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I stood, and focused all of my attention on Cassandra. I tried to soak in the volume of her joy, every animated detail of her face as she spoke to me, and her Jesus. I wanted to memorize the moment, to really remember the fullness of human change and movement.

I wanted to remember the words she chose to describe the last few years of her life. She talked about the "chains" of her years of streetlife, the "heavy" boredom of days upon days in the same doorway, the "itch" for another high. She let her 5 ft frame (and 1 ft weave) rise and fall in her recollection, and her her arms wind through her reminiscence. Her eyes widened, her scarlet-red shirt and her shirt-red lipstick portrayed and punctuated her elation.

But it was simple. And most of her explanation was a prayer. She was not speaking to me, but allowing me to eavesdrop on her praise. Because she had her own apartment, and she could sit and soak in her own tub, and even though most of the rooms were empty, her boundless presence filled them for now, and filled them well.

I can't capture all of Cassandra in this moment the way I would like to, and I'm thinking about this as she speaks. I think about the privalege it is to stand so close to the joy of someone else, and to invite it in.  I write this blog to pass on what I'm given, but I'm afraid that today, my words are not sufficient.

Why We Need Places

I visited a home yesterday, which is not something I do very often while working with a predominately homeless population.

I have known Vincent for a few years now--long enough to watch him transition from frequent nights spent in a parking garage, through the application for disability benefits, all the way to the receipt of his own apartment. I have watched one further transition as well: self-sufficiency to dependency; mobility to immobility. This was the reason I was visiting Vincent today: to deliver to him his food pantry staples.

5 pounds of oatmeal
A package of salt-free rice cakes
3 rolls of toilet paper
A loaf of bread
Gatorade
Green Tea

With all of his bland, flavorless food requests, I was not expecting to open his apartment door to such a colorful, stimulating studio.

The walls were full of drawings, gifts from other people, fliers and dried flowers, strange sculptures. Plants (and consequently, dirt) littered the floor, next to stacks of books, and palates of paint. It was truly a 'studio apartment'.

Seeing Vincent in all his glory made me consider the further purposes of having our own housing. We desire to be in all our glory, whatever that means.

Some people fill their places with art and color, like Vincent.
Some people fill their places with people.
Some people want to be surrounded by order,
Or memories
Or collections (anyone who has seen my closet knows all about this).

Some people want their places uncluttered, simple, almost bare.

But most people want to decide for themselves. To extend themselves into wherever they are the most.

Vincent now seems himself, when he's in his place, throwing his being all over the floor and the shelves and the walls.

Wrong Number

George and his wife were speaking with me about housing today, and our conversation lead to the infamous call to the Salvation Army Housing Assessment Program. George dialed the number, and his wife and I listened, confused, as George had the following conversation:

"Hello? What? Is this the.... what? No... I don't know. Really, I don't know. Okay. Um... thanks... 105.3? Yeah."

We asked him what happened:

"I had the wrong number. I called some radio station and they said I could win a vacation if I answered their question, but heck if I knew what they were talking about. So, can I call the Salvation Army now?"

We laughed for about 105.3 minutes.

No Room at the Grand Rapids Inn

Rita is beautiful.

She has long, straight black hair, huge eyes, an incredibly wide smile, and a wonderfully pleasent and joyful demeanor. She doesn't talk very often because she is not very familiar with the English language, but she radiates light in a way that convinces you that speech is hardly important at all. Lately, she has been even more excited than usual; she is eight months pregnant with her first child, and needs to prepare a place for herself and her baby before it arrives.

The father of Rita's child, Greg, has frequented 144 South Division for over a year, requesting medical help, making long distance phone calls, and translating for Rita whenever she has any questions. Rita has been staying in the Women's Drop-In shelter, while Greg has been in a recovery house for men. I have never seen him smile, especially not today, when he escorted Rita, considerably further along than she was last time I saw her. I was happy to see Rita, but her silent smile seemed to mock the gravity of the situation, as Greg's straight face mirrored it--Rita had nowhere to go--she has no Social Security number.

Greg called the DHS about a month ago, when their options seemed to be pretty slim as to how they would care for their child when it was born. They filled out all of the applications for State Emergency Relief, but were turned down because the blank next to the prompt "SS#" had not been filled. They then called the Salvation Army, who informed Rita that if she had no income, they could not find a place for her to stay. They didn't even know about her Social Security Number.

Greg and Rita are left to beg agencies and churches to help them, somehow, to have a place for their child--putting aside any thought of the joy of pregnancy, or the excitement of starting a new family.

While Greg bangs the phone against his forehead, Rita just smiles; perhaps she can see past the situation, and can only feel the joy of life inside of her... or perhaps she knows exactly what is going on, but she only knows how to smile.

Missing the Support and Structure of Prison

Today, one gentlemen looked me in the eye and said,

"If I can't stay in government assisted housing, and if no one will hire someone with my criminal history, I might as well go right back to prison."

If recently released individuals leave prison with no options, if they feel like they are set up for failure, we have failed them.

Someone very wise once suggested that 90% of an individual's time in prison should be focused toward re-entry. Daily life in prison is so hyper-organized, so consistently structured, that upon release, many citizens feel completely overwhlemed by the chaos of a schedule that they are now completely responsible for. Although there is no longer anyone who has restricted your freedom, there is also no longer anyone giving you any direction.

If you could have a roof over your head, food to eat, a schedule to follow, and even some medical care, (and all of these things seem so difficult to find outside of prison walls) would you be tempted to re-offend?

I don't have the stats, but I have heard the prison system is pretty expensive. I understand that all systems are difficult to change, and I'm sure this is no exception. But what if we funded re-entry programs as much as incarceration? Would the numbers drop?