srce moje...tracing the journey.

my beloved is in the process of leaving the Balkans, where he has made his home for the past three years. where I made my home for one glorious, complicated year.  and so my heart is in the process of reminiscing, looking back and letting go of the comfort of having that intimate link to a place i came to love so much, even though it broke my heart sometimes.

thinking of when i first arrived in Sarajevo in the middle of August and was instantly in love with the [wordiness alert, this is from my journal:] "clear sweet sunny days backdropping the gorgeous colorful mountainous landscape and the beautiful multicultural milieu of people in the cafes and goods in the markets and church bells ringing and minarets lighting up at night and imams intoning calls to prayer and the river flowing on and on under many bridges through the middle of it all..."

and the day i made to the journey from Sarajevo to Belgrade, reassuring myself that "as i leave this beautiful scarred city, i know i will survive and maybe even learn to thrive in the one i will soon arrive in... i think i am already growing in my ability to recognize the cyrillic letters and sound things out correctly when i see it.  bouncing inside the bus, through tunnels, alongside rock faces, past pine forests and fern patches, we have now come down from the high hills to a more rolling landscape of fields and small towns. hello hay bales and humble houses and huts. the little trickle that started hugging the road's curves in a shallow ditch a while back has since gradually widened into a lively stream and then a broad channel in a gorge below us - and oh - now we have crossed over it on a bridge and i can no longer see it from my side of the bus, but i know it is still there, feeding this land, quenching the thirst of people and creatures, carving its cool, calm power ever deeper and wider, branching off into new waterways, to spread the gift, the youth, the life."

i didn't always feel very youthful or lively for my first few months there. despite some wonderful moments, overall i felt more like this:

i struggled under some shadows of uncertain expectations and rocky living situations and frequent colds and sickness and feeling like a failure a lot of the time.

sure, i smiled in the sunshiny joy of my language lessons, my daily work of caring for little children with special needs, my mini-adventures of walking and navigating public transportation around the city, and texts like this from my coworkers when i was too sick to go to work: "ok dont vory bi god love you"

but it wasn't until, oh, about November that i finally started feeling comfortable in my skin and surroundings again.  i realize this is fairly typical cross-cultural transition timing, but there were also a few real changes that made a big difference.  i moved to a new apartment and "woke up under the skylight, blue sky with wisps of clouds floating by, the sound of the streets being washed and the pigeons flapping about. i tiptoed to look out to the adjacent rooftops where they perch and greeted them this morning...i went to the pijaca/market and had friendly exchanges with the people from whom i bought: a chunk of pumpkin, a bunch of paradajz i luk (tomatoes and onions), some mandarin oranges, pola kila pečurka (half a kilo of mushrooms), i 250g brusnica (dried cranberries)...and trudged delightedly back up the hill...passing Everest Kafe, and the Crna Kornjača, and a Zdrava Hrana (health food) shop, and some creative graffiti...i LOVE MY NEIGHBORHOOD!"

i started having more opportunities to travel around the region...to hike to a waterfall and play in the fall leaves or the snow or the spring flowers in Kosovo/Kosova...to go to concerts in Novi Sad...to spend time with MCC partners and regional directors in Sarajevo, and go hiking in the hills there...

life really blossomed.  blooming and growing, like edelweiss, the hills are alive, with the sound of music... :)

and i had awesome Canadian neighbors who moved in to the apartment below mine, and who invited me to share in their weekly crepes and their city-exploring adventures and their Christmas and Easter celebrations just like another daughter/sister...(and who dressed up as this endearing totem pole for the kindergarten's multicultural dress-up day!)

and i had a gig with a choir, a gospel choir! the only gospel choir in Serbia! who were the warmest, loudest, lovingest :) spiritual community i could possibly have been welcomed into. we sang all over Beograd, and in a few other cities, too.  music. friendship. joy.

and i had, unexpectedly, a boy, who tenderly cared for me when i was sick...who encouraged me to be gentle with myself and see the beauty in my role with the children...who traveled with me all throughout that "land of raspberries and honey-bees, hills and haystacks, abandoned houses and bullet holes, churches and mosques" ...who held me and helped me poetry-slam a bob dylan ballad when my grandpa and another dear friend in the U.S. died on the same day in May...who asked me if he could ask me to marry him yet, and then saw me off on the plane back to the States in July without a definite answer...who said YES YES YES YES YES when I asked him over Skype a couple months later!  who put the perfect eco-friendly vine-shaped ring on my finger this past December...who returned to the Balkans in January and has persevered through these final months of his term there... and who is coming home to me SOON.  srce moje...now we'll journey together for the rest of our lives.  God.es.good.

getting intimate with the ingredients of life

"So many creative pursuits demand a period of solitude for the germination of projects - writing, music-making, painting. The same can be said of cooking. Aside from music, food might be the most social of those pursuits, but it is that time alone that allows us to develop an intimacy with our subject - here, the raw ingredients that will become a meal. Without distractions, we pay closer attention to the behavior of our materials, and gain a nuanced understanding of their qualities and how they come together to create a dish...

"Cutting pounds of carrots, potatoes, parsnips, or squash asks that the cook yield a little to the process - those tubers don't offer themselves up easily. And that's where the process becomes a hypnotic, almost trance-like activity. There is the gentle resistance of the fibrous vegetable and the slow, careful push of the knife, over and over...

"Those moments to myself, lost in the rhythms of chopping, prepping and combining, are often what I crave most from cooking, whether it's for thirty minutes, three hours or all of a Sunday. Later the house may be filled with friends and family. There's little that I love more than that ritual - spending time with the people I care about, eating together. But I relish the time prior to the meal equally, that hushed, engrossed period where I am alone with my materials."

words by Kimberley Hasselbrink
from Kinfolk magazine, volume two

amen.  i think that's what i've been doing over the past few months, in my little experiments with banana and pumpkin bread and muffins, with squash stir-fry, with sweet potato curry-fry, with red pepper/tomato/basil sauces, with blackberry/red wine or blackberry/strawberry/peach sauces, with fresh tomato/green pepper salsa, with taking some avocado and salt and a lemon and adding dollops of hot pepper sauce to make guacamole, or adding tahini and garlic and olive oil and cumin and coriander to make a mediterrannean style dip, as i did last night for our Sunday night community meal with dear friends...

and these videos are some of my new favorite images of food in motion, ingredients blended with beauty and imagination. watch below, then go Google 'kinfolk videos' for more of these addictively simple yet luscious celebrations of the earthy materials, weathered hands, and vibrant communities of living things and beings that feed us...

lenten.prayer.and.art.therapy.

Catch Me in My Scurrying

Catch me in my anxious scurrying, Lord,
and hold me in this Lenten season:
hold my feet to the fire of your grace
    and make me attentive to my mortality
        that I may begin to die now
            to those things that keep me
                from living with you
                    and with my neighbors on this earth;
            to grudges and indifference,
                to certainties that smother possibilities,
                    to my fascination with false securities,
                        to my addiction to sweatless dreams,
                            to my arrogant insistence on how it has to be;
            to my corrosive fear of dying someday
                which eats away the wonder of living this day,
                    and the adventure of losing my life
                        in order to find it in you.

Catch my in my aimless scurrying, Lord,
and hold me in this Lenten season:
hold my heart to the beat of your grace
    and create in me a resting place,
        a kneeling place,
            a tip-toe place
where I can recover from the dis-ease of my grandiosities
    which fill my mind and calendar with busy self-importance,
that I may become vulnerable enough
    to dare intimacy with the familiar,
        to listen cup-eared for your summons,
            and to watch squint-eyed for your crooked finger
                in the crying of a child,
                    in the hunger of the street people,
                        in the fear of the contagion of terrorism in all people,
                in the rage of those oppressed because of sex or race,
                    in the smoldering resentments of exploited third world nations,
                        in the sullen apathy of the poor and ghetto-strangled people,
                            in my lonely doubt and limping ambivalence;
and somehow,
    during this season of sacrifice,
        enable me to sacrifice time
            and possessions
                and securities,
to do something...
    something about what I see,
        something to turn the water of my words
            into the wine of will and risk,
                into the bread of blood and blisters,
                    into the blessedness of deed,
                        of a cross picked up,
                            a saviour followed.

Catch me in my mindless scurrying, Lord,
and hold me in this Lenten season:
hold my spirit to the beacon of your grace
    and grant me light enough to walk boldly,
        to feel passionately,
            to love actively;
grant me peace enough to want more,
    to work for more
        and to submit to nothing less,
           and to fear only you...
               only you!
Bequeath me not becalmed seas,
    slack sails and premature benedictions,
        but breathe into me a torment,
            storm enough to make within myself
                and from myself,
                    something...
something new,
    something saving,
        something true,
a gladness of heart,
    a pitch for a song in the storm,
        a word of praise lived,
            a gratitude shared,
                a cross dared,
                    a joy received.

Poem-prayer by: Ted Loder, from the book Guerrillas of Grace

earthquakes and everest

well, the drama princess piece of me wants to say something about how my time here so far has shaken me up like an earthquake, and presented me with challenges to climb like mount everest. which is true in some ways.

but of course there are more physically real earthquakes affecting a lot more people right now in China and New Zealand and Japan and everywhere else the resulting tsunamis have touched...bringing me flashbacks of December 2004, my senior year of high school in India...coastal villages submerged...homes washed away...fishing boats washed up, fishing nets ripped apart, unusable...families ripped apart, grieving, surviving...

actually even before these recent catastrophes i was just remembering how there have been a number of real earthquakes in this region over the past several months, including one in November that struck about 80 miles south of here, in the city of Kraljevo, at magnitude 5.4, killing two people and injuring between 50 and 100 others, and displacing some families whose homes were damaged. i remember at about 2 a.m. that morning, waking up because my feet were doing that thing where they involuntarily rise up from the bed a little and wiggle around...but then they kept doing it for a few seconds longer than my sleep-slugged muscles would normally twitch for...and then i heard about the earthquake when i checked the news that morning.

of course, this incident totally slipped most people's memory, including mine, pretty soon afterwards. but the families of those in Kraljevo who were killed, and those who were injured or displaced, are most certainly still dealing with the effects.

and this reminds me of the world's memory-loss about this whole region of southeast Europe, the former Yugoslavia, which was rocked by inter-ethnic war, mass killings, sieges, bombings, and all the fall-out of these traumatic experiences and political separations. not so long ago...certainly within living memory of anyone over the age of 10 here. several former government buildings in downtown Beograd still stand in their bombed-out state, and all over the region, sitting there like scars on the beautiful countryside, houses can be seen like the one below - whether it was a Bosnian Muslim home gutted by Serbs in some part of Bosnia or Serbia, or a Serb home stripped by Albanians in Kosovo/Kosova, or a Kosovo Albanian home there, or a Croatian home somewhere in Bosnia or Serbia or Croatia, or whichever way the violence went at a particular point in time in that particular town or village - much more complex than these few examples can convey.

but everyday life has since returned to a 'new normal' for most people here, and the biggest crises in the news since i've been here were the hooligan protesters' reaction to the gay pride parade in October (no worries, I was living across the river in Zemun at the time), and the milk shortage (which didn't affect me too much because i'm slightly lactose intolerant, so i don't drink straight milk), and the eerily Egyptian-echoing gathering of between 50,000 and 70,000 opposition demonstrators to call for early elections in February (and unfortunately I was in Sarajevo that weekend and missed the excitement!)

so those are some of the 'earthquakes' that have caused some tremors since i've been here, and i hope to stay more in tune with regional and world developments, and hopefully share them here a bit more often...

and now for the 'everest' part - this has been a great source of excitement for me in the past few months, as i have found...dare i say...my favorite cafe in the world...?!?!!! oh, don't worry, i still love you, Treehouse. but i have gone way past the infatuation stage, and dived into a seriously delightful relationship with the Everest Kafe-Knjižara (cafe-bookstore) just a block from my apartment! a joyously orange-accented place, always playing the most soothing, meditative music, and serving a delicious vegetarian menu including (if you come on the right day) DAL!!! and a fascinating selection of teas, and friendly guys behind the counter who recognize me and are happy to see me every time i come in...

pumpkin-ginger soup with their homemade spiced bread
so happy to share the loveliness of Everest with my lovely Amy
and with the freedom sexy birds...

i.saw.Jesus.getting.his.fingernails.cut

and his time-worn face of love and struggle was reflected just as much in the face of the young lady who was wielding the fingernail clippers.

i won't give too many details, but just think, what if you had a stroke? and you were left without mobility in your left arm and leg? and without a job or the ability to get yourself to the grocery store or even across the street to buy a Pepsi? and you had to move to a more run-down house because you couldn't make the mortgage payments on yours anymore? and your family mostly ignored you and your only friends were the dog and the 6 or 7 cats you kept around the house for company? and your wheelchair started falling apart? and it started getting harder and harder to pay for electricity and food and even the water bill? and you've got these new young neighbors who stop by sometimes to chat and help you with yardwork and house projects and play with your cats and even give you some bakery bread and garden vegetables and other food surplus sometimes - but what if you still knew you might not be able to pay your bills? might not be able to buy food? might be evicted from your house? would you still be able to crack jokes? would you trust your new friends to help you find a social worker and some solutions? would you still want to live?

sometimes, our neighbor tells us, he doesn't.

and we don't exactly know what to do with that, except to keep going back. keep trying to make his life a little more livable, and keep trying to re-convince him that his life is worth living.

many images flicker across my memory-reel of these past few months, in and out of his house, hanging out on his porch, taking out his trash... many mischievous smiles and riotous laughs, many cat-teasing tricks and tender cat-cuddling moments, many half-hidden winces of struggle in moving from chair to door to stairs...

but the image that sticks is of Jesus getting his fingernails cut. and Jesus gently, determinedly cutting them. one smooth, coffee-colored, female face. one wrinkled, pale peach cream-colored, male face. both lit up when his stereo started belting out "Stand By Me". one light. one love. just one story, one rhythm among the riot of beats on these city streets.

will you join me in one prayer for this one precious life?

i.saw.Jesus.blushing.today.

i was so proud of myself this morning. i got up, got ready, and was out the door TEN WHOLE MINUTES before the meeting was supposed to start! and it only takes FIVE minutes to walk there! i was so proud. i was gonna be there EARLY. and it was OPTIONAL, too, an optional seminar for current and alumni FVMs on fundraising and sharing our stories about the impact of this year on our lives. and i was gonna show up all ready and ON TIME, looking so responsible...

and then, just as i walk through the gate onto church property, five minutes early, i see a familiar face. a face that i saw and pitied my first week here, when he was asking at the friary door for food, and i was told that he came there all the time, he's homeless, we feed him sometimes and sometimes you just have to ignore him, and be careful because he's schizophrenic and can get violent sometimes. one of my first fist-clenching moments of frustration with the seeming futility of efforts to 'fix' Camden stemmed from being advised to ignore him when he was asking if he could use the bathroom. where else is the guy gonna go? if the church won't care for him, who will? if the church won't care for him, how will he know that Jesus does?

over the next several months, i would see him sometimes, strolling around the neighborhood or hanging out on the church steps, sometimes rocking out to a CD player, sometimes walking a dog. sometimes he seemed 'okay', apparently when he was being good about taking his 'good meds' for schizophrenia. sometimes he seemed strung-out, hard-as-nails, and downright angry, ready to lash out with obscenities if anyone so much as said hello. any spoken wish for him to "have a good day" or "take care" was met with muttering and resentful head-shaking - you don't understand, i CAN'T have a good day, i'm in CAMDEN and i can barely get by alive, much less take CARE, are you kidding me?

i heard that he sometimes had lapses back into the grip of his 'street meds', the ever-available destructive doses of tantalizing escape-tricks called 'crack' and whatever else. i think it was during one of these periods that i had one of my most electrifying encounters with him: i was walking the four blocks home from St. Anthony's one day, and saw him walking toward me, in the middle of the street, looking hard as nails, muttering to himself. it didn't seem like the time to start a conversation or be too bright and cheery, but i also didn't want to ignore him and possibly make him upset at that. i decided to try a simple friendly "hello" when he was a few feet away. at first he said nothing, then gathered up his breath and hurled a "FUCK YOU!" at me over his shoulder just as we passed. all i could do was keep walking, keep a calm exterior, keep heading home and hoping he was continuing on his own way in the other direction. inside i was reeling from the almost physical blow those violent words had produced in my gut. my trembling pounding heart somehow felt connected to every woman who has ever been demeaned, abused, belittled, threatened. i hurt more for him, for his mind clenched in anger that would lash out like that, than for whatever shock effect his words had on me.

the next time i saw him was at the Francis House Thanksgiving meal, where he still seemed to simmer with resentment at not being a part of all the tight-knit families around him, but at least he was civil to everyone, and barely acknowledged me when i walked around his chair at the table. i continued to see him sometimes, hanging around the friary, and we acknowledged each other with varying degrees of friendliness/grudgingness. i heard that he had been hurt by lots of females, that he didn't trust them anymore. okay, that makes sense, i thought. all i want is to be one tiny example of a female that is at least genuinely friendly and acknowledges him as a person with dignity and worth. Lord, show me how!

so i see this familiar face this morning. i haven't seen him around for a while lately, not since the week Brother Jerry died, beginning of March. he had a special relationship with Brother Jerry, one of those gruff-on-the-outside, but inside you know they've got some pretty deep soft spots for each other. Jerry was the one who most often signed off on the 'David Rivera feeding' record sheet. made him sandwiches, gave him bags of bread or boxes of pizza or salad stuff grown from his own garden. stood around and chatted with him for hours on nice days outside, or sat inside the church with him after daily mass in the morning, staying warm on brutal winter days. the last time i saw David was the day after Brother Jerry died, in the church parking lot, holding a bag of some food stuff. he looked like he had gotten a make-over, with a clean haircut, glasses, a baseball cap, and a hipster puffy green vest over black longsleeve shirt, i almost didn't recognize him apart from the usual layers of sweatshirts and greasy jeans.

we didn't talk that day in March; he was hunched over his food, and i had places to go, things to do, funeral music to get ready, etc. etc. besides, i didn't know what to say. i didn't know how he was taking the news of Brother Jerry's death, or whether he was even fully aware of it. so i kept my distance. and haven't seen him since.

until today. he was just standing there in the parking lot, with a pizza-box-full of cinnamon rolls that i recognized as a donation from a local bakery, which the church social worker had probably given him earlier that morning. great, he's got food for the day, i've got a few minutes to say hi to him and then i can be on my way, almost still on time for the FVM meeting. okay, he looks friendly today, more mellow than usual. i can do this.

"Hi, David! how are you?"

he does a double take. and starts talking, like i've never heard him talk before. i find out that he's diabetic, so he actually shouldn't eat all those cinnamon buns... i suggest that he can share them with his friends, and he looks at me like i'm crazy. tells me that he's forgotten how it feels to be around people, that every place he tries to stay, every female he tries to tell her he cares about, people just keep rejecting him, making an example of him as someone who just can't get anything right in life, who has no hope but to fuck himself up with drugs, but he doesn't want to do that anymore, he doesn't want to chase females, he just wants to be there for one person, but nobody seems to want to stay faithful to him, they all run off with other people and leave him out in the cold, again and again and again. he's standing there with this box of cinnamon rolls and is asking me, "hey, i don't know what to do. what do i do? you know, i don't usually do this, i don't ask females what to do, i don't even really know you, but i'm askin, what to do? what is there for me to do? ehh, i know you don't know, it's okay, sweetie. yo no se tampoco"

"and who are you, sweetie? i know i've seen you around, but what's your name, honey? i'm tellin you all this shit (excuse me, excuse my language) and don't even know your name, what's your name?"

i find out that he's about to turn 42, he has a daughter who's 21 and just had a baby girl, his granddaughter! and lives in North Camden, but he can barely see them. he has a cell phone, but it keeps breaking, and every time it breaks he has to walk all the way downtown to go to the place to fix it or get a new one. his ankles hurt from constantly walking. "would it help to put ice on them?" "honey, i don't have no ice. there's some people in a house down the street that sometimes let me use their refrigerator, but the same thing happens, they leave me out, they forget, i can't get in there. i don't have no ice. no lo tengo." "i'm sorry."

"man, why you standin here talkin to me?! don't you got things to do? i don't wanna be wastin your time, sweetie. man, you keep smilin, you're always smilin! you're makin me blush, sweetie, you see that?"

no, David, i don't really see it, but okay. and i can't help smiling! i know i'm blessed in a lot of ways, but even i've had some incredibly lonely times in my life, times when i've wondered why am i even alive, why does it matter, what's the point. and i know you can't always depend on people, even people you thought would always care and be there for you. but there's one Friend i've found...do you know him? isn't it CRAZY how GOD came to earth and had to be born in a stable with ANIMALS??! "i like animals" okay, me too. but then even in his life, he didn't really have a home, and people rejected him...isn't that crazy?? he knows what you're going through! he knows YOU!!! and loves you, David.

"i know, i know. you're makin me blush. but oh, man, these cinnamon rolls are getting heavy. what am i gonna do? i've got pizza somewhere that they gave me, too, but you can't live on just this stuff, you get sick... and i'm thirsty, too, you think i can get a drink?" i don't know David, maybe if you go to the park, maybe there's a water fountain there? [again, he gives me a look like i'm crazy, even though he had just said that he might go sit in the park]

every once in a while in the conversation, he throws out a phrase in Spanish, and one time he asks me, "comprendes?" and i say, "si, comprendo un poquito", and he's like "whoa! you got a cute accent there! how many languages you know?" "solo dos" "whoa, that is really cute. i mean it. you gotta talk more. that is a damn cute accent, excuse my language." now look who's blushing!

so, for over an hour, we stand there, talking, smiling, blushing. i'm getting a little hungry, because i had been planning to get to the meeting and take part in the coffee and refreshments. of course, this little soul-exchange has been more refreshing than any food or drink could be, but still, my stomach is growling a little. and he is holding a box full of way more cinnamon rolls than he can possibly eat. "David, can i have one of those?" "oh sure, sweetie, sorry, i didn't know you wanted one, i would have given you.." "oh don't worry, i didn't want one until just now. thank you!"

and so we break bread together. smiling. blushing. something incomprehensibly special has happened here. he insists i take another cinnamon roll to go with me, "take that one, the biggest one, in the middle, there you go sweetie". so now my fingers are all sticky, but i don't want to leave without some tangible touch to make this real.

"David, my fingers are sticky, i can't shake your hand" "oh sweetie, it don't matter, go ahead, shake my hand" "but - um - " [i try to lick my fingers off but i'm not fast enough] "David, can i just give you a hug instead?" "oh - sure - "

i will remember that moment forever, i hope. a moment of feeling so profoundly inadequate - i don't have the counseling skills, or the social work systems knowledge, or the medical contacts, or the authority with the church's resources to give him any tangible guidance or material things. but i could listen, human being to human being. i could assure him with all my heart that he is worth being alive, that he is and can be one of the good apples of Camden, that my hope is that he finds people who will consistently care about him and not pressure him to do things he doesn't want to do; that he can share his gift of singing with his baby granddaughter; that he continues to come to St. Anthony's when he is in need. "oh, i'll be back, sweetie, don't worry! you just made my day!" "David, YOU just made MY day."

and two blushing faces turn and walk on their way.

francis.house.fridays.

the time has come to tell about a typical day at Francis House. although there are really no 'typical' days. i go on Tuesdays, too, and they're also open on Thursdays, but Friday is generally more of a full house, always bringing an unpredictable mix of people and predicaments, but often becoming the highlight of my week.

so here's what happens - or shall we say, here's what could potentially happen if you, my friend, happened to come by this little corner of Camden on one of these days:

10 or 11 am - so you show up at the front gate and spend a few minutes admiring the colorful, meaningful tile mosaics that adorn the front face of the otherwise-plain brick building. So this is Francis House. you go inside, and find a few people sitting in the dining room reading the paper and chatting, some in the living room listening to the parakeets chatter, some hanging around the kitchen checking on the hot lunch cooking, some sitting outside on a picnic bench smoking their cigarettes and chatting – and everyone wants to greet you, say hi, hug you, say “God bless you! How’ve you been? Where you from? Welcome to Francis House!” so, you go back in to the dining room and pour yourself a cup of coffee or grab a can of soda that’s sitting on one of the long tables, and take your pick of the spots and crowds to join in the conversation. and you hear talk about life and weekend plans and weather and public transportation and the Phillies going to the World Series and friends or family who are sick or caught in the drug scene, and about their own stories, the good and the bad, the mistakes and rejections and temptations and the victories and blessings too. you listen, you learn, you are reminded that life is a gift and nothing is more important at this moment than simply being. here. wholly.

12 noon – you hear a bell ringing and a general rumble of people making their way into the dining room, so you join the flow and let your hands be clasped by a new friend on one side and a complete stranger on the other. It’s circle time, goes the group consensus, whispered and shouted and evident in every expectant eye. once everybody is holding hands, you focus in on a solid, fiery-headed woman with her arm in a sling, standing in the middle of the circle, inviting you all to take “deep cleansing breaths”, then introducing all the visitors, volunteers, and people who’ve been away for a while. you hear some calling her “mama”, some “ma’am”, and some “Sue”. So here’s the one who birthed this place and keeps it going and growing under her wings. each introduction is celebrated with handclaps and shout-outs, making sure you feel the love, and you surely do. now it’s time for the real business of circle time: what/who do we need to pray for today? names and news-flashes of concern and thanksgiving burst forth from people’s lips like kernels in a popcorn popper… and when the pace dies down, maybe somebody volunteers to pray spontaneously, or maybe Sue leads out with "Who woke us up this morning?" and everyone joins in praying "God, give us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference. God's will, not ours, be done. Amen Amen!" and the hands on either side of you drop their grip to clap their affirmation. and so do you. thus, the circle breaks off and snakes into the kitchen to line up for the food. only, you realize, you’ve already been fed, somewhere inside where food can’t begin to satisfy.

Once-in-a-lifetime - if you had come last Friday to circle time, you would have witnessed an incredible moment. we were privileged enough to listen to a poem written and read by a lady who has only been coming to Francis House for three weeks, only on Fridays, and yet as she read her poem, i was brought to tears and spirit-shivers by the way she expressed the heart of the mission of Francis House and all we hope for it to be for the people who come here. i looked at Sue in the middle of the circle and saw her eyes welling up, and she saw that i was about to let it leak too, and later as she was hugging me goodbye for the day, she said, "so, you're a wimp, too!" but truly, it was incredible to hear what the Spirit of Love has done in one much-abused, usually-quiet-and-reserved woman as a result of spending just a few hours in this place i am privileged to be a part of. she was showered with a massive outpouring of applause and amen's from the whole circle group, too; everyone knew that she had seen clearly and struck the core of our common experience with her words and her attitude of gratitude for God guiding her to this place. you would have loved it. and maybe you would have given her a hug and thanked her for her poem, and she would have said, “I love you, baby”, and you would have trembled with amazement that you even get to cross paths with such a lady, let alone receive her appreciation or affection. you might be at a loss for words. But that would be okay.

12-something - you finally find yourself at the front of the line, and you help yourself to some hot pasta and sauce or chicken and potatoes or sausage and sauerkraut or some kind of soup and vegetables or whatever they’ve got going on there, and some salad and maybe a breadstick or two. as you head back into the dining room to sit down and share in the meal, you notice that there’s a few who can't get food for themselves, so their plates are being served up and brought to them by another member of the…family, yes, that’s what it feels like…

Around 1 pm – once lunch is over, you may be in for a treat, and i don’t mean the sugar-sweet kind for your tastebuds…i’m talking about some serious ear candy and real endorphin-boosting events here. you, my friend, have been invited to a 'concert' by the original/founding Francis House attendee. as you follow him down the hall to the Francis House chapel, one of us FVMs fills you in on a little background info: he's been living with HIV for 30 years now, since he was 21; he grew up in Camden and Philly, went too far with drugs, went into a coma for 3 months, Sue took care of him, got him back on his feet; now he's living in his own apartment, still needs a lot of help, needs a cane or walker to walk safely, repeats himself a lot and slurs his speech so you gotta listen hard; but his gift, what he loves to do to welcome newcomers to Francis House, is to take them into the chapel, plug in his little boombox he carries everywhere, pop in a disc of Marvin Gaye or Barry White or Stevie Wonder or Michael Jackson, and sing along with all his soul. and this is what graces your senses for the next half hour or so as you sit in the first pew row facing this marvel of a man who is currently sprawled on the green felt carpet on the front step of the chapel. some of the tracks skip and scratch, and some he fast-forwards past to get to his favorites, but each one truly is a gift from his heart to yours. and you’ll know when he’s wrapping up because he’ll put on an instrumental track and talk to his little audience, asking you how you liked 'the show', telling you straight out that it was 'awesome' and that he's 'the best! I’m the best! I’m the best!’ and you lean forward and listen closely when he starts telling some cautionary stories from his turbulent life, some crazy true shit [sprinkled liberally with many such descriptions because they’re really the only ones that fit], and you’re like, This guy did WHAT!?! WHAT THE?!? but you hear him, too, saying how blessed he is, and how he’s done with all that, and you might even hear him give a shout-out to how much he loves us FVMs, how we're his 'crew', how God is good to him and gave him this calling to be a blessing to Francis House. and at some point Sue or somebody pokes their head in to say that his ride is there to pick him up, or maybe just to say “enough’s enough! Get back in here with everybody else!” and so you watch as the boombox and CDs get shoved back in his bag, as he juggles his long legs back up to standing position, and as he shuffles along out of there, leaning heavily on his walking-aid device of choice. you wonder, How does it feel? What does he need? What does anybody need? but all you know is you needed that. and you will never listen to those songs the same way again. and again, you’ve been nourished somewhere you didn’t even know you needed to be.

2 pm or so – it’s closing-up time for Francis House, and you see people making the rounds for hugs, zipping up their jackets and gathering up their bags of leftovers or personal care items or whatever they needed to take home. you wave them off with a sigh that could mean anything in the world. on your way out, Sue wraps you in a hug that’s like – oh. that’s what it feels like to be hugged by God in Momma form. and you know you’re not the first to think that. and you want to learn how to love like that. and you will. because God. loves. you.

Amen.