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Our sister, “Tasha,” passed peacefully in her sleep last week at our local hospital. The following is a story originally published on January 1, 2018. Please keep her husband, “Carl,” and all of us at Grace and Main in your prayers as we mourn our loss and give thanks for God’s gift of Tasha to the community.
***

Tasha has been sick off and on for quite some time. Many days, Tasha can be found on her front porch carefully considering the distinction between having trouble breathing and urgently struggling to breathe. Even with oxygen tanks, some days are too difficult and she ends up going to the emergency room if she can get a ride, or calling an ambulance if she can’t. Some nights, Tasha wakes up gasping for air, no longer wondering if it’s “bad enough” to go the hospital yet and simply rushing there by any means necessary. It’s so hard to think about long term solutions, when it feels like you can’t breathe.

After prayers one Sunday, a group of us went to visit Tasha in the hospital. It had been a hard weekend for her, but Tasha’s first words when we showed up were surprisingly apologetic: “I’m so sorry I couldn’t come tonight,” she said, “I really wanted to be there.” We assured her that it was no problem and that we completely understood, even as we took her hands in ours. Tasha’s husband, Carl, admitted sheepishly that he had slept through the service after a couple of long days and nights in the hospital. We patted him on the back and told him he had nothing to worry about. After all, this was the man who once walked over 140 miles one week to be with his sick wife when he couldn’t find a ride the hospital she was in. It’s so hard to make it to prayers, when it feels like you can’t breathe.

As a group, we settled into what we do best: talking, mostly about little things but occasionally about big things too. We talked about the hospital food until Tasha felt like talking about her health or something else that was more pressing, but slower to spring from her lips. It’s strange how an aimless conversation about the relative qualities of cornbread can prime the ears for listening and the mouth for talking about seemingly relentless illness. Tasha offered the dessert from her dinner tray, a single piece of white-frosted, red velvet cake, to Roland, our community’s “Minister of Prayer.” Roland had insisted on coming to the hospital, even though last time we went there it had been to visit him when he was recovering from a surgical procedure. As Roland ate the cake with companionable gratitude, Tasha waded into her own fears about the future. It’s so hard to start talking about things that really matter, when it feels like you can’t breathe.

She promised, again, that she was going to quit smoking. She acknowledged freely that years of cigarettes were likely a part of her failing health, even as she admitted that she had tried before and failed to quit. “But we can do it this time,” Carl insisted. Carl, who is no stranger to the bonds of addiction and the freedom of recovery, offered a renewed hope that some might call naïve, but we’ve learned to call loving. It’s so hard to think about recovery, when it feels like you can’t breathe.

“Yes,” Tasha offered with a touch of resignation at the edges of her voice, “we can.” She continued, “I really want to, but it’s so hard!” We nodded our agreement and held space with Tasha so that she knew she could continue to talk and we’d continue to listen. Over the years, we’ve learned that so much of life in community—a life that is truly shared—is about patient silence as those to whom we’ve pledged our lives and time find the words to wrap around something larger than all of us, but not more powerful than the love of God in us. “This time I’ll do it,” Tasha promised us. We’ve found that community thrives in the fertile soil of trusted promises and generous forgiveness. But, it’s hard to make and keep promises, when it feels like you can’t breathe.

Tasha was tired, but she wanted us to pray with her before we left. Before Roland could begin his prayer though, Tasha wanted to go through her own prayer list and all those who rested heavy on her heart and mind. She wanted to pray for Todd, and Todd’s mother, of course. She wanted to pray for her cousin, who had just lost a daughter. She wanted to pray for the church she attended some Sunday mornings as they searched for a pastor. She wanted to pray for a friend on the street who had struggled with addiction and mental illness and was said to be sleeping outside again. She wanted to pray for a young family that had moved into the neighborhood a couple blocks north of her and especially for their daughter, who rumor said was very smart and a good student. She wanted to pray for my daughter, too. She wanted to pray and give thanks for her marriage and for Carl’s love for her. Finally, she wanted to pray for the strength to quit smoking.

With her community around her, Tasha found that she could still pray, even when it’s hard to breathe.

So, we prayed. Roland lifted all of Tasha’s requests and more in his prayer as we anointed our sister with oil blessed at prayer that afternoon. We marked Tasha’s forehead with the sign of a cross and the prayers of those who loved and missed her. With a few parting jokes, we left so that she and Carl could get some rest. “I didn’t miss prayer after all,” she called to us over the quiet hiss of the oxygen, “you just had to bring it to me.”

***
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***

I hadn’t known Andrew long when I saw him walking down the sidewalk, but I could tell by his gait that he was coming to see me. Eyes searching every house number on our end of the street, it was apparent that Andrew had only been by the house a few times; he didn’t yet know to look for the garden surrounding our steps and walkway or any of its other distinguishing features. The night of the week and the Styrofoam container in his hands told me he was coming from a particular free meal about a mile away. I didn’t know precisely where Andrew stayed yet—we hadn’t known each other long enough to make that question a comfortable one—but I knew which neighborhood and that we were out of his way. The bounce in his step suggested he was in a good mood and was probably looking to talk for a bit. If it was like the last time, he mostly needed to be heard but might do some listening too.

I waited near the door for a minute while he made his way up the sidewalk and our stairs. When he knocked—two short, hurried taps on the window pane beside the door—I made my way to greet him, but took my time. I didn’t want him to think I’d been waiting for him, after all—that can be its own kind of unhelpful pressure. We sat on the porch and chatted amiably for a bit. We didn’t talk about anything of much importance but instead talked about the weather, the meal he had just had, and some of Grace and Main’s upcoming schedule. Little conversations like this are so much more a part of our lives and work than nearly anyone suspects. These little, seemingly inconsequential conversations are a pillar of our work and shared life. Conversations like that start to make people feel welcome while also providing time and space for people to organize their thoughts. For all of us, whether we’re aware of it or not, part of feeling like we’re loved and trustworthy is being able to have conversations that don’t matter without any pressure to make them productive or purposeful.

So, we talked about nothing and I absently watched the sun start to set over the houses across the street. I knew there was something more coming in the conversation—likely some kind of request—but time has taught us that it will come when it comes and there’s not much we can do to hurry that moment along. Instead, we can try to make our friend feel comfortable in the asking. If Andrew was going to give me the gift of his trust, I could certainly afford to give him the gift of my patience.

“I’ve got something to ask you,” Andrew began after we found a natural end to one of our conversations. To the answer of my nod and smile, he continued, “Can I pray for you?” I won’t try to say that this is what I expected. I knew he didn’t have much money and that the place he was staying was his only through of charity and lack of wider attention. I knew that he needed help finding food to eat some days and that he had nowhere to do his laundry that he could afford. I knew a lot about Andrew’s needs, but I hadn’t considered that he might need to pray for me.

“Sure,” I answered with what must have sounded like confusion to Andrew, because he hesitated. You see, I’m much more accustomed to being asked to pray for people than I am to people asking if they can pray for me.

“I just heard you were sick is all,” Andrew explained. It seems he had seen my name on somebody’s prayer list, had heard that a few people in our little community were sick, and had seen me coming and going from the hospital a few times in the previous week. I wasn’t sick, mind you, and had only been visiting some sick friends, but I could certainly see how he came to that conclusion. I didn’t correct him; I certainly wasn’t going to turn down the prayers he wanted to offer.

As Andrew laid his left hand on the nape of my neck, he began to pray in his breathless style. I could feel the sweat on his hand built up from carrying his to-go meal out of his way to come pray for me. It was a long prayer that covered a wide variety of both prayer requests and passages of scripture. I didn’t always agree with how he seemed to be interpreting certain texts or the exact requests he felt moved to mention aloud on my front porch, but there was a weight to his praying hands that I’ve only rarely felt. I still don’t know what to make of that feeling, but I know somehow that it’s important.

After he prayed, I offered a short prayer of my own that even in the middle of it felt perfunctory. I hesitated to pass my handkerchief over the back of my neck when Andrew was done praying in part because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings and in part because it was a visceral anointing not of oil but of effort. With mutual promises to continue praying for each other, we parted. “I really appreciate it, Andrew,” I called after him as he descended through the garden with his leftovers in hand.

“My pleasure,” Andrew called back, “I saw your name and I wanted to pray.” As I gathered the water glasses from beside our chairs, I briefly watched Andrew walk up the street with the setting sun behind him lengthening his shadow. I didn’t feel all that different than I had thirty minutes before, but then it wasn’t really about me. Andrew needed to pray.

***
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This month’s newsletter story was written by this summer’s seminary resident, Bekah Rhea, in her first week of work with us. We’re thankful for the time she gave to our community and look forward to seeing her graduate in May 2020!

***

My freshman year of high school, I started a blog. Its purposes and platforms transformed over the years into what you’re reading now. But one of the first posts I remember writing was especially concerned with the word extraordinary.

In my theological and creative infancy, this word perplexed me. Extraordinary was meant to indicate anything exceeding the ordinary, yet if you separated it at the prefix, it would indicate something especially ordinary. 14-year-old Bekah dissected this single word with the understanding that Christianity calls people to go beyond the ordinary, that living the Gospel meant anything but ordinary. In a not-so-surprising turn of events, I find that 14-year-old Bekah was, in many ways, incredibly mistaken.

One of my dear friends and former writing coaches once told me to “always make the most extraordinary choice that you can in the moment.” I held on to that advice, and did my best to follow it. Extraordinary choices helped me get to where I am today, literally and figuratively.

Today, and for most of this month, I am in Danville, VA. I have a residency here with a ministry called Grace & Main, an intentional and ecumenical Christian community that focuses on sustainable and sincere ministry through practice of radical hospitality & community.

Essentially, they have a network of hospitality houses throughout the downtown area that serve as home bases for the work that they do in the community. It is relationship-based ministry in which they partner with those experiencing homelessness and poverty, working together to sustain, encourage, and empower one another.

The interdependence that this kind of ministry encourages–sharing resources, leveraging various privileges, and rejecting materialism–are certainly out-of-the ordinary when it comes to the capitalist, individualist culture in which we live. But in most cases, ministry here lies in the especially ordinary.

Mother Teresa, while waiting for the permission to begin the order that would later define her ministry, was described as “struggling to restrain her fervor,” as she “had to follow the regular practices of convent life and find other avenues of expressing her ardent love.” While this hospitality house is certainly not a convent, it is true that in community life, fervor looks a lot like regular practices. It’s not glamorous, not even in the “mission trip” kind of way. It’s just living. It’s pulling weeds, sharing meals, even taking regular time to rest and pray. If you’re looking for a grandiose way to express your religiosity, you won’t find it here.

It is, in fact, extra-ordinary. And there is extraordinary power in these ordinary things. Thomas Merton once wrote: “Eternity is in the present. Eternity is in the palm of the hand. Eternity is a seed of fire, whose sudden roots break barriers that keep my heart from being an abyss…”

Eternity is in the present. Eternity is at the dinner table. Eternity is in shared cups of coffee. Eternity is sitting in the backseat of a van, the corner of a library, the bench of a bus stop. Eternity is peering out at us among the radish beds between the weeds, perhaps giving us a glimpse of Divine Mystery.

***
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Josh’s father was hospitalized near the end of June and Josh was back in Kentucky with his family around the time that he’d be finishing the newsletter. So, we’re republishing a popular story from April of 2016 this month. We appreciate your prayers for Josh’s family.

***

“Hey brother, I saw you yesterday near the hospital,” I said, patting Tyler on the back and taking a seat next to him at a long table with my plate. “I waved and honked, but I don’t think you saw me,” I continued, as I unfolded my napkin, knowing well that not only had Tyler not seen me, but he hadn’t even looked up.

“Oh yeah,” Tyler offered, “I was coming back from the pharmacy.” Making a mental note to find a way to ask him later if the unexpected medicine expense was going to keep him from eating later that week, I almost missed his next comment. “I guess I didn’t hear you. I don’t pay too much attention,” Tyler added with a soft chuckle and something like a smile. But, I knew that wasn’t true. After all, Tyler is one of the people who remembers every detail of our calendar without the help of anything written. He notices when folks get haircuts or a new pair of shoes. He knows the names and faces, not to mention the stories, of many of the folks who gather for our meals. Tyler does pay attention and he doesn’t have a problem with his hearing.

That one missed interaction was a little thing, really, that caught my interest as it floated by in the sometimes rushing river that is the life and work of our community. It was certainly more important in the moment to make sure Tyler had food to eat in the weeks to come, than it was to wonder after one small, curious moment. So, I forgot about it for a while.
That is, I forgot about it until it happened again with Redd, Iris, and Hasan to name just a few. I started noticing that if I was in my car and saw one of our friends, I rarely succeeded in getting their attention by honking or waiting for them to look my way. I had to pull over, roll down my window, and say or shout something so they’d recognize my voice. The truth was, nobody was looking—at least, they weren’t until they heard a voice they recognized.

It was all so perplexing to me, because when I went for a walk to the store or one of our community’s houses, there was a good chance I’d see somebody I knew drive by. If I heard a honk, I looked around, assuming that somebody might be trying to get my attention to say hello. This exchange of greetings through tempered glass was one of the most charming things I had discovered upon moving to the south, and I had really grown to enjoy this tiny sign of welcome. But, for some reason, many of the folks among whom we had made our home weren’t looking.

Finally, I decided just to ask Tyler to see if I was misunderstanding something. Still thinking it was probably just some curious coincidence, but worried that it might be something deeper, I figured Tyler could be my teacher. He shrugged, before saying something that would change the way I think about ministry forever: “I don’t know. I don’t look, ‘cause I know no one’s looking for me.” Inwardly, I crumpled at the realization—it was all about dignity, after all. If people studiously avoid eye contact or even looking at you, if they cross to the other side of the street after glancing your way, and start saying “no” before you’ve finished asking them even a benign question, you learn that nobody is looking for you. When you stop being seen, you stop looking.

“I’m looking for you, Tyler,” I offered, with a forced cheerfulness, afraid to think about the times I hadn’t been.

“Alright,” Tyler said, “I’ll look for you too,” ending again with a soft chuckle and something like a smile.

Since then, I’ve learned to pay attention to who’s looking and who’s not. In those smiles of recognition, timid waves, or boisterous woops from a corner, I’m learning to see the power of community in a new way. Not only is there a power in seeing and being seen, but there’s also encouragement in this quickest of greetings. What we’ve discovered as we continue to do our meals in their not-so-efficient, but intimate way, and as we continue to invite people to share our homes, sit on our porches, and talk about all the things that really matter (and many that don’t matter in the slightest), is this: once people know that somebody out there cares about them—that somebody might be looking for them and glad to see them—they start looking. “I see you,” my car’s horn seems to call out for those with the ears to hear. “I’m looking,” their nod and wave seems to answer for those with the eyes to see.

***
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This month’s story was originally published on November 1, 2016.

***

Todd has the big, even-knuckled hands of a boxer and they rest heavy on your shoulder when he prays for you. Years spent developing self-control and seeking peace have sharpened his prayers to the point of forthrightness and familiarity. When Todd prays for you, you feel the weight of not only his hand but also of his sincerity. The years have been occasionally interrupted by the flash of fists and broken relationships, but among the members of our little community Todd has been a man of peace and prayer in hard places.

We first met Todd years ago, when one of us was wandering the neighborhood with a backpack full of lunches on what we called the “roving feast.” Todd invited us onto the stoop in front of his apartment to share lunch. He was a resident of the complex we took to calling “Little Calcutta” and we became regular guests on Todd’s stoop and in his apartment where we shared lunch—where Todd’s hands broke the bread and opened new doors in the neighborhood. As he began to join us at some of our community meals and tell us more and more of his story, we learned what else Todd’s hands could do.

Little Calcutta was a place that needed a lot of love. Sewage backed up into bathtubs in the apartments, the water would be off for days at a time, holes in the roof would go unpatched for weeks, and cockroaches and vermin were everywhere. Through a variety of circumstances, most of the residents of Little Calcutta couldn’t leave and when we’d help one find a new place to live, their empty spot would be replaced by someone else with painfully limited options. Todd’s housing options may have been limited, but he was willing to put his hands to work.

Turning his hands to the work of justice and peacemaking, Todd joined with most of the other residents of Little Calcutta in a long process of meetings, conversations, letters, phone calls, and nonviolent action that led to the inspection and condemnation of the building in which they lived. When the work of Todd’s hands brought retaliation, Grace and Main was proud to stand by him and make sure his needs were met. After all, the steady work of Todd’s hands was cultivating the Kingdom of God in Little Calcutta. We helped Todd and the residents to find other places to live and to get settled in their new homes when the building was shut down.

But, Todd’s hands do so much more than this, when the Spirit moves through them.

A few months back, we celebrated Todd’s birthday. We weren’t surprised when Todd chose Kentucky Fried Chicken for the menu. We also weren’t surprised when he named Grace and Main leaders and the leaders from Little Calcutta as his guests. Once everybody showed up that Tuesday night, we took in the menu: Kentucky Fried Chicken, vegan beans, corn on the cob, gluten-free cornbread, ice cream, and cake.

We spent the first few minutes of the night celebrating our brother Todd. I patted him on the back gingerly even as he shook my other hand with characteristic vigor. I told him “happy birthday” and even joked a little about his age: “twenty-nine again, Todd?” Finally, right before we offered communion and blessed the food, one of us said, “Todd, everybody here can say that you being a part of our lives has made us better off.” The crowd of Todd’s friends nodded vigorously, chorused “amen,” and pounded the dinner table. We broke bread and passed the cup, we blessed the food with our words and our gratitude, and we insisted that Todd go first.

After Todd finished eating, he began to open some gifts. Wrapped in brown paper bags sealed with scotch tape and plastic grocery bags tied shut with yarn or a shoelace, Todd mostly found gifts of his two favorite things: coffee and cigarettes. Both were promptly shared, one in the kitchen and the other on the front porch. One particularly large bag from Lisa contained both Kool-Aid packets and sugar—a common gift that Lisa had shared with Todd on the days worthy of a little celebration at Little Calcutta. When folks were surprised to see Kool-Aid and sugar in the bag, Lisa winked at one of us and said, “He knows what it means, and I know what it means to him.”

Todd got seconds at his birthday meal, but only after checking with everybody—his big hand resting on each shoulder in turn—to see if they had already gotten some and if they wanted seconds, too. He was anxious not to take more than his share, even as we insisted that he should. But Todd, the man of peace with a boxer’s hands, has learned something over the years that he continues to teach us as we share life, work, and prayers with him: the work of our hands in community isn’t just about giving. Todd’s hands are teaching us how to receive, as well.

A few nights after his birthday, the community once again gathered to pray. The weeks had been hard, because my father had been back and forth between home and the hospital. I asked the community please to pray for my father, and struggled to find the words that made it clear what I needed and what I feared. Todd rested his heavy hand on my shoulder—the same hand that had just, minutes ago, carried my daughter back to me after she stumbled in the yard—and he whispered, “It’s ok, man.” In that moment, I knew what he meant, and he knew what it meant to me.

***
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This month’s story was written by Jessica Hearne, CBF Field Personnel in Danville,VA.

***

Marcus could garden with the best of them. He didn’t have a Master Gardener’s certificate, or a yard of his own to cultivate, but his okra plants at the Grace and Main Urban Farm that first year were taller than me. Marcus was one of the first folks from our neighborhood to join the garden team, claiming one of the individual beds in the garden and cultivating beans, squash, okra, and greens. His okra was particularly stunning, with plants growing as tall as I am, or maybe taller, and so dense that I was certain the plants would choke each other and die. Somehow, though, Marcus kept it growing. He did much of the work in that first growing year from a folding chair or sitting on the ground as he continued to recover from the ankle injury that prevented him from going to work and left him temporarily without shelter.   He would eat some of this produce, some he would sell to make a little extra money, and some he would give away to folks in his neighborhood who needed it.

In our second year, Marcus claimed his section again. He was in and out of town some that season, but he let us know that if anything needed to be picked from his garden while he was away, we should go ahead and pick it for someone who needed it. I gave away many pounds of green beans that summer from Marcus’ garden. I also planted some more okra for him while he was gone for a particularly long stretch to visit a friend, but it didn’t grow as well without him there to take care of it. I guess when it comes to okra, I just don’t have the same talent as Marcus.

Marcus was diagnosed with cancer last year. He had to have a tracheotomy, making speech and eating difficult, and was prescribed a liquid diet. But even in the midst of palliative chemotherapy, he was in garden with us. He didn’t claim his old spot, but instead pulled up a chair just as he had that first year and helped us pick cucumbers and pull weeds from our community beds and individual spaces. His usual garden bed lay mostly fallow last year, resting from the good labor that it had done with Marcus for two summers. He loved the garden, and I think he felt better when he was working, even if he could no longer enjoy the greens and okra he was helping to produce.

In spite of his love for us and the garden, however, we were seeing him less and less as the summer turned to fall. We closed the garden for the season on the last Thursday of October, and barely a month later Marcus passed away. His family, many of whom have been involved in Grace and Main for many years, asked that we place some of his ashes near the garden that he loved so much and was so much a part of him in his last few years. We are happy to oblige.

This spring, I planted strawberries in Marcus’ garden. Strawberries are something that our garden team has been interested in for a while, and this spot, at the top of the hill where the sun shines the brightest, seemed like a good place. Strawberries are perennial, so now every year they will grow and spread across that garden bed that once was home to the world’s tallest okra. The strawberries also seem like a fitting tribute to Marcus, whose labor on our Urban Farm will continue to have an impact on his neighborhood for many years to come. Marcus was an integral part of our garden team, and was a generous and caring man, and we will miss his presence at the Urban Farm.

***
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***

 

The first thing I saw as I rounded the corner was Rick’s mud boot stuck out and resting on its heel on the dry ground. He was sitting on an old cinder block by one of our community’s first gardens and smoking a cigarette with a clear lack of hurry. His sunburned shoulders and neck were on display in his undershirt, but he still wore the bucket hat that was his ever-present summer time companion. I’ve never been very sneaky, so Rick heard me coming—but that was okay since I didn’t want to surprise him anyway. He had asked me to come, because he had something he needed to tell me. I already knew what he had to say, but sometimes the telling of a thing is as important as the hearing of it. I sat on the cinder block next to him and kept my eyes turned toward the garden so that the pressure wouldn’t grow too much. It can be hard to tell the truth sometimes, even when everybody already knows it.

 

“I screwed up,” Rick offered unprompted, “I had a good thing going and, I guess, I screwed that up.” I nodded and searched for words as I waited to see if he’d continue on his own. “I drank,” he offered up to the shared silence.

 

 

I nodded again before offering, “I’m sorry to hear that.” At six months long, it had been his longest run of sobriety since he was a teenager. Rick’s white hair was evidence for just how long it had been.

 

“Don’t you think I am, too?” Rick asked me with a mixture of anger and disappointment at the edges of his voice. He was spoiling for a fight and thought I might give him one if he pushed me.

 

“Of course you are,” I offered as conciliation, “you most of all, I’m sure.” After a short pause I added, “you know we still love you, right?”

 

“No, I don’t,” Rick said a little too loudly, “I know yall say it, but I don’t feel it.” Like the cork coming out of a bottle, this seemed to have made way for Rick to tell the truth: “I can see that yall love Bruce. That’s for sure. And sometimes I think you love me, too, but I just can’t feel it. I can’t see why or how. I want to, but I can’t.”

 

“I hear that,” I assured Rick as we both stared straight ahead at the garden, “but I don’t know what to say to that other than to say we really do—or, at least, we’re really trying.” Turning his gaze from the garden, Rick looked where my eyes would be if I’d only turn to face him. “And we’re not going anywhere,” I added as I made eye contact for the first time that afternoon. Rick held my eye contact for a few more seconds, as if he was weighing my promise against his experience. I waited for his verdict, but he only turned his eyes back to the garden. Following his lead, I joined him in a thoughtful silence. I tried to pray silently, and I guess I did, but it was a mostly wordless and uncertain thing.

 

 

Eventually, as the sun was dipping low behind us, we silently headed back up the hill. “Hey,” I offered uncertainly from the driver’s seat of my car, “when you’re ready to try again, we’re with you.” His nod, a mixture of understanding and irritation, was as fine a cue as I was going to get that I should leave. So, I drove away with a wave.

 

Rick wasn’t ready for a while. There were times when we wouldn’t see him for weeks. There were times when he slept outside or crashed on somebody’s couch. There were times when we’d see him somewhere and he’d fruitlessly try to hide how intoxicated he was. There were times when we’d put him up in a hotel room for a few nights. There was even a time when he called to let us know he was ready, but hid from us when we came to pick him up because he had started drinking in the short interim.

 

I must say that there were certainly times when we loved Rick well, but there were also times when we loved Rick poorly. Sure, we didn’t go anywhere, but we also didn’t always seek Rick out.  But God never stopped loving Rick and never stopped seeking him out. Months later, Rick found his way to one of our hospitality houses and let us know that he was already a few weeks sober. “I’m ready to try again,” he said. “We’re ready to try again, too,” we said with our hugs, back slaps, and knee squeezes.

 

So, we did. We tried again to love not only in word but in action. We tried again to walk the road of recovery together. We tried again to share life in community. Trusting that trying is somehow enough, we tried again. It didn’t come easy, but it came nonetheless.

 

 

The other day, Jessica and I were giving a tour of the Urban Farm to a visitor from Richmond. Our daughter had come along for the visit and Rick also happened to be there. “Mr. Rick, Mr. Rick!” she yelled, “watch me swing!”

 

“I’m coming, sweetie,” he yelled back as he shook our visitor’s hand hastily. “Excuse me,” he added more quietly to us with an expansive smile, “I’ve got to go push a swing.” With over three years of sobriety under his belt, Rick has become one of our community’s leaders. He is quick to remind us at prayers that we need to keep loving each other and finding ways to show it. Rick is eager to tell us that he loves us and faithful in finding ways to make it felt. Sometimes that means pushing a swing.

 

A little while later, our daughter and Rick sat at the top of the stairs leading down into the garden and sang silly songs about monkeys and sharks. I was struck by their coincidental seating arrangement: side by side on some cinder blocks, looking down over a garden. There was no lack of eye contact this time, as our daughter giggled her way through another verse and shoulder-bumped Rick in his ribs. Over their shoulder, I saw Ryan, another friend of the community who Rick has taken into his home. Though they used to drink together on porches, Rick and Ryan now work together on the tool library and around the community. Ryan is one month clean and sober on the fourth attempt at recovery that I know of. We tell him we love him and we try to show it.
“He might not feel it yet,” Rick conceded to me one afternoon, “but he will. We’ll just keep trying.”
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