-bangers if they need to use the horrible bathroom facilities. The men are given floor mats because the agency can’t, or won’t, get the license required if the men are given beds.

Already, agencies that operate detox facilities get paid by the County or State to provide services to the inebriated. If you are homeless and stay in detox, you’ll never see a bill for your visit. If you are blue collar and stay in detox, you will be billed thousands of dollars for a three-day stay, and you will be sued in small claims court if you or your insurance doesn’t pay the bill. Some homeless people use detox as a shower/laundry facility. Some even brag of staying in detox over 200 times in a one-year period. The problem got so expensive, the County started a program that paid chronic detox users (homeless alcoholics) to stay out of detox. A chronic detox user could get over $200 per month to stay away. Wonder what the chronic detox user does with that kind of money?

Already, a large non-profit agency operates at least one ‘wet house’ in Minneapolis, a facility where chronic alcoholics, mostly homeless, are provided a room, three meals a day, and some security. I understand that residents have to be receiving Social Security Income (federal welfare). The agency receives the resident’s monthly SSI benefits, and then gives the individual back a stipend (under $50) for personal expenses. Plus, the agency receives other State and county funding to supplement the costs of doing business.

Most agencies that provide services to the homeless are non-profits that spend a big part of their annual budgets on administration, and to solicit your tax-deductible contributions that enable them to continue in business. The holidays are the time of year most agencies kick off these ‘capital campaigns’, and they advertise using black and white photos of toothless, homeless men in an attempt to guilt you out of your spare change.

The ding-a-ling agencies this holiday season are supposed to be a Harbor in the storm of life. They are already paid by State, County and Federal governments to conduct the business of homelessness. Then, they hire the homeless at minimum wage to stand out in the cold to solicit more funds (one lousy job!) so they can operate throughout the rest of the year. The agencies receive surplus cold weather gear from the military, and then sell the gear back to the homeless so they are able to stand out in the cold to solicit contributions. If the homeless use the agencies' facilities to sleep at night, I think they are charged for their bed.

Don’t kid yourself. Providing services to the homeless has become a business; for some service providers, it is BIG business.

If there are over 20,000 people homeless in Minnesota on any given night, I wonder how many people are providing services to the homeless on any given day. Doubt if any group censuses that information. That wouldn’t be good for business.

Kelly

2005-12-07T21:00:00.000-06:00

Harriet writes:

"I was wondering if sometime you could explain how and why some of these persons are homeless."

Homelessness is a walk in life; a collection of experiences that comes from living day to day when you have no permanent address.

Homelessness isn’t caused by addiction, mental illness, or sin. Homelessness is not always miserable, can actually be healthy, and does not always mean 'poor'.

A person can be homeless and still have a job, a cell phone, even a major credit card. You can be homeless and travel cross country with the changing seasons. A homeless person may or may not file honest tax returns.

Being homeless can mean spending time alone, hating life. But that can happen if you are a rock star, or even a President.

Being homeless might make recovery from addiction difficult; it probably complicates mental health issues; and it could lead to a life of debauchery. But then, the walk in life of the clergy could do the same things.

Homelessness does not have to be a chronic condition. But then, I’ve known chronic liars who couldn’t tell a straight joke to the judge.

When you are homeless, you can have blood relatives and never be in touch. You can have a home with family all around you, and you may never experience unconditional love.

Bad things can happen to you when you are homeless. But then, bad things happen to good people all the time.

Homelessness may not be a chosen walk in life, but for some, it is their walk in life. The homeless will always be with us; and there will always be pain and suffering in the world.

Now that we know that, what are we going to do about it?

Kelly

2005-12-06T21:00:00.000-06:00

The Little Clump of Woods

The men in the yellow vests keep coming back to the little clump of woods. They come at different times on different days throughout the week. The men come on four-wheel-drive karts and in pickup trucks and in panel vans. They have orange lights on their vehicles that flash; “Men Working Ahead!” The men come to the little clump of woods carrying GPS units and hammers and clipboards. They measure, look up, and then measure again. The men talk on cell phones as they point, and they tie little pink ribbons on big wooden stakes.

The men first started coming around earlier this summer, just after Willie and Hillbilly got hauled off to jail for drinking in the little clump of woods. ‘John Q. Public’ called PoPoe on his Cell Pho’ (911). The ol’ boys got rousted and had to spend an entire weekend in jail before they could see a judge. Apparently, the judge was furious about how these two retired veterans were treated. Willie and Hillbilly were ordered to be released immediately, the judge even sent letters of apology to the two. Still, right after that, the men in the yellow vests started coming down to the little clump of woods. And now, there seems to be no end to them.

The little clump of woods is in an area where the University wants to build a new stadium. Next year, the University plans to host a major tennis tournament near the little clump of woods; new tennis courts have already been built. Future plans call for a transit express way – complete with pedestrian trails – to run through, over, and in between the little clump of woods. Now, the little clump of woods has got to go.

For as long as I can remember, the little clump of woods has been a ‘last refuge’ for the homeless. It was one of those out-of-sight, out-of-wind places to gather for a meal around a fire. I remember ten years ago when the University started to clean up jungles (tramp camps) in the area. The war cry then was, “Get the garden first, or they’ll come back to eat!”

I think that taking away the little clump of woods where the homeless gather for fellowship is a part of somebody’s Ten Year Plan to end homelessness in the community. A Ten Year Plan is a never-ending battle – like a war that is harder to get out of than it was to start – like a war whose casualties are innocent, whose victims wear the uniform of the homeless.

Kelly

2005-12-04T21:00:00.002-06:00

So Cold. And So Dark.

The Moon's so cold, it's frozen,
But not alone in that black sky,
Got stars to share its shivers.
I'm so alone. All I want is to die.
By CoalTrain '88

It's so cold outside tonight, I don’t think it can even snow. The below-zero temperature condenses whatever moisture is in the air, and a fine, icy mist falls on my gloved hand. I remember seeing ‘Robin’ when I was out on the streets this afternoon, and I’m especially grateful now; grateful that I have a pair of gloves to wear.

I was on my regular Sunday route, driving around looking for our homeless friends. As I drove by a local church - a humongously overly dressed church – I noticed a few ‘overly dressed’ folks standing on the corner. In all my winter travels, I only see two kinds of people dressed in up-teen layers of mismatched garments; ice fishermen and the homeless.

Yeah, the sun was shining this afternoon, but it was still dangerously cold. If you stood in the sun and out of the wind, you could feel the peculiar warmth of the sun on your cheeks; a deceiving heat, when exposed flesh was actually freezing, not warming up. Our friends on the corner were dressed, so, warm-looking.

I parked my van at the curb near the base of statue Father ‘Something-or-Other’. I park at the base of the statue, so when I’m told I can’t park there anymore, I’ll kneel and point up and say I’m just waiting for the blessing of the statue that sheds tears of blood. Hey, it could happen! And it would happen, if that saintly block of stone ever got a live glimpse of our homeless friends – our friends that began piling out of the basement of the church before I could shut off my van.

I keep telling our friends that I don’t like to stop at the church steps to feed them. I don’t like attracting attention because I get too many questions about what I’m doing, and it’s too hard to explain unconditional love to some people. I sternly remind our friends that I stop only two blocks away near a bridge where many of them spend the night. I vow that I’ll not be stopping at the church steps again anytime in the near future! (Then, I’ll stop there later in the week because I won’t just drive by when I see someone in need.)

As our friends stood in line for sandwiches and pop, I noticed Robin among the group. Robin staggered when he approached the van. He grabbed at others as he cut to the front of the line. He blurted out a drunken slur of apologies and excuses, for God only knows what? I reached out and grabbed at his arm as he leaned into me.

Robin’s blistered hand was swollen and stiff; his skin was hard and cracked, like a frozen old boot. I rubbed his hand in mine and asked if he had any gloves.

“I’ve gone and lost ‘em!” he said with a nervous laugh.

I gave Robin my last pair of cotton jersey gloves. If you don’t know ‘cotton jersey gloves’, then you must pay more than a buck a pair for your gloves. Jersey gloves are the easiest and cheapest gloves to buy, and I go through every pair of jersey gloves I can get. (Our homeless friends keep loosing their gloves!)

Some people don’t think we should pass out gloves to the homeless “if they’re just going to loose them anyway!” Some people think we should wait for a gloveless man to sober up, to become more responsible – part of a program? - before we give him a pair of gloves. Some people would drive right by a gloveless homeless man and let him freeze his hands rather than give him a pair of one dollar gloves. (Serves him right, eh?)

We could give a friend like Robin a pair of gloves everyday for a year, and every day, Robin could loose his gloves and it would still only cost $365.00 a year. Plus, with gloves, Robin might never freeze his hands like Tony Macaroni did. Tony Macaroni froze his fingers off one winter, and loosing his fingers killed him. Tony became so despondent when he couldn’t roll himself a cigarette that his life just didn’t seem worth living anymore. He told everybody he wanted to die one afternoon, and the next morning, he just didn’t wake up.

TonyMac '99

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

So, it’s dark now. And it’s so cold. But, I’m home, and I’m warm.

And I’m thinking about my homeless friends who have to crawl into a frozen bedroll to go to sleep tonight.

I wonder how long it takes to warm up and fall asleep in a heap of frozen rags. I’ll bet it doesn’t take as long if you’re drunk enough to pass out and don't care if you ever do wake up again, because you really don’t have anything to wake up for, and nobody to wake up to.

Update on Willie …

Today, I went down to the vacant alley and found the abandoned trailer where I had left Willie and our propane stove. I scouted around the freshly fallen snow and didn’t see any tracks leading in or out of the trailer. The stove and the propane tank were still there: the paint on the stove, burnt to a crisp; the tank, empty. But no WeeWillie.

When I saw Willie last, I helped him get a new pair of winter boots. I don’t know why he wanted new boots, he can’t hardly walk anyway.

I have no idea what’s happened to Willie. Maybe he’s not homeless anymore!

Kelly

2005-11-28T21:00:00.000-06:00

It Snowed In My House!

Foyer

Family Room

Bedroom

Bath

It sure would be nice to get a fire going to warm up the house.

But, it's illegal to build a fire in public to warm yourself.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Merry Christmas Season!

2005-11-27T18:00:00.000-06:00

The Rest of The Night

Thanksgiving, 2005 (cont.)

I spent the rest of Thanksgiving afternoon driving around Minneapolis, looking for our friends who maybe didn’t get inside for a Thanksgiving dinner.

It was so COLD that afternoon, and there were very few people out on the streets. The homeless I usually see must’ve found a warm place serving a meal; better yet, they must have found a warm place inside to sit, preferably for a couple of hours. When it is so danged cold outside, and you are so danged homeless inside, finding a ‘leave-me-alone’ warm place to sit is almost more important than finding family or friends, even if it is a Holiday – even if you had a family.

Well, I had found Willie that Thanksgiving holiday. And, Willie had found me. Together with our friend, Scott, and my dog, Beau, we found an out-of-the-wind place where we could set up a propane stove to heat up our soup.

As the double boiler spit and bubbled on the stove, I prayed that we would find Willie a refuge for that night. I hated the thought of having to drive Willie back to his jungle home, only to leave him at a frozen heap of rags for a bedroll. I’ve often wondered if it’d be fun driving an old city bus converted with bunk beds. I could pick up a bunch of our homeless friends at the end of the day, drive out to the nearest Interstate rest stop and park all night so everyone could use the public restrooms. Hum? Sounds like too much fun, eh? Or, maybe something that belongs in a ‘Ten Year Plan’ to end homelessness.

Well, God does provide an answer to prayer. And that Thanksgiving day, God provided Willie with a friend who knew of a guy who heard of an abandoned trailer parked in some vacant alley. At the end of our route, I found the abandoned trailer and I dropped off Willie and his friend and the propane stove. It was dark before Beau and I finally got home.

I sat alone with my pups for the rest of the night. I thought about Willie and I hoped he wouldn’t burn himself up in that old, abandoned trailer. I prayed that if I found Willie the next morning, that I’d find him warm … especially because I know he’s already froze his feet once before. And once you’ve froze yourself, little things like toes and fingers turn funny colors and fall off when they get too cold. And top that with all the pain and the loneliness that comes from being homeless …it would hurt enough to make a grown man like Willie cry.

Most nights, I cry for our friends like Willie. But I only cry on the inside.

Thanksgiving 2005

2005-11-26T12:01:00.000-06:00

What'd you do for Thanksgiving?

I went out early this Thanksgiving, out to the streets to look for our friends who are homeless. I knew that Willie (68 yrs old, disabled) spends most of his nights hunkered down in a clump of woods near the University. Considering the minus-degree wind chills that morning, I had a special concern for Willie’s condition, so I checked on him first thing.

I found Willie in his bedroll, just poking his head out from under a pile of blankets. It took him a few seconds to catch his breath as he raised his head up and against the biting wind. Willie quickly ducked back under the covers to grab his shoes. He sleeps with his shoes off so his feet don’t freeze while he’s sleeping, something every camper should know.

I reached out to help Willie as he struggled to stand in his frozen shoes. He has his own ‘system’ of getting himself out of his bedroll, so I stepped back and let him flail his arms about. He kicked at his blankets and I noticed he didn’t kick his ‘pee-jug' – putting it ‘pee-lightly’. A pee-jug isn’t something we need to talk about. Anyone who sleeps out in the cold knows what a pee-jug is. When you’re all toasty in your bedroll and you have to go and you already have your shoes off, you can’t take time to put on all the rags you’d need to keep warm just to go … So, hence, the ‘pee jug.’

As Willie lumbered out and about his bedroll, I glance around his jungle camp. I hesitate to use the word ‘camp’ because camping here would be illegal. It’s more like Willie’s jungle ‘home’ – fair enough?

(Yeah, fair enough! This is the area where a handful of us friends had been quietly meeting for almost ten years. This is the abandoned area down along the rails that was recently fenced, chained and padlocked to keep folks like me from parking anywhere in the area so I can minister to folks like Willie. I’ll have to park in the street nearby and walk a few blocks to get to Willie’s jungle home from now on. And with every step I take to get there, I’ll think about next time parking right in front of the local sub-sandwich shop in town, and then inviting my friends to join me there for fellowship! Yeah, probably not!)

As I looked around Willie's jungle home, I noticed that the fire pit was cold.

The fire pit is constructed of broken cement and rocks and scrap iron scavenged from the immediate area. The pit is surrounded by a stump and a couple of chairs creating an arrangement that can be quickly – albeit, not easily – moved according to prevailing winds. The entire pit sits in a small clearing that serves as ‘great room’ and kitchen for when family stops by to visit. A rack from an old refrigerator serves as cooking grate. A piece of junk steel holds a half-dozen medium-sized rocks. As the fire burns, it heats the steel which heats the rocks. The rocks get just hot enough so you can still grab them with a gloved hand. Sitting around the fire in the cold, you can stick a few of these hot rocks in your jacket to bring the heat of the fire closer to your core!

Thanksgiving 2005 (cont.)

2005-11-26T12:00:00.000-06:00

... in the cold, you can stick a few of these hot rocks in your jacket to bring the heat of the fire closer to your core!

Willie wiggled his way out of his bedroll and looked at me. He raised his hands in the air and motioned to the world around us, as if in a kind of prayer. Maybe, it was more a motion of ‘surrender’. Maybe, he raised his hands in a prayer of surrender? Ah, the wind was just to cold to stand around thinking, so I invited Willie to my van so we could warm up.

As Willie sipped a cup of hot coffee, I thought about my day ahead. I had a route to keep. Willie knows many of the friends I hoped to see, and I still needed to find a place to set up my stove to heat up the soup I was going to serve with sandwiches, so I invited Willie to ride with me for a while. I had no idea of what the day would bring. I had no idea of what I was going to do with Willie later that day. I just knew I had to move my van or I was going to attract the kind of attention that could ruin my day – police and ID’s and all. And that’s the kind of attention that would really ruin Willie’s day – he’d likely get ‘kicked’ from his jungle home.

So, we moved on.

Your Lot In Life

2005-11-15T21:00:00.001-06:00

I went out today to see our friends on the street. As we talked over coffee and sandwiches, we laughed and laughed – I could see the tension and depression lift from their shoulders as they spun stories of the past weekend … something about drinking 8 half-G's of Vodka amongst themselves.

“Huh?” I said, “How many of you were there?”

“Us,” the six guys all laughed in unison, pointing to each other. “Saturday afternoon!” “Yeah, Saturday,” another added.

I laughed with them and explained, “You know, that’s God’s gift to you guys.” They stared back at me like deer fixed on headlights.

“Yeah,” I continued. “In the Bible, it says that when you guys are sitting back, enjoying all of God’s blessings (I motion to remind them of the miserably cold, wet conditions that embraced us), that to enjoy this, that’s a gift from God. Sittin’ under the bridge Saturday, enjoying your Vodka … enjoying it … that’s your lot in this life.” Smiles turned to smirks of ‘well-yeah-I-guess-so’s'. I added, “Well, at least for that moment."

That is what the Bible says. Don’t know if I was right in repeating it, but I did. Anyway, the guys all continued with stories and laughing and hugging and shaking my hand. One of my friends blurts out, “Hey, Kelly … say a prayer for us!”

So, we hugged in a circle – a real, tight circle – and thanked God for bringing us together again, for a little food … a little fellowship. And, we asked God to bring us back again together SOON! Lord willing. Cuz this is really all we have right now – this motley group of friends that would stand around under a bridge in such miserable weather … enjoying it!

I bout froze my arse, standing out there with my friends. I got into my warm, dry van and drove off thinking of my friends who have to sleep under a bridge tonight. As I fought traffic out of town, I thought about how grateful I was to have missed the worst of the weather – the worst that is still coming. Yeah, and not just cold is coming ... wet and cold is coming. And, when you live on the streets, cold is miserable, for sure. But wet and cold can kill you.

As I fly down the interstate on my way to my country home, I think, “Yeah. I guess this is my lot in life.” And, I thank God that I have so many friends!

Kelly

Got 'Permit'sion?

2005-11-15T21:00:00.000-06:00

Friends gave me the news today ... it's official, if you can believe what you hear on the streets.

"The homeless in Minneapolis are now required to have a permit to 'sign' on street corners."

Do I hear someone out there cheering?

Apparently, the permit costs $35.00. Guess that's part of the council's 'Ten Year Plan' to end homelessness in Minnesota. (Like deja vue all over again ... Like when they made all the guys who dumpster aluminum get scavenger permits one year, a long time ago.)

SixPac already got his permit to sign. I asked my friends if his permit was 'transferable', kinda like a keg permit to drink beer in city parks (one permit, many people), or a hazardous waste permit given to a corporation (one permit ... or fine ... to dump a bunch of toxic waste).

Nah, they tell me it's more like a dog license ... one permit permitted per each permissible dog.

Why do most people treat their dog better than they treat their fellowman, fellowwoman or fellowchild?

Because, their fellowdog is a part of their family.

In Search of Lost Soles

2005-10-18T21:00:00.000-05:00

Photo Update ....

Old Boot; Part 1

Old Boot; Part 2

I have an idea of how the Parts parted company. Is anyone interested?

Now, a lonely sole ...

who's lost its' mate!!

Amazing, how they survive so long. Some don't!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I was hiking along the rails one day, searching old camps that had been vacated for years. You never know when someone will show up and move in; I have to keep checking.

A 'bull' approached me and asked what I was doing. I said, "Looking for a friend."

The bull questioned, "Why? Is your friend lost?"

I said, "Sir, all my friends are lost."

Some, lost forever I 'spose.

Kelly

He Stepped Right Out of His Shoes

2005-10-10T22:28:00.000-05:00

It was the first snow of fall, and it fell all day in bunches of inches. It wasn’t too bad getting around to my friends on the street, I was driving a van. I could see people hopping buses and imagined that if they didn’t have far to walk from the stops, they’d make it home with wet feet, but they’d be OK. Then, I saw ‘JonJohn’.

JonJohn sat on his usual bench by the river, his head tucked deep inside his black, worn-out parka. Snow piled up on his hood. He wore those white plastic pants. I don’t know where he got those pants, but they were white plastic pants like those worn in hazardous waste removal and they were patched throughout with pieces of duck tape. His Sorel-type boots were worn plum out, both soles dangled from the uppers, held fast with more pieces of duck tape. I could see his wet socks sticking out from his snow-covered boots. I imagined that his feet must be cold.

“JonJohn,” I whispered in his direction. If I was going to wake him, I wanted to wake him gently. If he was dead, I didn’t want to know. Sometimes, I’ll walk up to friends that have passed completely out to oblivion, and I whisper, “Hello in the camp …” afraid to learn their condition if they do wake up – afraid I won’t be able to help them if they don't.

JonJohn woke up and was glad to take the hot coffee I offered. I gave him a sandwich for his pocket and asked him what size boots he wore. I’ve seen enough toes-sticking-out-of-boots to pretty well guess shoe size, and I figured I had a pair of boots that would fit JonJohn. When he told me he wore size 11, I invited him to my van, telling him I had a pair of boots he could have.

JonJohn sat in my van a moment, eyeing a new pair of boots. He couldn’t believe that someone ‘out there’ would think of him ‘out here’ and that ‘it even snowed today’ and that ‘he hadn’t had a new pair of boots since he could remember’. As he talked, he took off one of his old boots. I looked down at what hung out of JonJohn’s white plastic pant leg. I knew it was a foot, but I couldn’t tell what was sock and what was foot. His sock was so worn out and his foot was so wet, that sock blended into foot and I would of had to really look hard to tell what part was foot. I held out a towel and a pair of clean socks, and turned my back as JonJohn performed the necessary personal hygiene maneuvers required to step out of his old boots and into his new boots.

I thought about the miles JonJohn must have put on his old boots. I thought about where JonJohn must have slept in his old boots and I wondered how many long food lines JonJohn must have stood in while wearing those old boots. I wondered if JonJohn ever took off those old boots before. But that day, JonJohn stepped right out of his old boots and into … I don’t know where he stepped, but he sure was happy!

Where JonJohn stepped to that day – a different town, a new neighborhood, perhaps a family? – I’ll probably never know. I haven’t seen my friend JonJohn since the day I gave him new boots. It’s that way with many of my friends from the street; they come up AWOL one day and you wonder – DETOX? Jail? A new way of life? I look down and see an old, discarded sole and wonder …

Homeless is a tough life – look at their shoes. Alone and homeless is a miserable life – look in their eyes. But being alone and homeless with a no-good pair of shoes; that’s just plain mean! It’s enough to make a man step right out of his shoes!

When I come across an empty pair of shoes, I wonder where those old soles have been, and where the wearer is now. I hope and imagine and pray that all my friends are somewhere warm and dry and living the best possible lives they can be living at that particular moment. I hope all my friends have new soles to wear and all are able to take new walks in life if they want to, because the last time I saw them walking, they looked pretty tired and plum wore out – just like JonJohn’s old boots.

Kelly

BE PREPARED!

2005-10-06T22:00:00.000-05:00

It doesn’t seem like much to me, the lunch I serve my homeless friends; a turkey and cheese sandwich with warm soda or coffee to wash it down. Of course, the sandwich is made with love and the drink is wet. Besides, the meal comes with all the snack chips a person would want to eat. (The chips are ‘stale product’ rescued from local distributors. Hey, if the chips don’t go to feed the homeless, they get recycled through pork farms.)

All together, the lunch I serve only costs $1. I serve up to thirty lunches every day, three or four days every week, fifty two weeks a year. I often get to pass out donated socks, clothing, and ‘spin’ (Tobacco; if you’ve ever had the nasty habit but didn’t have a cigarette, you understand). I have a scheduled ‘route’, so my friends know where to meet up with me (you can usually set your watch by my stops).

Sometimes, I search out my friends in their drinking and sleeping spots to surprise them with bedrolls and blankets and special prayers.

When people hear about what I do, they often ask, “What can I do to help?” I tell them if they want help the homeless, they should buy a loaf of bread, a pound of lunch meat and cheese, and some cheap pop. I tell them to call a friend who will donate a dozen pairs of socks; to call another friend to collect some coats and boots; and to all meet up, make a dozen sandwiches, and then go to a corner or alley where homeless people congregate to pass all that stuff out.

Then I tell them to do that every week for a year, going to the same corner seeing the same people each week, if possible. I tell them to never go alone. I tell them to not go if they don’t feel safe. And, I tell them to quit if they become easily disappointed.

I tell them, “Be prepared! Serving the poor and homeless can be disappointing.” When you give a hatless friend a new stocking cap on a blistery day, only to see him the next day and he’s lost his new cap; that’s disappointing. And when you help someone day after day for years, and that person finally gets up and off the streets and you never see or hear from that person again; now, that’s disappointing. But the most disappointing thing you’ll ever experience is when someone with the means and ability boasts that they’ll be there with help, and they never show up.

I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life. I enjoy passing on God’s blessings to my poor and homeless friends. And, I couldn’t do what I do without the generous support from countless friends who offer me prayers and contributions.

If you see a need to help the less fortunate, I hope you have friends like I do, friends ready and willing to help.

I hope you’re ready to make a big investment of time and of friendship and of your self.

I hope that at your first big disappointment, you’re prepared to loose all of the investment you’ve made up to that point. More importantly, I hope you don’t take your loss personally.

When you’re moved to help the homeless and less fortunate, be prepared; it’s not about YOU anymore.

Kelly

What Goes Around ...

2005-10-04T22:13:00.000-05:00

I’ve been ministering to the homeless for so long, I’ve seen things come and go more than once. I mean that life on the streets – for my friends and me – is cyclical; what happens this day will pass on to something new weeks, months or years from now. And then, months or years from then, what happens this day will be happening that day. Don’t’ get confused, it’s not a difficult concept – “What goes around comes around.”

Today, October 2005, the homeless in Minneapolis seem to be tolerated, at least. Signing on street corners is allowed, even deemed a right of free speech by the State Government. Two years ago, a homeless person had a good chance of being intimidated and threatened by police and public (or worse) if seen signing.

A few years ago, the homeless were rousted for ‘trespassing’ in city parks and parking lots, even run off church property. Today, the homeless congregate on church steps, use church bathrooms, and are fed sandwiches and coffee (meager and washed-out) from the back of the church (albeit, unbeknownst to the Director of Christian Outreach.)

Today, the poor and homeless are offered food, clothing and housing, but it costs them dearly; in individuality, self-esteem and social security benefits. Only years ago, the homeless lived in camps, let the rain wash their clothes, and ate from dumpsters; at a great cost in dignity, self-respect and welfare benefits. “What goes around comes around.”

Years ago, I was feeding in an abandoned woodlot along the railroad tracks. Our small group of homeless friends had been using the area for fellowship for over four years. That day, the police questioned us, ran my DL and plates, told us to pick up trash in the area (trash left from years of homeless camps), and rousted us. Today, I’m meeting with family and friends only three hundred yards from that same spot. A squad car pulls up close to my chair. The officer asks, “Whose van is this?” (Don’t doubt he had already run the plates.) I said, “Mine.” He nodded towards my friends and asked, “Are you just helping these guys out?” I replied, “Yes, sir. Sandwiches and coffee.” “Fair ‘nuff!” he says. And he drives off, for today.

We offer our prayers for, and compliments to that officer; for giving us a fair shake, today. We call that a Shawshank Shake!

That’s all most homeless and poor people want – a fair shake at life. And if they want more, I say ‘Give it to ‘em …” As long as we claim to have compassion for the poor and less fortunate, I say, “To the best of our ability, and beyond our wildest dreams, let’s feed them well, clothe them decently, and treat them with the respect and dignity a fellow human being deserves.” After all, what goes around …

Fair 'nuff?

Kelly

To Protect and Serve ...

2005-09-28T20:20:00.002-05:00

A homeless friend of mine was picked up flying the sign by two police officers at 10 pm on a cold and wet spring night. He had worked up $17 and change. The officers placed him in their squad, put all of his personal items and cash on the dash, and ran his name for wants and warrants.

My friend had no wants/warrants, so they drove him 8 miles to the nearest suburb (11pm, by now), stopped and told him to get out. They wouldn’t return his personals or his money. He was left stranded and had to walk back to town. It had begun to rain. He was wearing a light jacket. His walk to camp took him over two hours. When I saw my friend the next morning, he was sick, cold, wet … and he had nothing but ‘compliments’ for our cities ‘finest’. My friend feared retaliation from the cops, so he never spoke up about the incident.*

(Sample photos posed for dramatic effect.)

Just weeks before, another friend was signing on the same corner. A squad drove up on him and the officer told him to move on. The officer yelled, "You don't need any more money, you’re already drunk!" My friend yelled back, “I’m signing for weed!" The officer popped his trunk, stepped to the back of his squad and removed a small bag of marijuana. He tossed the bag to my friend and yelled, "There! There’s your weed!! Now get off my Gaud dang corner!" This friend walked back to his camp, too. His walk probably took longer than my first friend's.*

(And just when they took ‘To Protect And Serve’ off the squad cars!)

Ya gotta have a sense of humor!

*A reminder: When you’re on the streets, believe half of what you see, and none of what you hear.

Kelly

Giving of One's Self ...

2005-09-26T23:45:00.000-05:00

I’m on the streets of Minneapolis three or four days each week ministering to the needs of the homeless. I understand from Matthew 20:26, that ‘ministering to’ means ‘to menially wait upon those in need, as host, friend or teacher.’ As Chaplain for a non-profit outreach organization, my responsibilities include ‘actively searching for and finding’ those especially in need of ‘ministering to.’ Most times, those especially in need find me!

Everyone needs ministering to – in food and fellowship – especially those among our friends on the street. ‘DOC’, understands. DOC got his ‘tag’ from a stint he did at a mental health facility in the 70’s. I’m not sure if he was staff or patient. Now, he’s just plain ‘DOC’. As a true friend and fellow, DOC holds a place in his heart for his brothers and sisters addicted to drugs or alcohol. When he visits, he brings vitamins (dumpstered) with his personal prescription (½ pill, once daily). He explains; everything (especially vitamins) needs to be taken in moderation. ‘You can O.D. on vitamins!’ DOC also brings assorted shooters (1oz. bottles) of flavored vodka – partly to wash down the pills? partly for whatever else ails you? (He always asks me about turning water into wine.). Then, DOC bestows upon us the virtues of ‘letting go’ and ‘getting on’, regardless of what demons would thwart us or what friends might forsake us. We feel the compassion DOC brings to the group, even if his words get tangled up in jumbled wonderings.

As DOC expounds, I offer sandwiches and coffee, hugs and prayers. Too soon, we’re off our separate ways. We’ll see each other again, Lord willing. And, with charity in our hearts, we’ll share stories of the faith and the hope that brings us back together often. And, we’ll give each other the gift of our selves … because that’s really all we have to share with each other.

We are all different people inside. We each have our own thoughts and prayers; our own hopes and fears. Those things are a big part of who we are. In the midst of all the clutter that comes from living day to day, we need to take the time to share the most important gift God gives us … our self. Call it soul or spirit, whatever. Remember; God wasn’t impressed with the gift of the widow’s mites – He was impressed by the gift the widow gave; her self. (Mark 12:41-4) We are grateful to have friends that share a part of their own selves with our outreach ministry. Gifts of prayers and contributions help us day to day, as we continue, in His Service …

Kelly

Singing In The Rain

2005-09-06T22:10:00.000-05:00

When you have no permanent address in Minnesota, cold is hard to live with. Wet and cold is worse. When you’re cold, you can get warm. When you are wet and cold, you can die.

When you have no permanent address, it’s hard to dry yourself after you’ve gotten wet. If you have days of rain, you have days of wet socks, wet hands, wet brain.

When you’re Chester and you’re wet, you just … well … you just sing in the rain. When you’re Chester and you’re wet and cold, you snuggle up to your best friend, Marsha, in the abandoned tow truck under the bridge you’ve called home for … oh, how many years has it been?

I know Chester pretty well. I know where he and his best friend, Marsha, have lived for years. I knew the spot before Chester and Marsha called it home. Chester knows when and where to meet up with me to get a sandwich and cup of coffee, so I don’t visit him at his camp. And, I don’t know Marsha well enough to visit them in their tow truck home. I respect all of my friend’s privacy, so I don’t visit camps unless I’ve been invited. Besides, I’m afraid to visit camps.

Oh, I’m not afraid of my friends! I’ve stopped by to say hi to my friends in their homes and I’ve been cursed, hit, had things tossed at me; all by friends that apologized later, but didn’t know what they were apologizing for. I’ve even had a nine-millimeter cocked and pointed at my head for serving sandwiches in alleys … by the Minneapolis Police. No, I’m afraid to visit camps because I don’t want to give up what is often, my friends’ only refuge in a storm.

Interesting, and I’ll write more about it later, but John Q. Public doesn’t get upset about my friends who live and camp in abandoned areas … unless they see me feeding them. Like that lost puppy you found when you were a kid … your parents told you, ‘Don’t feed that stray or he’ll come back to eat!’ Like when the cops tell me to move on, saying ‘We appreciate what you do, but you can’t do it here!’

So, I move over two blocks, continue my ministry to my less fortunate family and friends, and keep my big mouth shut.

Kelly

Be Patient

2005-09-06T16:07:00.000-05:00

I'm new to the blog arena, but I'm not new to issues and circumstances relating to the 'homeless' and the working poor. For over ten years, I've fed, clothed and ministered to the less fortunate in the Minneapolis, Minnesota area. Since 1997, I've been entrusted with a non-profit organization that was founded 'to help other people evolve' into something other than 'homelessness'. In that time, I've learned things I never could have learned in some college or seminar. And, I've made many, dear friends in the 'homeless' community.

While working on the streets, I've seen friends go from 'having nothing' to 'acquiring something' - and I've seen them go back to 'worse than nothing' real quick. I've done things that seemed to spark new life into lifeless friends, and I've found friends dead in camp - one still holding fast to a near-empty half-pint of Canadian Whiskey. I've begun many a day in spirited exuberance, and I've ended a few in almost total disappointment.

I've spoken to church groups, coalition groups and been a guest on TV and Radio shows. And, I've pissed off a lot of social workers, wanna-be religionists and gonna-be helpers who got a 'spurt of the spirit' - and a tinge of guilt - one day, and have decided to make 'homelessness' their cause in life. ('Together, WE can end homelessness in such-and-such'a place.' It ain't gonna happen!)

I have some thoughts I'd like to share with people who want to listen, not because I think it will help my 'homeless' friends - I volunteer 4 or 5 days a week to help my less fortunate family and friends already - but, because I hope to instill some empathy and understanding among the 'John Q. Public' types who might read this blog. I also hope to dispel some of the myths and rumors and untruths spread everyday by people and organizations who have to speak like they do, so they can raise the money they need, so they can keep on speaking like they do - all in the name of 'the homeless'.

I hope I don't anger you right away, I ask that you 'Be Patient.' It won't be long, and you'll either be scratching your head saying, 'I never thought of it that way before' - or you'll be running to the nearest red kettle at Christmas and putting in a dollar or two for me. As for me? I'd rather give a guy a cup of coffee and a sandwich, thank you.

One more thing ...

Many of my less fortunate family and friends don't consider themselves 'homeless' - they have camps and bedrolls and cardboard boxes they call 'home'. Calling them 'homeless' is a subject I'd like to give some thought to before I comment. For now, consider our 'homeless' family and friends as NPA's - persons with NO PERMANENT ADDRESS. That is a term used by social service professionals to indentify the homeless - NPA's.

HEY, tell me what you think. If you have a better idea, leave a comment. If you're not the abusive type, I'll listen. And I'll admit when I'm wrong.

Kelly