A detour on the road to retirement

They’ve never asked for a handout and till now never needed one.  “Bob” and “Mary” have that expression in their eyes, the look of “we were headed toward our preferred future when a very different future just broadsided us from out of nowhere.”

He’d had a comfortable job and a growing retirement fund.  An illness forced him into a way-too-early retirement.  He still has his retirement, but can’t touch it for several more years.  Unable any longer to handle the skilled work he had been doing for so long, he has found a thirty-some-hour a week job without benefits. 

He’s thinking about going back to college to get a master’s degree in a different field, yet isn’t sure how to support his family in the process.  And by the time he graduates?  Though age discrimination isn’t allowed, it is hard to hide the fact that he is early-mid-fifties, that black hole of an age category between too-old-to-hire and too-young-to-retire.

Mary was a stay-at-home mom who kept busy with various church and service activities after the kids grew older.  When Bob’s illness came on, she started looking for work thinking her general college degree could be of some use.  However that was just when the economy took a swan dive and all she could come up with was a part-time barely-above-minimum-wage job, also without “bennies”. 

As they open up about their struggles, I ask about health insurance.  This is way past the usual questions, but I sense they need to talk. 

“After Bob lost his company insurance, we checked into OHP (the Oregon Health Plan), but it is a totally random lottery” (for getting into it that is, except for minors).  And Bob’s pre-existing would only be covered if he was in a group plan.  Don’t the new laws change the pre-existing requirements, I ask?  Well, yes, now, but now it is either health insurance or everything else.  They can’t afford both.

What about extended family?  “My father died years ago,” Bob said.  “My mother lives nearby and does okay, but she can’t help us.  I’ve got a brother who is on disability.  Mary’s parents live [out-of-state] and haven’t talked much with us since …”

We sit quietly for a few seconds until I manage to shift topics.  I explain how our food program works.  We’re open three days a week – Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays 1-4 pm.  They can come any day we are open for produce and bread and three times in a six-month period for an emergency food box.

They keep their eyes low, rarely allowing direct contact with mine.  I ask for their identification, not required, though we ask anyway.  It helps, especially with the majority of our clients not speaking English as their primary language.  That is not an concern with Bob and Mary, though the official ID ensures greater accuracy on the part of the intaker.  I type in their address from his driver’s license and get their names, ages, birthdates.

“Anyone else in your household?  Kids?”  It affects how much food we can provide for them – 3-5 days of food or about 20 pounds per person.

An older daughter found a job in Seattle back four years ago and is doing okay.  A son in college lives at home.  I can provide food for the son as well, I tell them, and we add his information to the database.  I mark the boxes concerning ethnicity (Caucasian) and household relationship and ask them if they want to visit our clothing room as well as get the food.  Maybe we’ll look and see, they respond finally giving me solid eye contact.  Bob could use a decent pair of pants for an upcoming interview – he’s still looking around for a full-time job or additional work.

I explain our gently-used clothing room is better stocked for women and infants than men and children and throw out my standard crack about gently-used men’s clothing being an oxymoron.  I am awarded the typical response – smiles all around.  They relax a bit.  When we have enough clothes, I explain, we allow four items per family member, otherwise just two.  I think we are back up to four now, but I can’t really remember and wander off into useless trivia that even I don’t care about.

We’re about done with the intake interview.  It doesn’t usually get this involved and we have a crowded waiting room, but I sense they need this slower pace.  Asking for help is just not in their emotional DNA.  They keep telling me they are used to donating food, clothing and money, not asking for it.  “I understand,” I say, and I mean it.

Their savings are depleted and the inadequate income from their jobs leaves a gap that grows by the month, in spite of their best efforts.  They really can’t see past the next few weeks, but maybe we can help them keep going one emergency food box at a time until he can land that extra job or their ship comes in. 

“Come on down.” I lead them out of the intake room and down the cemented slope to our food pantry. “One of our volunteers will walk you through.  Thanks for coming in.

An Invitation to Breakfast

For those who live in the greater Portland, OR, area, I am inviting you to breakfast on March 30 to hear about our work in the Northeast Emergency Food Program.  Among those sharing will be a couple of our clients, one of which I highlighted in the previous post.  

This event, our 1st Annual Sustainers Breakfast, will be held at the Grace Memorial Episcopal Church, 1535f NE 17th Avenue, Portland, 7:30-8:30 am.  We'll also be hearing from Patti Whitney-Wise of the Oregon Hunger Task Force, and the band, "Homemade Jam."  John Elizalde, our former program director, will MC. 

Jeni Broussard, my assistant, is arranging some great displays to emphasize our theme "Spreading the Net."  Our goal is to expand what is already a great network to keep up with the need - we gave half a million pounds of food to 11,000 people last year.

Consider hosting a table of your friends, coworkers, or church members.  Email Chris Siems at csiems@emoregon.com or call him at 503-221-1054 to reserve a seat.

 

Headed for his own home

It was 3:00 am and frigid with a five mile walk on a fractured leg, but he was warm and happy inside.  He was going home.

Brad and Cindy had come into our Northeast Emergency Food Program toward the end of summer, their eyes red and hazed with exhaustion and hopelessness.  Seeing the toddler in Cindy’s arm, we asked her what they needed most.  “Diapers,” she whispered.  Of all the days, our supply was totally gone. 

Way short on volunteers that day, we had decided to keep the clothing room closed.  But when Brad and Cindy arrived, Jeni, my assistant, quickly threw it open.  Brad had lost his job months before, then the home they were renting, then all their belongings were stolen from the place they’d been stored.  Just about everything was gone. 

Mabel, an occasional client of ours, had opened her home to them and they were sharing the sofa.  Mabel, who lives close to our previous location, still comes in once or twice a year when finances get too tight to manage.  She brought them on the bus that day to see if we could help them.

We did as much as we could, except for the diapers.  With them loaded up with a five-day supply of food and whatever clothes we could find to fit the three of them, they all headed out the door.  About to run an errand in my pickup, I broke policy and offered to help get them home.  With the baby, there was no way they were even going to make it to the bus stop four blocks away.  So I took Mabel and all the food and clothing, while Brad, Cindy and June rode the bus.

Brad had gone to college on a basketball scholarship, a dream that had ended before the first season began when his leg was fractured in practice and, without the scholarship, he’d had to drop out of school.  He’d drifted to the West Coast and wound up in Portland getting paid disassembling cars until he was laid off and life spiraled down.

After Mabel brought them to us, he came in again until he’d reached his quota (3 times in 6 months).  One day concerned as to how they were doing, I went looking for them.  I knew where Mabel lived because of that earlier drop off.  She said they’d stayed with her a month and had moved into one of those cheap hotels over on 82^nd.  I found the place – “cheap” meant everything but the price: $1,600-a-month for a rat-infested mini apartment.  The one bedroom they sub rented to a friend while they slept on the living room floor, a tiny kitchen and a bathroom completing the place.  But at least it was warm and dry as winter came on. 

Brad, ever looking for a better place to live, had no money to pay the first and last month rent, so they kept eking by five days at a time.  With the friend splitting costs, Brad made up the rest with unemployment benefits and selling his blood for $64 a week.  Nothing was left for food or diapers.  They received food stamps, but those didn’t last the full month and they didn’t cover diapers.  Brad kept looking for work and resorted to begging on the streets on more than one occasion. 

He started coming in to volunteer for us.  Through telling their story, I’d already brought in a lot of diapers, so I told them to get some – on the house!  He made it clear he wasn’t volunteering to get, but gratefully took my offer anyway.

One day out looking for work, he was crossing at an intersection.  A motorist, texting, looked up too late and hit him.  An officer saw the whole thing, couldn’t stop it from happening.  Brad showed up the next day we were open, walking with a brace, his leg fractured in two places and with permanent nerve damage.  He’d come in to volunteer, walking two miles each way.

Funds were getting tighter.  Unable to sell his blood because of the injury, he started running out of money before the rent was due.  He called me one day, his voice quietly desperate.  “No,” I said, “we don’t have resources to help with rent, but I’ll see what I can do.”  I shared his story with a friend, who supplied the $120 they were short to pay their rent the next day. 

Someone called and asked if we knew anyone who needed a lighted artificial tree for Christmas.  I knew just the home for that tree – June‘s eyes lit up as much as that tree did.

Days before Christmas, they hit bottom.  Unable to come up with $300 for the next five days, the owner said they’d have to leave.  They pleaded to no avail.  I found someone else who could cover the gap.  It was the first time I’d seen Cindy smile.  They were good through Christmas.

A long-time NEFP volunteer took them a Fred Meyer gift card on Christmas Eve.  Then they got word of a duplex for rent where they wouldn’t need the last month’s rent and the owner would give them time to catch up.  The owner called me to verify their story.  Two days before the end of the year, my sons and I moved the family and their friend to that lovely, fixed-up two-bedroom with a fenced-in yard in a quiet SE neighborhood.  All their belongings fit in my pickup and my son’s car.  Except for the friend, who gladly took a bus.

The one job Brad had found was a one-night-a-week stint as a hotel desk clerk just down the street from their old hotel.  It was five miles from where they now lived.  But Brad was thrilled to walk the distance.

Brad, still looking for work, is back to selling his blood.  Now settled in their clean rental, they’re almost keeping up – with unemployment benefits having been extended.  June, drinking milk like crazy, is almost out of diapers, and at 19 months is growing “like a weed.”  I miss seeing him come in now that they’ve moved further away.  I keep praying he’ll find the right job, one accessible by bus.  And I give thanks that Mabel brought them to the right place.

Names of all clients have been changed.

The Plight of the Nassars and Me

I take my blog's name, "2GC@PDX", from an expression coined by my friend Stephanie Mathis. In this blog, I write about how I should live out the "2GC" (her expression for both the two Greatest Commandments and the Great Commission) in my own back yard, Portland, Oregon, or PDX. As always, whether in Waco Texas, Xi'an China, or PDX, my desire is to think globally while acting locally. And sometimes that also means acting globally as in aiding the ongoing work in China, helping a friend in Africa, or supporting my sister in Crimea or my nephew in Panama.

So what should I do with this request from my friend, Paul Alexander, a founder of the Pentecostals and Charismatics for Peace and Justice? I have great affinity for PCPJ and its passion for peace and justice. PCPJ has returned the favor by carrying my blog on their website. Paul and I have both extensively researched the rich and now mostly forgotten heritage of Pentecostal pacifism.

Two weeks ago Paul forwarded me an appeal from Reverend Alex Awad, a pastor living and serving in Israel's West Bank. Tony Nassar, a Palestinian Christian and a former student of Bethlehem Bible College, had just called to say that the Israeli Military Authorities were challenging Tony's family over their right to use their land as a camping and retreat center for international peacemakers. The Military Authorities were threatening to raze the buildings in a matter of days.

Pastor Awad says the Military Authorities are "doing this to support the Jewish settlers in their bid to ethnically cleanse the land from its Palestinian inhabitants," including these Palestinian Christians. Such Palestinians are not allowed, apparently, "the most basic developments on his or her land if the land happens to be in a zone that is coveted by Jewish settlers." According to Pastor Awad, Tony's family land, which has belonged to the Nassar family from before 1924, has been coveted by Israeli settlers for many years.

Pastor Awad is asking me through my friend Paul to "stand against this injustice" by sending emails, faxes and phone calls to the appropriate Israeli diplomatic personnel in my country, to show that Tony and his family are not alone. So, my question is, how do you think I should respond to this appeal? And on what basis should I choose to respond or not respond?

First, I believe that to take no action is to take action of some sort, as the Scriptures do not excuse me for negligence or omission when it comes to acts of righteousness and justice. So the next question, if this is a matter of justice, is whether I personally am obligated to help.

I do not know Tony Nassar and have never met him. But I have agreed to stand with Paul Alexander and, though I don't respond to every request, I am obligated through that agreement to seriously consider his appeals. Aside from the fact that through such extended relationships I am linked with Tony Nassar, he is also a brother, a fellow Believer and in much danger.

My obligations aside, what of Tony's plight? Is Pastor Awad correct in saying that a serious injustice is being perpetrated on the Nassar family? Maybe we should tell the Nassars to act out their peacemaking by just lying down and letting the Israeli soldiers take their land. But the Nassars stand for other Palestinians – and their own plight, while paling in comparison, is linked. If their land is taken, where do they go?

Even if I choose to do nothing, and I do not feel guilty if I don't respond to every appeal, what am I to think of this situation? How am I to react to the plight of Palestinians, Christian or otherwise, who are being removed from lands they have owned for generations? What is my "final solution" for the Palestinian problem as reflected in the story of the Nassars?

The Palestinian "problem" is complex, but complexity does not excuse me from thinking thoughts of peace and justice about this situation any more than distance does. For if I have the means to act and I see a brother in need, I must consider two things: 1) What should be done in this situation? and 2) What is God calling me to do, if anything? [I do not have the right to say "it is inconvenient" or out of hand to say "it is not my concern", so "therefore I will ignore it."]

People who base what they do on the Bible or the Holy Spirit or the Community of Faith (the Church) are often called naïve in the "real" world. Be that as it may, if I do not base my daily actions on this trinity of guides, what do I base them on and of what value are these guides to me otherwise? So what does the Word, or the Spirit, or the Church have to say on such matters?

What do you think I should do about Tony Nassar's plight? And why?

Rooms with a View

Funny, these potheads are some of the friendliest, most courteous people I've encountered in my door-knocking U.S. Census enumerating. I call them potheads for lack of a better term. Being thoroughgoing libertarians, they have a live-and-let-live approach to life, including their roommates.

"Is this person male or female?"

I hate asking that question, especially when asking directly to the person who has answered the door, as in "are you male or female?" One can never presume, especially when said interviewee is 90, wears her/his white hair short, wears nondescript slacks, has a sunken chest, and speaks with a gravelly voice. I usually brush through that question in a mumble or pose it with a twist of humor. 90-somethings tend to be hard-of-hearing anyway. Why do parents give their children gender-neutral names? It only frustrates census enumerators every ten years.

These potheads are closer to 19 than 90 and they are definitely guys. The unseen roommate is another matter.

"[Roommate] was a he, then changed to a she." Pothead One is speaking.

"Or was it the other way around?" Pothead Two is speaking.

I calmly reply, "What I need to write down is how this person self-identifies now."

I'm answering the friendly potheads who are deliberating over the gender identification of one of their roommates. But they are gracious and engaged with me and I am grateful that they do not seem the gun-wielding type. Gender angst is not near as threatening to my doorbell ringing as Second Amendment angst.

Apartment complexes are different than sprawling neighborhoods mostly in that you can cover a lot of Narfus (non-response follow up) in one stop. This complex seems to be full of 20- and 30-something males footloose and fancy free on a midweek afternoon. They tend to work – and party – at night, so daytime is a good time to find them home and somewhat coherent.

Whoever laid out this complex had his own to deal with – complex, that is. It is a sprawling non-sequential mess that must make every pizza stone cold upon delivery.

Ah, but the view. Three massive Cascade mountain beauties on the clearest of days and a front row view of the prevailing rains otherwise.

But do they know their neighbors? Not any less than the more secluded (and wealthier) types higher up in the West Hills who work days and sleep nights while these footloose guys lower down the hill clean and guard the office buildings of the upper-crested people.

Potheads One and Two are firm. They don't know anybody, not even their gender-angsted roommate, but especially not the condo next door. Suspicious-acting clean-cut kid verifies his neighbor moved out months ago – and good riddance. He agrees to be a proxy, as if that act could somehow wield vengeance. Maintenance man with a funny European accent won't give me his name to put down for proxy – besides, he suddenly can't remember what he just told me about those tenants.

Proxy is when you stand in for someone else.

As in this apartment is vacant and I, Census Guy, can't vouch for it even though it's obvious through the windows that there's not a stick of furniture in the place. You see, I am the enumerator. I report. I don't verify. I can't be a proxy on my own report.

Neighbors verify. As in we live in community and we care about our neighbors. As in we're willing to take risks and stand in for our neighbors. Nice theory that doesn't work uphill or down.

Guy-in-B2 is quick to tell me his neighbors are there only once a year and otherwise they are in Mexico, or so he says with a where-they-belong sneer.

"Can I put you down as proxy to verify this Mexico place is vacant?"

"No, I don't know anything about the place."

Like a good neighbor.

I try to reassure B2 that any information I take down is strictly confidential for 72 years and I and any of the hundred other people who will handle this apartment information have sworn on oath and turning over of first-born (tempting sometimes) not to divulge. Not that anyone cares except maybe your descendants 72 years from now – if you have any descendants, that is.

Supervisor (later): "Put B2's name down as proxy for his neighbor anyway." He won't know for 72 years.

G4 has big dog, live-in fiancé, no kids. When I left a notice of intended visit yesterday, he told his fiancé he would pull a Saturday Night Live gig on me about census takers. ("80 people live here.") Thus the friendly smirk when he opens the door.

I tell him he can say anything about me as long as he doesn't divulge my actual ID information for at least 72 years. (No such rule applies to my ID, but what does he know?) I'm returning the favor to him as I write. Nice guy. Big dog. Great view. I can't vouch for the fiancé. She wasn't home.

Maintenance guy: "We have 20 illegals in the basement." He doesn't know anything about SNL, but he does know he doesn't want to be proxy. He's pulling the humor-evasion #27 technique.

Funny how few of us in this modern day are willing to proxy for our neighbor. Would make a great parable. Samaritan, anyone?

 

The road to a comprehensive HT bill – Part III

This afternoon the Human Trafficking Legislative Planning Group will convene once again. This team, tasked with developing comprehensive human trafficking legislation proposals for the 2011 Oregon state legislative session, is a diverse body of key government and non-profit personnel. They will be working through the summer to come up with proposals by September when more legally minded hands will begin molding the material into billable form. Stephanie Mathis, Executive Director for the Oregon Center for Christian Values, is coordinating this team.

More is required than just preparing legislation. At the state level, bills do not move through the Legislature unless citizens speak up. This is where advocacy kicks in and OCCV is ready. OCCV's Human Trafficking Advisory Committee will launch next month (June) its HT Point Leader Plan of Action with a Point Leader training workshop. We are calling it "10 x '10" – ten leaders for 10 groups of 10 persons each to be recruited and trained in advocacy by the end of 2010.

The HT Advisory Committee is currently recruiting 10 Oregonians as these point leaders. We are looking for 10 people from 10 different congregations, particularly from Washington, Multnomah and Marion/Polk Counties, though other parts of the state are also welcome to participate. These point leaders will attend our training workshop in June. They will then work between June and October to find 10 other people each (from their congregation and otherwise) who will be willing to train and work with their point leaders to advocate on behalf of the HT legislation endorsed by OCCV.

In October and November, these point leaders will each sponsor a training session with their team members in preparation for the 2011 legislative session. The goal is that by the time the legislative session opens in January 2011, we will have over 100 citizen advocates to help push through the HT legislation and have it signed into law by June 2011.

Bryan Colbourne, Stacy Bellavia and I will be serving as coaches for these 10 point leaders and their teams. And we are making the following commitments to each of these point leaders:

1. We will pray for them in their work.
   
2. We will keep them abreast of all developments in the HT legislation and process.
   
3. We will maintain regular contact with them, encouraging them and helping them in their process of developing their point teams.
   
4. We will work to connect them with the key legislative players and also with their own legislators during the months leading up to the 2011 legislative session.
   
5. We will help point leaders arrange experts from the legislative planning group as guest speakers for their training sessions.
   
6. We will coordinate a rapid communication system with these point leaders to mobilize their point persons as advocates as needed.
   
7. We (coaches and point leaders) will meet regularly as a group during the fall season and during the months the legislature is in session for prayer, reporting and encouragement.
   

In addition, I am personally looking for 100 other people who will commit to pray for these point leaders and personnel and for this legislative process.

As Psalm 68:5 says, God is "father to the fatherless." There are thousands of such fatherless children, our brothers and sisters, who are in desperate need of God's protection and deliverance from the bondage and exploitation of human trafficking. The verse that follows says that "God sets the lonely in families." I can't think of anything more lonely in our day and time than being trapped in slavery and trafficking. I like to think that each of these point teams will become families, who through their advocacy will be sheltering these lonely and fatherless modern-day slaves, who have no one else to advocate for them.

We want to do more than rescue those who are currently trapped. We want to shut off the demand and trafficking channels themselves. This legislative process will move us a giant step forward toward that goal and we are looking for 10 good citizens of Oregon to join us by signing up as 10x'10 Point Leaders.

If you want to be a point leader or you know someone who could serve in this role, I'd like to hear from you. If you want to be one of the 100 to commit to praying for this team over the next 12 months, I'd like to hear from you, too. You can go to my website, http://hnkconnect.com, to send me your name and contact information. Please let me hear from you today.

Aunt and Uncle for a Weekend

No real names have been used for the kids in this article

Dana, a pint-sized whirlwind of energy and bubbly emotion, doesn't slip in the door; she invades our house, commanding even the walls to open their hearts to her. Sam comes in quietly, slides into a cushioned chair without ruffling the air molecules.

We've been doing respite foster care for Morrison Child and Family Services the past few months, giving our hearts to each kid passing through our home. Some come time after time, some only once. Some live with a biological parent on the edge, others have stable foster homes or live with extended family. Some have no idea where or what "home" is.

Yvonne stayed for a week with us last summer before transitioning back to her biological mother, who after a couple years of working through issues was deemed capable of having her children back. We've had no communication with her since, but we cannot forget her ever-frantic pace and her hungry, pensive feel about returning home.

Two kinds of kids are assigned to us. Jill is in therapeutic care with Morrison, a program for kids who've suffered extensive abuse – physical, sexual, emotional – and who require special year-round education and intensive care. Bob is in regular foster care in the state's Department of Human Services. All have "issues" – the stuff that's been shoved into them comes out in all forms of acting out and garbled, porcupine-prickly cries of "love me!"

The needs of these kids, all who have experienced trauma in one form or another in their short lives, can overwhelm all care givers, so we provide much needed respite for those who do the caring – and for the kids a fun visit to the Kenyons. We share our home, our own kids, our chickens and our cats, our garden, our membership at the Community Center swimming pool – and our love.

Kim and I are not experts. We have been through many hours of training for this assignment and are required to complete ongoing training. We also attend a monthly gathering with fellow respite care providers led by our fearless leader, Buddy-with-the-Boston-accent. Mostly we just know how to open our homes to kids who don't have one.

At three, Billy lost his father in an accident. He never knew his bio-mother who was just a passing interest on the part of his dad. From infancy, he's been raised by his devoted grandparents, who at their advanced age cannot keep up with his special educational and emotional needs. The regular respite care we and others provide helps keep Billy at home with them. Their greatest concern is whether they will live long enough to make sure he reaches adulthood intact.

Jana, who doesn't remember her parents either, has been in many foster and group homes since the age of four. Yvonne hurts herself trying to deal with the pains and anger inside. Bob passed through our lives on his way back to a mother he had mixed feelings about. We watched Dana's world fall apart and felt her anger at a mother she clings to even as she knows her mother struggles to love her.

They come in all ages until they age out of the system at 18. The kids I've described are between 8 and 14, often emotionally and academically three or so years behind their peers. The majority are white, though other races are represented. We pray for these kids, whether or not we see them again. And we turn our worries about their futures into prayers that God will somehow give them a miracle – a successful entry into adulthood.

Friends ask if any of these kids can be adopted. As a society we put limits on what the state can force parents to do. And separation from biological parents, even abusive ones, is trauma that experts are only beginning to fathom. Even though these may be lovable kids, loving them full time is a stretch for most families. So much pain has been poured into these kids, it takes a village to raise them and love all that junk out of them through therapy, education, medical care, and just plain wholesome family warmth. Obviously stability is a priority concern and as respite foster parents we can help maintain that stability by being an occasional oasis.

Commonly as these kids pass through our home, we say to each other, "Maybe we should keep this one." They've been separated from their real mom (where are the dads?) or they're having to be transitioned out of their foster family. But we know our mission for each of these kids is to be the respite foster parents whom they visit monthly or occasionally or for a week in the summer or maybe even just once. We take them swimming, play board games with them, shoot some hoops in our driveway, let them feed the chickens and pet the cats, eat our food and talk with us. We let them experience "normal" for just a few, short hours and pray they'll come to know the Father's love that will never fail them.

Since our program started a year ago, Buddy reports that respite care nights per month have shot up to over 100. We are among a small but growing number of respite foster parents, a mere handful for a metro area of a million, and more are desperately needed. If you or someone you know in the Portland area can get involved in either the fulltime Therapeutic or the Crisis Respite programs, call Buddy Cushman or Roxy Wendland at 503-736-6699 and tell them Howard & Kim sent you. And Roxy would love to come speak at your church's mission groups, small groups, or community organizations. After years of being Mom to such kids, does she ever have a story to tell that will crush your heart!