The Way of Hope

2:30AM.  Four cups of organic coffee and three slices of simply marvelous homemade chocolate cake down the gullet since 10PM.  Not to mention a few small handfuls of various flavored potato chips.  One rousing round of "Ticket to Ride" by Days of Wonder (a board game and NOT a dance to a revamped Beatles classic) with two of our church  musicians and our best barista.  Oooh, and a cupla games' worth of Bananagrams (which I will now buy for myself and play endlessly).  A trip to Dollar General at 9:30PM with my son to pick up one gainfully employed young woman in need of a ride, a meal and a place to sleep for the night.  Several conversations with strangers, women of all age groups, who've lived in places from whence I hail: central California and southern Colorado.  And places I've yet to visit: Boston, Mass..  An initial chauffeuring of a mother and her two boys, a solemn one year-old and a talkative skateboard-loving five year-old who couldn't wait to meet my son.  Wrestling matches with various and sundry air mattresses in need of mending, replete with minute punctures which sink beds into plastic pancakes.

 Brisk walks in mild night air to stimulate circulation and keep the brain firing through the wee hours.  Pictures ala Instagram of sleeping Valdez' -- Jimmy, Sarah (technically and emotionally now Ekmanis) and Zachary -- all lined up in their rigged rows of chairs, buried beneath covers, slumbering in the relaxed sanctuary hall.  Opportunities abounding to fellowship beyond the Sunday hours with fellow Church at Cross Pointers and learn of peccadilloes, quirks, habits and hobbies previously unknown.  On call for whatever snack or drink or other late night request might form on the mouths of women who gratefully call our humble little building home every fourth Friday of each month . . . and often on Sunday evenings, too.  Ready to start the griddle for pancakes and eggs come 7AM; prepared to pack sack lunches for a slow Saturday afternoon at the public library or other long-term venue.

A local man put to the test his vision of a program which would provide emergency shelter for women and children in a pinch, with needs arising from a multitude of domestic and social situations, through an organization of churches throughout our community.  Our little band of believers agreed to be a part of the pilot program.  It was so successful through the winter months that our faithful organizer returned to the churches to ask if they would be willing to extend their efforts through the summer months, as the women didn't instantly shed their need for assistance just because the trees started blooming.  He put his money and his mouth and his family on the line.  Not to mention a lion's share of his time!  Pulling a closed trailer behind his SUV with the school spirit sticker denoting his daughter's occupation as cheerleader, he lugs clothing and bedding from place to place, each and every day, for these women.  He calls them each by name and chats with an ease of familiarity which cannot be faked for the sake of social graces.  He helps them find jobs and housing and gives them the chance to develop a stable foundation for living before they exit the program.  And he never judges, understanding, instead, the unique and individual circumstances which lead them to his door: mental illness, physical infirmity, domestic violence, sudden unemployment, sexual abuse, and the list goes on.

From the first inkling of its possibility, I wanted to be a part of this through my church body.  To give back in some small part to an almost underground institution of Americana which saw me through significant segments of my own childhood.  I remember what it was like to be without the familiarity of home and neighborhood and church and friends.  Not to mention dreaming of where the next meal might come.  I also recall the generous and open nature of the many people who manned the shelters from Colorado to New York.  As a child, I was thankful for them.  I thought everyone behaved in this fantastic fashion.  As an adult, I see the sacrifices they make and the empathy they dole out with regularity and reliability.  They don't wait for the money to be right or the weather to be comfortable.  They jump in and fill whatever spot needs filling to ensure strangers in need have a safe place to stretch out each night.  There's no blame ceremoniously heaped upon government entitlement programs; no expounding on the obviously lazy persons looking for a handout.  These helpers to the homeless spend their money and their time to show support and extend hope.  In fact, this effort of which I write is actually named "The Way of Hope."  Rather fitting.

I love that these ladies, the regulars and the rotation of new ones, enjoy the atmosphere of Cross Point so much.  They say that they feel the most comfortable here.  And our homecooked food allows them to feel as if they are at someones home.  For the past two months, our pastor has grilled burgers.  Today we actually dined under the pavilion in 80-degree weather with the sun casting dappled shadows all around us.  The smoke from the grill provided the atmosphere.  One lady was celebrating her final night in the program as she is moving into her own place come tomorrow: she consumed FOUR burgers!!!  And there was still plenty of fare for everyone else.  For a treat, I brought dark chocolate-dipped strawberries and they were gobbled up within minutes.  We make our restrooms and kitchen and computers open to them, assisting them to whatever degree makes them feel most welcome.  It's a true service.  And any church with a solid building and a body of volunteers would do well to be involved.  Even one night of security, safety, and satisfying food is a welcome distraction when life has broken away from its moorings.

I can vouch for that.