My Church

As some of you may have read in previous blogs, I come from a religious family of the zealose "let the POWER of the SPIRIT fill you!" variety. I really understood the scenes in There Will Be Blood with Eli and the church; I grew up in a church of that variety, where fanatical preachers would "lay hands" on people and "cast out demons" with as much zeal as Eli showed in the movie. In fact, the churches my family and I attended where proud that they could trace their lineage back to the turn of the century, when an American Revival was sweeping the country.

So sometimes, when I am working on Sunday (which is usually every Sunday,) a family member will call me and ask "when do you go to church?" While working today, I suddenly realized the work I do on Sunday is my church; that is, I find spiritual fullfillment and God's love among the women I work with.

Sundays, I work with homeless women. Today, I realized just how much I love these women; my heart was touched with the struggles each and every one of the them is going through. I almost cried when I saw one of my favorites, let's call her Martha, was passed out on the couch, her face red, obviously trying to recover from a relaspe of using either drugs or alcohol. She told me a week or two previously that she was going to stay sober and clean for six months, while her lover was in jail, and she was going to save all of her money so she and her lover had an apartment when she got out of jail. I wanted to go up to her and shake her and say "Martha...you where doing so well...what happened?" Instead I said "Martha are you alright? You aren't yourself today..."

She said "oh yeah, I'm fine...just being quiet today..." But I could tell, as she dozed on and off all day, that she was trying to detox. Another lady came to our shelter saying she was strained; a friend of hers had called her in Alabama and told her to move out here to Portland to live with her, supposidly she had a job and everything lined up for this lady. So she used all the money she had to purchase a Greyhound ticket and came out. Her friend never came to meet her at the bus station. She didn't know where in the city her friend lived exactly and couldn't reach her by phone. We had no beds available for her, so we sent her to a church that gives out blankets and sleeping bags so she'll at least have a sleeping bag when she likely curls up under the Burnside Bridge tonight....

I've come to realize my favorite ladies are the most "hopeless cases," the ones with the addictions, the boozers, the strained ones. Why do I love them the most? Well for one thing, I think those are the ones who need the most love...you know, the crowd Jesus liked to chill with. They are obviously hurting, they are obviously the women who need someone to believe in them, to give them some respect and trust and build their self-esteem. I even dig the troublemakers a little bit...most of the other employees I work with don't really like the troublemakers, but again, I see them as women who need the extra love. So my church, as it where teaches me in a hands-on way; every time I work with these ladies, I learn anew how to love unconditionally, how to have hope for someone, even when they have no hope for themselves, how to serve and give and have compassion...

I was so feelin' the spirit today, so to speak, that I even gave a "tithe," on my break, I went outside to Saturday Market, which is actually Saturday-Sunday Market and is basically a big, weekly art fair, complete with street performers, clowns, food, music, three different stages with acts, and so forth; it all happens right outside the shelter door. So when I take a break, I go out there, and today, I'd actually planned ahead and brought some money with me. First, I got chowmein with grilled chicken and went and sat by the foutain to hear the man with the red hair playing the didgeridoo; that low drone that I can't resist, especially since I learned that the vibrations of the didgeridoo help some women who are having trouble "letting go" during birth "let go." The deep, resonating vibrations of the didge effect the deep parts of ourselves, especially our genitles. (You can all yell yeah, sure hippie if you want...it won't hurt my feelings...)

Anyway, I sat next to the man with the unnaturally bright red hair and listening to him skillfully playing the didge...and I momentarily fell in love with him. I have intense love for nearly everyone, but even moreso for people who can play intruments particularly well. So I started talking with him, and we quietly shared a moment by the fountain as I ate lunch. And I gave him my last two dollars...

Whenever my mom asks me if I've been "titheing," I tell her I tithe by giving to those in need directly...I let God move my heart, and when I meet someone who needs what I have in my pocket more then I do, I give them what I've got. I think God, who had the most compassionate son ever, understands this type of tithe...and besides, I never feel good about giving my money to a preacher, who in many cases, is better off then I am. I'd really rather give to the man in rages, sitting by the fountain, playing the didge. I'd rather give to my sponsored child in Malawi, I'd rather be generious and buy something small for a roommate...these are my tithes and the love I give is my church...

Love to all,
Carrot