June 29, 2007
DOD
I don't know why I have two blogs. I've posted all of my recent posts (last two years) on the Bee Hive. This blog is dead. Rest in peace.
June 19, 2007
Restlessing with the will of God
Work has been sooo sloooow lately. My coworkers seem to be keeping busy, but I just don't seem to be getting very many applications. I don't know if they are all just good at appearing busy, or if there's some cosmic event that keeps people with last names beginning with G-L from applying for public assistance. It's given me a lot of free time to websurf (and blog!) and read books. I wonder if this restless feeling in my soul -- to do something radical and different with my life -- is due to not feeling very busy at work or if it is its own completely independent stirring.
Because work isn't that busy and I have a semi-private office and internet access, I've been able to do a lot more reading, listen to NPR podcasts of new music, interviews, and stories, and start to research graduate school. I try to tell myself that this is sweet deal: I get to maintain a warm fuzzy feeling from helping people by providing excellent customer service in a human services field, I'm not completely stressed out by an unmanageable work load, I get recreation time for half the day to read, chat, and listen to the radio, all with a compensation package that meets my needs. How could I possibly be so restless and frustrated?
I need a shift in perspective. This is a sweet gig, I insist to myself, don't take it for granted. Remember the days when you used to come home and sob because the powers that be had totally unreasonable expectations of what you could accomplish each month. Yet, with all this free time to think, how can I help but recognize that I'm meant for more. For something "radical and different," like I told my pastor this past weekend. I don't have the details all worked out, but I have a calling... where it goes from here, God only knows.
The thought that this abundant time for thinking and exploring is a gift from God starts to creep into my rational mind. I've maintained that the ease with which I got this job after a heart-breaking struggle to find anything besides my last job was partly because God called me to this place. That's one of the ways I convinced myself that moving to Forgotonia was the thing to do right now. For now, I abate the restlessness with researching grad school and reading dog-help books.
Because work isn't that busy and I have a semi-private office and internet access, I've been able to do a lot more reading, listen to NPR podcasts of new music, interviews, and stories, and start to research graduate school. I try to tell myself that this is sweet deal: I get to maintain a warm fuzzy feeling from helping people by providing excellent customer service in a human services field, I'm not completely stressed out by an unmanageable work load, I get recreation time for half the day to read, chat, and listen to the radio, all with a compensation package that meets my needs. How could I possibly be so restless and frustrated?
I need a shift in perspective. This is a sweet gig, I insist to myself, don't take it for granted. Remember the days when you used to come home and sob because the powers that be had totally unreasonable expectations of what you could accomplish each month. Yet, with all this free time to think, how can I help but recognize that I'm meant for more. For something "radical and different," like I told my pastor this past weekend. I don't have the details all worked out, but I have a calling... where it goes from here, God only knows.
The thought that this abundant time for thinking and exploring is a gift from God starts to creep into my rational mind. I've maintained that the ease with which I got this job after a heart-breaking struggle to find anything besides my last job was partly because God called me to this place. That's one of the ways I convinced myself that moving to Forgotonia was the thing to do right now. For now, I abate the restlessness with researching grad school and reading dog-help books.
April 02, 2007
Heart of the Matter
Another response to my pastor about a sermon on Palm Sunday.
Your sermon yesterday got me thinking. It's easy for people to say that Christ died for our sins. But what does that mean? The phrase has never really had that much meaning for me. I think sometimes Christians have the perspective that Jesus was sacrificed in the same way that a lamb was sacrificed in the Old Testament...that we have to suffer and give up things we love because that is somehow pleasing to God...that Christ died so that we can live on in heaven. This attempt at logic and faith just doesn't cut it for me. I'm left asking, "why?" I'm not saying that's what I got from your Palm Sunday message. I'm just saying these ideas seem to be prevalent in Christian culture in general and your sermon got me thinking about it.
The thing that resonated with me about your message was the part about forgiveness...
Jesus didn't just die. He was murdered. And we did it. It wasn't the Jews, the heathens, the unsaved, "those people" who didn't know what they were doing that killed him. We did it. We killed him and we continue to kill him. I'm finding that one thing we need to learn from the Crucifixion is that we are every bit capable of doing it again. We need to explore the part of ourselves that has that capability, seek to understand it, so that maybe someday we can control it. Maybe someday we can stand up for those who are being slowly, systematically, distantly, painfully crucified every day by starvation, by violence, by disease. God's children, the hands and feet of Jesus, are still suffering with us today.
The thing I remember the most about Palm Sunday in the Catholic church (at least the one I went to) was that the whole congregation was involved. We were the crowd waving palms. But then... we were the crowd proclaiming "Crucify him!" The liturgy involved reenacting the last supper with communion, but also going through the Crucifixion. And I remember asking my step-mom when I was about 7 years old why we were saying crucify him, when Jesus was good. She tried to explain that it was so that we could remember that even Jesus' friends turned on him and so that we remember that we might have done the same thing...that just everyday people went along with it even though it was wrong.
And God let it happen, willed it to happen, made it happen? How confusing. But the thing that clicked with me yesterday is that this allows us to see the abundant grace of God. The fact that we tortured God's only son and killed him and then we are forgiven? Forgiven! Would we ever forgive someone that did that to one of our children? Jesus died and yet God forgives us for the sin and to, in a sense, prove that we will always be forgiven and to leave us with the task of trying to understand a love so great that allows that to happen. Knowing that I am forgiven allows me to forgive. That may be the greatest love that we will ever know.
Your sermon yesterday got me thinking. It's easy for people to say that Christ died for our sins. But what does that mean? The phrase has never really had that much meaning for me. I think sometimes Christians have the perspective that Jesus was sacrificed in the same way that a lamb was sacrificed in the Old Testament...that we have to suffer and give up things we love because that is somehow pleasing to God...that Christ died so that we can live on in heaven. This attempt at logic and faith just doesn't cut it for me. I'm left asking, "why?" I'm not saying that's what I got from your Palm Sunday message. I'm just saying these ideas seem to be prevalent in Christian culture in general and your sermon got me thinking about it.
The thing that resonated with me about your message was the part about forgiveness...
Jesus didn't just die. He was murdered. And we did it. It wasn't the Jews, the heathens, the unsaved, "those people" who didn't know what they were doing that killed him. We did it. We killed him and we continue to kill him. I'm finding that one thing we need to learn from the Crucifixion is that we are every bit capable of doing it again. We need to explore the part of ourselves that has that capability, seek to understand it, so that maybe someday we can control it. Maybe someday we can stand up for those who are being slowly, systematically, distantly, painfully crucified every day by starvation, by violence, by disease. God's children, the hands and feet of Jesus, are still suffering with us today.
The thing I remember the most about Palm Sunday in the Catholic church (at least the one I went to) was that the whole congregation was involved. We were the crowd waving palms. But then... we were the crowd proclaiming "Crucify him!" The liturgy involved reenacting the last supper with communion, but also going through the Crucifixion. And I remember asking my step-mom when I was about 7 years old why we were saying crucify him, when Jesus was good. She tried to explain that it was so that we could remember that even Jesus' friends turned on him and so that we remember that we might have done the same thing...that just everyday people went along with it even though it was wrong.
And God let it happen, willed it to happen, made it happen? How confusing. But the thing that clicked with me yesterday is that this allows us to see the abundant grace of God. The fact that we tortured God's only son and killed him and then we are forgiven? Forgiven! Would we ever forgive someone that did that to one of our children? Jesus died and yet God forgives us for the sin and to, in a sense, prove that we will always be forgiven and to leave us with the task of trying to understand a love so great that allows that to happen. Knowing that I am forgiven allows me to forgive. That may be the greatest love that we will ever know.
March 02, 2007
Today your fortune will not come true because you are chicken
There's a man who works in one of the offices above mine. He wears a suit and tie and a tan trench-type coat every day; he's one of the very few people that enter our building dressed so formally. He's middle-aged with greying hair, but not bald. He reminds me of my Japanese teacher, but taller. I saw him a few weeks ago in the little natural food store a couple blocks from the office, shopping on his lunch break like me. I saw him walking back from somewhere downtown as I drove to the other side of town to buy a garbage can. This is striking because few people walk anywhere anymore and few people do anything downtown these days.
One evening last month we had a nasty ice storm and everyone was out furiously scraping the ice from their cars in the parking lot. As I was just getting some of the last chunks off of my windshield, I must have had a particularly venomous look on my face as I growled and swore under my breath at stubbing my fingers on the windshield wipers. The man in the tan coat jogged over and asked if I needed any help. Chagrined at how obviously my unmanaged anger was, I said no, I was just about done, but thanks, I appreciate it. I looked over at his car that wasn't quite clear -- he was offering to help me even before he had his own compact, non-sporty, surely, very fuel-efficient car taken care of.
I've been thinking about the man in the tan coat off and on recently. He seems like he must be like me -- socially conscious enough to drive a small car, walks to lunch and to the store, offers to help others, and works in human services. Why am I not friends with him? God knows I could use a friend or two around here. I asked the secretaries at work if they knew who he was. They said he might be a lawyer and not sure what office he works in. I want to introduce myself: "Hey, you drive a compact car and you walk places. That's more in common than I have with anyone else who works in this building. Want to be friends?" But, as I imagine how that conversation would play out in real life, it seems so awkward and forced. What if he isn't the kind of person I've boxed him in to be?
Today I slept through my alarm clock and got up late. I didn't have time to put together a lunch so I walked up to Mr. Moto's for yummy vegetarian food and a latte. Guess who was there... Mr. Tan Coat. He eats food without meat in it! Surely, he's a bleeding heart like me. I tried all lunch hour to get up the nerve to say hello, to introduce myself, to invite a friendship. All the times it might have been natural to say something, he was checking his voice mail, balancing his check book, or lacked an enthusiastic welcoming look in his eyes. Those are the same kind of things I do when I'm dining alone some where and I don't have anything to read. My brain went back and forth: say something and risk looking like a weirdo stalker, or just let it go. At Mr. Moto's every meal ends with a fortune cookie. There it was: You will get to know a coworker better today.
Still, I had no nerve. I lay on the couch near his table reading my book after I had finished my meal. He left and went down the block toward the post office. I headed back to work.
The feeling I have is similar to when I liked a boy. Giddy and nervous and chicken, "notice me!" silently screaming in my brain. Really, this time, I just want to be friends.
There's a man who works in one of the offices above mine. He wears a suit and tie and a tan trench-type coat every day; he's one of the very few people that enter our building dressed so formally. He's middle-aged with greying hair, but not bald. He reminds me of my Japanese teacher, but taller. I saw him a few weeks ago in the little natural food store a couple blocks from the office, shopping on his lunch break like me. I saw him walking back from somewhere downtown as I drove to the other side of town to buy a garbage can. This is striking because few people walk anywhere anymore and few people do anything downtown these days.
One evening last month we had a nasty ice storm and everyone was out furiously scraping the ice from their cars in the parking lot. As I was just getting some of the last chunks off of my windshield, I must have had a particularly venomous look on my face as I growled and swore under my breath at stubbing my fingers on the windshield wipers. The man in the tan coat jogged over and asked if I needed any help. Chagrined at how obviously my unmanaged anger was, I said no, I was just about done, but thanks, I appreciate it. I looked over at his car that wasn't quite clear -- he was offering to help me even before he had his own compact, non-sporty, surely, very fuel-efficient car taken care of.
I've been thinking about the man in the tan coat off and on recently. He seems like he must be like me -- socially conscious enough to drive a small car, walks to lunch and to the store, offers to help others, and works in human services. Why am I not friends with him? God knows I could use a friend or two around here. I asked the secretaries at work if they knew who he was. They said he might be a lawyer and not sure what office he works in. I want to introduce myself: "Hey, you drive a compact car and you walk places. That's more in common than I have with anyone else who works in this building. Want to be friends?" But, as I imagine how that conversation would play out in real life, it seems so awkward and forced. What if he isn't the kind of person I've boxed him in to be?
Today I slept through my alarm clock and got up late. I didn't have time to put together a lunch so I walked up to Mr. Moto's for yummy vegetarian food and a latte. Guess who was there... Mr. Tan Coat. He eats food without meat in it! Surely, he's a bleeding heart like me. I tried all lunch hour to get up the nerve to say hello, to introduce myself, to invite a friendship. All the times it might have been natural to say something, he was checking his voice mail, balancing his check book, or lacked an enthusiastic welcoming look in his eyes. Those are the same kind of things I do when I'm dining alone some where and I don't have anything to read. My brain went back and forth: say something and risk looking like a weirdo stalker, or just let it go. At Mr. Moto's every meal ends with a fortune cookie. There it was: You will get to know a coworker better today.
Still, I had no nerve. I lay on the couch near his table reading my book after I had finished my meal. He left and went down the block toward the post office. I headed back to work.
The feeling I have is similar to when I liked a boy. Giddy and nervous and chicken, "notice me!" silently screaming in my brain. Really, this time, I just want to be friends.
February 07, 2007
Taxes tax me
I have a little beekeeping operation. Nothing fancy, but I want to someday make a profit. I want to claim my start-up costs on my taxes as a loss so that when the day comes that I'm in the black, I'll feel better about paying taxes on it. Not that I'm against taxes, I just think people that actually make money should pay them and the record should show that I have none. Do I need to file a Schedule C for self-employment or F for farm income. Do I need to capitalize the purchases I made this year because they are mostly equipment that will be reused from year to year or do I qualify for the exception that allows me to simply deduct them. What the heck does capitalizing my assets even mean? The small business section of irs.gov is pretty helpful, but geez, can't a girl just have little bee keeping operation without it being so complicated?
I have a little beekeeping operation. Nothing fancy, but I want to someday make a profit. I want to claim my start-up costs on my taxes as a loss so that when the day comes that I'm in the black, I'll feel better about paying taxes on it. Not that I'm against taxes, I just think people that actually make money should pay them and the record should show that I have none. Do I need to file a Schedule C for self-employment or F for farm income. Do I need to capitalize the purchases I made this year because they are mostly equipment that will be reused from year to year or do I qualify for the exception that allows me to simply deduct them. What the heck does capitalizing my assets even mean? The small business section of irs.gov is pretty helpful, but geez, can't a girl just have little bee keeping operation without it being so complicated?
January 12, 2007
MIA
I'm applying to be a Deaconess. On the application they have one of those standard sort of questions about what historical figure I most admire and why. Boring. I think my answer is valid. Hope they like it:
History is not one of my strengths, and I spent some time reading about various historical figures such as Eleanor Roosevelt, Margaret Sanger, Frida Kahlo, Mother Theresa and Mahavira, trying to come up with something inspired to say to you. While I enjoyed learning about these historical figures and do admire them, everyone had something that made me a little uncomfortable with writing about them. Roosevelt’s personal life was steeped in heartbreak, Sanger got a little mixed up in eugenics, and Mother Theresa at times argued for the maintenance of poverty as a fulfillment of the scriptures. Although I am an admirer of Kahlo’s work I couldn’t come up with enough to say. And, while I think Jainism is an incredible way of life, I’d be a poser if I tried to identify with it too much.
I imagine you might be tired of hearing about MLK, Jesus, Ghandi, and Suzanna/John Wesley, so I steered clear (though who can deny the abundance of admiration due there?). What I can do is speak to some commonalities that these folks all have that draw me to them.
The theme running through their stories is risking everything in the name of righteousness. They risked, and many experienced, bodily harm, denial of personal freedom and liberty, loss of material comforts and social acceptance in order to do what God (a higher power, their conscience, etc.) was calling them to do. I think fear directs our decision making so much as a culture that many people are paralyzed into inaction. Not to say that it’s not legitimate to be fearful in a world of secret military tribunals and unconstitutional surveillance where citizens can be indefinitely detained in lands far away from home.
The people that I admire the most understood that the results of their inaction were more unacceptable than risking personal harm. There must be some historical figures that were so promptly silenced following a period of righteous rebellion that they never even made it into the history books. Those are the people that I admire above all.
History is not one of my strengths, and I spent some time reading about various historical figures such as Eleanor Roosevelt, Margaret Sanger, Frida Kahlo, Mother Theresa and Mahavira, trying to come up with something inspired to say to you. While I enjoyed learning about these historical figures and do admire them, everyone had something that made me a little uncomfortable with writing about them. Roosevelt’s personal life was steeped in heartbreak, Sanger got a little mixed up in eugenics, and Mother Theresa at times argued for the maintenance of poverty as a fulfillment of the scriptures. Although I am an admirer of Kahlo’s work I couldn’t come up with enough to say. And, while I think Jainism is an incredible way of life, I’d be a poser if I tried to identify with it too much.
I imagine you might be tired of hearing about MLK, Jesus, Ghandi, and Suzanna/John Wesley, so I steered clear (though who can deny the abundance of admiration due there?). What I can do is speak to some commonalities that these folks all have that draw me to them.
The theme running through their stories is risking everything in the name of righteousness. They risked, and many experienced, bodily harm, denial of personal freedom and liberty, loss of material comforts and social acceptance in order to do what God (a higher power, their conscience, etc.) was calling them to do. I think fear directs our decision making so much as a culture that many people are paralyzed into inaction. Not to say that it’s not legitimate to be fearful in a world of secret military tribunals and unconstitutional surveillance where citizens can be indefinitely detained in lands far away from home.
The people that I admire the most understood that the results of their inaction were more unacceptable than risking personal harm. There must be some historical figures that were so promptly silenced following a period of righteous rebellion that they never even made it into the history books. Those are the people that I admire above all.
September 13, 2006
Stelle, rhymes with bell
Friends, Tasha and Ryan, came to visit last weekend thanks to Amtrak. They were the most gracious guests. Visiting during the week, they entertained themselves while spouse and I worked. Pleasant interactions came naturally as we shared time between talking, shopping, cooking, dining, washing what seemed to be endless dishes, and walking around the property, dodging poison ivy in my sandals. Friday evening we rendezvoused in Monmouth and all rode together to the city, home for them (for the moment) and a weekend visit for us.
For some reason, I was surprised at how unforced it felt to have other people around. When we spend any time with the aunt and uncle next door, it always seems awkward. I think I wind up avoiding them as much as possible just because the tension feels so unpleasant. Maybe it’s because T&R are old friends, none of the four of us are particularly shy and our senses of propriety are in sync, and we know each other’s idiosyncrasies enough to function together effectively.
It really makes me miss friends. I really don’t have any friends around. My coworkers are great. The in-laws are wonderful. There’s something about peers though that I miss. Not just any peers, ones like me: young grown-up, pre-kids, intelligent, unpredictable enough to be fun, yet dependable for the most part and easy to be around.
After a brief Chicago visit, we went down t0 Stelle, IL. This town is not on any maps as it’s unincorporated, though Google maps puts it in Cabery. It’s nearest Kempton, IL, about half-way between Chicago and Champaign-Urbana and is an intentional community in rural Ford county founded “in order to create a supportive environment where individual human development would be a foremost priority…a common theme of sustainability demonstrates itself through renewable energy applications as well as organic gardening and landscaping activities.” We had a great time staying at the B&B down the mile and trading knowledge with the co-owner about beekeeping.
Our visit to Stelle, along with T&R’s visit, got me thinking more about community. Was the ease with which we coexisted for a few days with our two friends because it was known to be temporary? Why does being gracious, adaptable, and acquiescent come with greater ease with those we know the least?
One of the fears I think people have when thinking about living more in community with other people is risking the loss of their independence. Our mentality is that we want to do what we want to do exactly when we want to do it and not have to bother with talking to other people. We don’t want to explain ourselves and justify our actions. The truth is, we rarely get our way as it is. There are so many obligations like work and caring for family members, and tending to our home to which we’ve already become accustomed. Couldn’t we just become accustomed to living with more people around, to communicating more effectively, growing up and realizing we just can’t do whatever we want to do all the time, that there are implications for generations to come if we keep living this way?
Another fear of community I think is of the tragedy of the commons. Sharing more space and property means things wear out faster, or get damaged and broken. We don’t want anyone messing with our stuff. Our “tour guide” at Stelle addressed this concern by admitting that, yes, things do need to be replaced and repaired more often when they are shared, but it’s a small price to pay for the vast waste of resources in everyone having their own personal set of power tools, for example. Stelle has a nice balance of community and personal space and responsibility. Everyone maintains their own residence of choice. The utilities are community owned, but everyone pays depending on their own usage. When the bandwidth on the community ISP started to get stressed out, the administrator pinpointed the hogs and talked to the individual users and worked it out. Everybody wins.
Crime and mental illness is on the rise in America, according to some biased websites with which I just did a quick reference. Community, intentional relationships, more communication will save us, not necessarily more cops and prisons and prescription drugs. Yes, these things have their place and are helpful to some people, but I think as a whole, relationships with other people are what make the world go around. Imagine how dangerous a gang of sustainability gurus could be!
By the way, Stelle’s only crimes are occasional vandalism and general rowdiness perpetrated by bored teenagers in the nearby rural communities. Since Stelle only has one road in and out, residents barricade the exit with a couple cars, call law enforcement and request that instead of prosecution, the kids help weed the streets and perform other community service tasks.
Friends, Tasha and Ryan, came to visit last weekend thanks to Amtrak. They were the most gracious guests. Visiting during the week, they entertained themselves while spouse and I worked. Pleasant interactions came naturally as we shared time between talking, shopping, cooking, dining, washing what seemed to be endless dishes, and walking around the property, dodging poison ivy in my sandals. Friday evening we rendezvoused in Monmouth and all rode together to the city, home for them (for the moment) and a weekend visit for us.
For some reason, I was surprised at how unforced it felt to have other people around. When we spend any time with the aunt and uncle next door, it always seems awkward. I think I wind up avoiding them as much as possible just because the tension feels so unpleasant. Maybe it’s because T&R are old friends, none of the four of us are particularly shy and our senses of propriety are in sync, and we know each other’s idiosyncrasies enough to function together effectively.
It really makes me miss friends. I really don’t have any friends around. My coworkers are great. The in-laws are wonderful. There’s something about peers though that I miss. Not just any peers, ones like me: young grown-up, pre-kids, intelligent, unpredictable enough to be fun, yet dependable for the most part and easy to be around.
After a brief Chicago visit, we went down t0 Stelle, IL. This town is not on any maps as it’s unincorporated, though Google maps puts it in Cabery. It’s nearest Kempton, IL, about half-way between Chicago and Champaign-Urbana and is an intentional community in rural Ford county founded “in order to create a supportive environment where individual human development would be a foremost priority…a common theme of sustainability demonstrates itself through renewable energy applications as well as organic gardening and landscaping activities.” We had a great time staying at the B&B down the mile and trading knowledge with the co-owner about beekeeping.
Our visit to Stelle, along with T&R’s visit, got me thinking more about community. Was the ease with which we coexisted for a few days with our two friends because it was known to be temporary? Why does being gracious, adaptable, and acquiescent come with greater ease with those we know the least?
One of the fears I think people have when thinking about living more in community with other people is risking the loss of their independence. Our mentality is that we want to do what we want to do exactly when we want to do it and not have to bother with talking to other people. We don’t want to explain ourselves and justify our actions. The truth is, we rarely get our way as it is. There are so many obligations like work and caring for family members, and tending to our home to which we’ve already become accustomed. Couldn’t we just become accustomed to living with more people around, to communicating more effectively, growing up and realizing we just can’t do whatever we want to do all the time, that there are implications for generations to come if we keep living this way?
Another fear of community I think is of the tragedy of the commons. Sharing more space and property means things wear out faster, or get damaged and broken. We don’t want anyone messing with our stuff. Our “tour guide” at Stelle addressed this concern by admitting that, yes, things do need to be replaced and repaired more often when they are shared, but it’s a small price to pay for the vast waste of resources in everyone having their own personal set of power tools, for example. Stelle has a nice balance of community and personal space and responsibility. Everyone maintains their own residence of choice. The utilities are community owned, but everyone pays depending on their own usage. When the bandwidth on the community ISP started to get stressed out, the administrator pinpointed the hogs and talked to the individual users and worked it out. Everybody wins.
Crime and mental illness is on the rise in America, according to some biased websites with which I just did a quick reference. Community, intentional relationships, more communication will save us, not necessarily more cops and prisons and prescription drugs. Yes, these things have their place and are helpful to some people, but I think as a whole, relationships with other people are what make the world go around. Imagine how dangerous a gang of sustainability gurus could be!
By the way, Stelle’s only crimes are occasional vandalism and general rowdiness perpetrated by bored teenagers in the nearby rural communities. Since Stelle only has one road in and out, residents barricade the exit with a couple cars, call law enforcement and request that instead of prosecution, the kids help weed the streets and perform other community service tasks.
September 01, 2006
Soilent green is made out of the disabled
I really have a craving for a brownie today.
About two weeks ago the counseling center next door to my office was having a bake sale on the sidewalk. They provide counseling and case management mostly to people with severe disabilities and mental disorders. They are one of the only counseling offices around here that accept the state medical assistance program, which we administrate. One of our secretaries came back from her smoke break to tell us they were out there. She said, "T-- Counseling is having a bake sale out in front. The stuff looks pretty good. I was going to buy something until they said that their clients made the food. I'm... particular about where my food comes from."
"Oh." I said. I robotically agreed with her assessment that one should be cautious about food made by the disabled. Then my brain did a double take and smacked itself with a, "wait a minute...What's wrong with food made by the disabled?"
On my lunch break I went for a walk around the neighborhood. On my way back into the office, I walked past the bake sale. They had lemonade and single serving sweets as well as dishes to take home. For $0.75 I could get a cup of lemonade and a brownie. With cup in one hand and ziplocked brownie in the other, I handed over my dollar and told them to keep the quarter. Sure, the lemonade was somehow just a tad green but it was probably because of the artificial mix from Aldi's. That brownie was the best I'd had in a long time. How did they get the texture just right? Moist, yet slightly crisp on the top and oh so chocolately. They probably didn't over cook it and used real fat and white flour, unlike the tough, whole wheat, low-fat, "fudge-like" version I tend to make.
I'm happy to report my intestines have not been in any sort of distress as a result of my feast. I've had some hay-fever-induced monster sneezing, but I doubt the disabled put any ragweed in their dishes. The secretary really missed out.
Furthermore, I think you could say I'm more particular about where my food comes from than our sec. Does she go to the farmer's market faithfully twice a week? Is she at all concerned about the chemicals on the Hy-Vee food she feeds her daughters? Particularly dense, I'd say.
I really have a craving for a brownie today.
About two weeks ago the counseling center next door to my office was having a bake sale on the sidewalk. They provide counseling and case management mostly to people with severe disabilities and mental disorders. They are one of the only counseling offices around here that accept the state medical assistance program, which we administrate. One of our secretaries came back from her smoke break to tell us they were out there. She said, "T-- Counseling is having a bake sale out in front. The stuff looks pretty good. I was going to buy something until they said that their clients made the food. I'm... particular about where my food comes from."
"Oh." I said. I robotically agreed with her assessment that one should be cautious about food made by the disabled. Then my brain did a double take and smacked itself with a, "wait a minute...What's wrong with food made by the disabled?"
On my lunch break I went for a walk around the neighborhood. On my way back into the office, I walked past the bake sale. They had lemonade and single serving sweets as well as dishes to take home. For $0.75 I could get a cup of lemonade and a brownie. With cup in one hand and ziplocked brownie in the other, I handed over my dollar and told them to keep the quarter. Sure, the lemonade was somehow just a tad green but it was probably because of the artificial mix from Aldi's. That brownie was the best I'd had in a long time. How did they get the texture just right? Moist, yet slightly crisp on the top and oh so chocolately. They probably didn't over cook it and used real fat and white flour, unlike the tough, whole wheat, low-fat, "fudge-like" version I tend to make.
I'm happy to report my intestines have not been in any sort of distress as a result of my feast. I've had some hay-fever-induced monster sneezing, but I doubt the disabled put any ragweed in their dishes. The secretary really missed out.
Furthermore, I think you could say I'm more particular about where my food comes from than our sec. Does she go to the farmer's market faithfully twice a week? Is she at all concerned about the chemicals on the Hy-Vee food she feeds her daughters? Particularly dense, I'd say.
August 17, 2006
Even C.S. Lewis will not go to hell
My pastor presented a sermon last Sunday about C.S. Lewis's arguments in the book, Mere Christianity. This is most of the text of my reponse to him. He ended up responding favorably.
From your summary of Lewis's book, the take-home message seemed to be almost a proof of God's existence. For centuries Christians and non-Christians have applied their clever little minds to this task. Descartes's "a greater cannot come from a lesser," is a notable proof of God's presence in our world straight out of the Scientific Revolution, but I don't know that anyone would settle for his argument today.
The story goes that Lewis set out to disprove Christianity and in the process of delving deep into the faith was instead converted. It's a very powerful story to tell to nonbelievers or agnostics. The fact is, he was raised Catholic and had a lengthy period of ambivalence until he finally agreed to seek and accept God with love and support from friends and respected colleagues. I believe you did mention that he grew up Catholic in your sermon, but I have heard this conversion story from other places and it's a bit misleading.
Lewis's argument is similar in format to the ontological philosophers that came before him. The biggest problem with these arguments is that they're soaked in hubris. The over-simplification of almighty God is a classic mortal error. I picture Jesus shaking his head side to side after repeating and reframing the numerous metaphors he used to try and explain to mere mortals who he was and what God wanted us to do. Did the disciples ever get it right? I think even those in Jesus' very presence could not be said to fully fathom the message the Son brought. Can we today? C.S. Lewis's argument erects walls between God's people -- you're either with us or against us; you're either in or out; you can't be on the fence. However, Jesus is theking of the third way, thinking outside the box, and the unfathomableholy grace of God.
The reason Lewis's argument bothers me so much is the action that's often taken in response. Historically this has taken the form of colonialism, slavery, ethnic cleansing, "just" wars, loss of diversity in thought, general oppression and exclusiveness, not to mention closed minds, closed hearts, and closed doors. It bothers me especially because this is the core of my personal Christian doubts. Numerous gospel passages say that Jesus is the only path to God, to salvation. And yet, I cannot believe in a God that would dismiss so many people that follow the Jewish, Islamic, or any other tradition or no tradition at all.
Recently, our Sunday school studied Max Lucado's Next Door Savior program. Lucado directly referenced Lewis's idea of not having any other choice than to accept Jesus as God or dismiss him as maniac. The questions for the discussion section used small logical steps beginning with Lewis's argument to eventually directly ask something like, "Can't you see that Christianity is the only choice and all the others are wrong?" That's not an exact quote, but I'm not exaggerating. What is the purpose of this argument other than oppression? I'm happy to report that most of people in our Sunday school class rejected this argument flat out.
I have to believe that God loves each person all the same and they will not be damned if Christians don't convert them in time. This belief in universal salvation was widely accepted in Christianity until about the time of Augustine, that God will save everyone. It is supported in scripture just about as well as the alternative and has been gaining momentum again in the last few centuries with the help of John Wesley. And isn't this a better message to inspire conversions than a mathematical proof, logic exercise, or fear mongering? It's one that brings all of God's children closer to each other instead of wetting down a slippery slope into a puddle of condemnation for those that disagree.
I don't think we need to be in the business of apologetics at this point in UM history. Christian belief is not so much about knowledge or facts, but more about that magic word, faith. Some stories have truth, but are not necessarily what really happened. This is the world Jesus walked in, one of metaphors and proverbs. It is my faith that keeps me walking beside him through the scriptures. How can we believe in Jesus' miracles, if we have to enter the door by way of a proof? Being one of those stumbling disciples and seeing the Lord shake his head at me, it is by my faith that I know I am still loved. No proof can give that to me; no proof can take it away.
You said that Mere Christianity might be a good book to recommend to someone that has doubts about their faith. I say, all doubt is not to be quashed. A little skepticism is healthy and necessary to be a discerning Christian and a steward of the Word. This is how we find ways to grow in our understanding of faith, lest we think we have it all figured out and close our minds to growth.
My pastor presented a sermon last Sunday about C.S. Lewis's arguments in the book, Mere Christianity. This is most of the text of my reponse to him. He ended up responding favorably.
From your summary of Lewis's book, the take-home message seemed to be almost a proof of God's existence. For centuries Christians and non-Christians have applied their clever little minds to this task. Descartes's "a greater cannot come from a lesser," is a notable proof of God's presence in our world straight out of the Scientific Revolution, but I don't know that anyone would settle for his argument today.
The story goes that Lewis set out to disprove Christianity and in the process of delving deep into the faith was instead converted. It's a very powerful story to tell to nonbelievers or agnostics. The fact is, he was raised Catholic and had a lengthy period of ambivalence until he finally agreed to seek and accept God with love and support from friends and respected colleagues. I believe you did mention that he grew up Catholic in your sermon, but I have heard this conversion story from other places and it's a bit misleading.
Lewis's argument is similar in format to the ontological philosophers that came before him. The biggest problem with these arguments is that they're soaked in hubris. The over-simplification of almighty God is a classic mortal error. I picture Jesus shaking his head side to side after repeating and reframing the numerous metaphors he used to try and explain to mere mortals who he was and what God wanted us to do. Did the disciples ever get it right? I think even those in Jesus' very presence could not be said to fully fathom the message the Son brought. Can we today? C.S. Lewis's argument erects walls between God's people -- you're either with us or against us; you're either in or out; you can't be on the fence. However, Jesus is theking of the third way, thinking outside the box, and the unfathomableholy grace of God.
The reason Lewis's argument bothers me so much is the action that's often taken in response. Historically this has taken the form of colonialism, slavery, ethnic cleansing, "just" wars, loss of diversity in thought, general oppression and exclusiveness, not to mention closed minds, closed hearts, and closed doors. It bothers me especially because this is the core of my personal Christian doubts. Numerous gospel passages say that Jesus is the only path to God, to salvation. And yet, I cannot believe in a God that would dismiss so many people that follow the Jewish, Islamic, or any other tradition or no tradition at all.
Recently, our Sunday school studied Max Lucado's Next Door Savior program. Lucado directly referenced Lewis's idea of not having any other choice than to accept Jesus as God or dismiss him as maniac. The questions for the discussion section used small logical steps beginning with Lewis's argument to eventually directly ask something like, "Can't you see that Christianity is the only choice and all the others are wrong?" That's not an exact quote, but I'm not exaggerating. What is the purpose of this argument other than oppression? I'm happy to report that most of people in our Sunday school class rejected this argument flat out.
I have to believe that God loves each person all the same and they will not be damned if Christians don't convert them in time. This belief in universal salvation was widely accepted in Christianity until about the time of Augustine, that God will save everyone. It is supported in scripture just about as well as the alternative and has been gaining momentum again in the last few centuries with the help of John Wesley. And isn't this a better message to inspire conversions than a mathematical proof, logic exercise, or fear mongering? It's one that brings all of God's children closer to each other instead of wetting down a slippery slope into a puddle of condemnation for those that disagree.
I don't think we need to be in the business of apologetics at this point in UM history. Christian belief is not so much about knowledge or facts, but more about that magic word, faith. Some stories have truth, but are not necessarily what really happened. This is the world Jesus walked in, one of metaphors and proverbs. It is my faith that keeps me walking beside him through the scriptures. How can we believe in Jesus' miracles, if we have to enter the door by way of a proof? Being one of those stumbling disciples and seeing the Lord shake his head at me, it is by my faith that I know I am still loved. No proof can give that to me; no proof can take it away.
You said that Mere Christianity might be a good book to recommend to someone that has doubts about their faith. I say, all doubt is not to be quashed. A little skepticism is healthy and necessary to be a discerning Christian and a steward of the Word. This is how we find ways to grow in our understanding of faith, lest we think we have it all figured out and close our minds to growth.
June 29, 2006
Two and half years later, I've climbed the ladder: I'm now the Man. When people ask me how work is going, all I have to say is, "great!" Compared to my last situation, this is cake. No matter how much people complain about the bureaucracy, it's nothing compared to my previous job at an NGO. This is not to generalize about NGOs or the government, but just to say I don't grump nearly so much about work. It's Fred's turn to grump about his boss now.
I'm disappointed none of you tried the food pantry experiment. None of you are probably reading this! Foiled again!
I'm disappointed none of you tried the food pantry experiment. None of you are probably reading this! Foiled again!
September 25, 2003
The end of the month is always rough. Today I gave away approximately $990 worth of groceries and grocery-store certificates to 14 families. What we give out is designed to last three days, after which there's another 87 days before they're eligible to come back for food from us. I've been meaning to test out our 3-day design, but I haven't gotten around to it yet. I would like to try to make just the items we give out in a food pantry last my household three days. Here's the list for a household of 1 or 2 people. I challange you to try it:
1 jar of peanut butter
1 jar of jelly (if available)
1 box of cereal or oatmeal
3 cans of vegetables
2 cans of protein-rich beans (e.g. chili, garbanzo, baked, etc.)
1 can of tuna/chicken
1 boxed meal (e.g. Rice-a-roni, Lipton noodles&sauce, scalloped potatoes, Tuna Helper, etc.)
1-2 boxes macaroni&cheese (based on abundance in stock)
2 packages ramen
1 large can or 2 small cans fruit
1 box plain pasta
1 jar of spaghetti sauce or tomato sauce/paste
3 cans soup
1 jello
1 pudding
1 paper product
2 bars of soap
$10 worth milk, meat, fresh produce, eggs at local Cub, Hy-Vee or Fareway
All of these items are subject to availability. If we're out of cereal or peanut butter or spaghetti sauce, which is often the case, it's just omitted. There's nothing we can do really. I ask people if there's special items they need such as tampons or diapers or toothpaste and if we have them, we'll throw them in. Also available is flour, sugar, and other random baking items, like corn syrup and pumpkin pie filling that we can throw in. If there was abosolutely nothing in your house in terms of food and hygeine items, how long could you stretch out the items listed above? Let me know what you find out...
1 jar of peanut butter
1 jar of jelly (if available)
1 box of cereal or oatmeal
3 cans of vegetables
2 cans of protein-rich beans (e.g. chili, garbanzo, baked, etc.)
1 can of tuna/chicken
1 boxed meal (e.g. Rice-a-roni, Lipton noodles&sauce, scalloped potatoes, Tuna Helper, etc.)
1-2 boxes macaroni&cheese (based on abundance in stock)
2 packages ramen
1 large can or 2 small cans fruit
1 box plain pasta
1 jar of spaghetti sauce or tomato sauce/paste
3 cans soup
1 jello
1 pudding
1 paper product
2 bars of soap
$10 worth milk, meat, fresh produce, eggs at local Cub, Hy-Vee or Fareway
All of these items are subject to availability. If we're out of cereal or peanut butter or spaghetti sauce, which is often the case, it's just omitted. There's nothing we can do really. I ask people if there's special items they need such as tampons or diapers or toothpaste and if we have them, we'll throw them in. Also available is flour, sugar, and other random baking items, like corn syrup and pumpkin pie filling that we can throw in. If there was abosolutely nothing in your house in terms of food and hygeine items, how long could you stretch out the items listed above? Let me know what you find out...
September 24, 2003
Sometimes I get calls from panicked people, people in crisis, people on neptune. Today Karen calls me up:
Karen: The electric company cut my power off and I don't know why!
Me: [I think to myself, I don't know why either, dear...] Well, have you called them up yet to see what the deal is?
K: No. I just got out of the hospital. I've had surgery and been away from home for a week or so. My son said there were some letters, but he's at school and I don't know where he put them. They increased my budget billing payments on me.
M: Why don't you try giving the electric company a call? I don't know anything that you don't at this point.
K: Well, here, let me see....yes, here's one of the letters they sent: "Due to a review of customer actual usage to adjust Budget Billing projections, we show you would owe approximately $215 at the end of the 12-month billing cycle in March. To adjust for this, your Budget Billing payments will increase from $113 to $149 for the next six months." How can they do that? *sobbing* I don't know what I'm going to do! I just hate these people!
M: It sounds like that's not related to why you were shut off, especially if it's not an actual bill. They're just letting you know that your next bill will be more than what you're used to paying. How about you try giving them a call and ask what you need to be turned back on. Their number is 1-800-ELECTRIC.
K: Okay. I'll do that and then I'll call you back.
M: I want to let you know that I won't be able to help you again with any emergency funds at this time. I'm all out of money for the month. If you're needing some referrals for assistance I'll be happy to give you some phone numbers and a referral letter. Remember to try and stay calm with the representative when you call. I know you're angry, but the worst thing you can do is raise your voice to them. Ask to speak with someone in Collections if you're not getting anywhere with the person who answers.
K: Okay. Okay, I can do that. Thanks.
After hanging up with her, I shake my head. Why do people always call me first. I don't have magical powers. I don't know things they don't. Why do they call me? Part of the reason, I think, is that they've come to me before and I've done the talking with the utility company and get them hooked up again. The utility companies are always a little nicer with us than with the customers. Mostly, I think, because we're nicer to them than the customers are.
People must just get so upset and start feeling so hopeless and powerless that they just completely lose the ability to think about causes and effects. They need someone to think for them for a minute. To give them some hope, some paths, some options. Sometimes I lose sight of my role as path sweeper. Some people have let the sadness of their situation scatter leaves and brambles across the rational path, the solution path, the path of possibilities, the path of responsibility. I need to remember that they don't expect me to work magic; they just need to borrow my sanity for a moment. I'm not in Hazy Shades.
Karen: The electric company cut my power off and I don't know why!
Me: [I think to myself, I don't know why either, dear...] Well, have you called them up yet to see what the deal is?
K: No. I just got out of the hospital. I've had surgery and been away from home for a week or so. My son said there were some letters, but he's at school and I don't know where he put them. They increased my budget billing payments on me.
M: Why don't you try giving the electric company a call? I don't know anything that you don't at this point.
K: Well, here, let me see....yes, here's one of the letters they sent: "Due to a review of customer actual usage to adjust Budget Billing projections, we show you would owe approximately $215 at the end of the 12-month billing cycle in March. To adjust for this, your Budget Billing payments will increase from $113 to $149 for the next six months." How can they do that? *sobbing* I don't know what I'm going to do! I just hate these people!
M: It sounds like that's not related to why you were shut off, especially if it's not an actual bill. They're just letting you know that your next bill will be more than what you're used to paying. How about you try giving them a call and ask what you need to be turned back on. Their number is 1-800-ELECTRIC.
K: Okay. I'll do that and then I'll call you back.
M: I want to let you know that I won't be able to help you again with any emergency funds at this time. I'm all out of money for the month. If you're needing some referrals for assistance I'll be happy to give you some phone numbers and a referral letter. Remember to try and stay calm with the representative when you call. I know you're angry, but the worst thing you can do is raise your voice to them. Ask to speak with someone in Collections if you're not getting anywhere with the person who answers.
K: Okay. Okay, I can do that. Thanks.
After hanging up with her, I shake my head. Why do people always call me first. I don't have magical powers. I don't know things they don't. Why do they call me? Part of the reason, I think, is that they've come to me before and I've done the talking with the utility company and get them hooked up again. The utility companies are always a little nicer with us than with the customers. Mostly, I think, because we're nicer to them than the customers are.
People must just get so upset and start feeling so hopeless and powerless that they just completely lose the ability to think about causes and effects. They need someone to think for them for a minute. To give them some hope, some paths, some options. Sometimes I lose sight of my role as path sweeper. Some people have let the sadness of their situation scatter leaves and brambles across the rational path, the solution path, the path of possibilities, the path of responsibility. I need to remember that they don't expect me to work magic; they just need to borrow my sanity for a moment. I'm not in Hazy Shades.
September 08, 2003
I am still not trustworthy in the eyes of our PR woman. I made a big mistake last winter in telling a reporter that I thought the utility company disconnecting service in the middle of November for an overdue $20 was "ridiculous" and got our agency in a minor jam. Part of my job, I guess, is making nice with the evil utility overlords so they'll accept our promises to pay out of our emergency funds and such. PR woman says "it's their money and they have a right to demand it, or else deny service." The crime-fighter in me wanted to say, "fuck off, you making-four-times-as-much-as-me, out-of-touch whore. No one should have their heat cut off in the middle of an Iowa winter regardless of their ability to pay." But instead I just nod (which is silly since we're on the phone) and say, "I'm sorry, Julie. I understand completely. It won't happen again."
That was the first time I ever spoke to the public as a representative of my agency and I didn't quite understand the politics involved. Before I did the interview, I alerted PR woman and she OK'ed it, giving me zero advice. Now, everytime a reporter comes to me for information about programs that I administer, I give them Julie's number (which is protocol). She calls my director, who knows little details about what I've been doing and always has to come to me eventually to get program usage numbers, personal interest stories, and information on what we need the most.
So today, Shelia, my director, has me grab my accounting book and sit in her office while she's on the phone with the reporter. She turns the volume up so I can vaguely hear some of what the reporter is asking. Then, she slyly repeats the question in the beginning of her answer so I can, mostly off the top of my head, rattle off the answer. Speaking of ridiculous...
That was the first time I ever spoke to the public as a representative of my agency and I didn't quite understand the politics involved. Before I did the interview, I alerted PR woman and she OK'ed it, giving me zero advice. Now, everytime a reporter comes to me for information about programs that I administer, I give them Julie's number (which is protocol). She calls my director, who knows little details about what I've been doing and always has to come to me eventually to get program usage numbers, personal interest stories, and information on what we need the most.
So today, Shelia, my director, has me grab my accounting book and sit in her office while she's on the phone with the reporter. She turns the volume up so I can vaguely hear some of what the reporter is asking. Then, she slyly repeats the question in the beginning of her answer so I can, mostly off the top of my head, rattle off the answer. Speaking of ridiculous...
September 04, 2003
Today I participate in the Housing Coordinating Board meeting that my boss got me started going to after she took forever and five days off to be with her ailing mother out East. I love Bev. In her shaky voice you can hear the outrage burning in the pit of her stomach as she tells us the day has arrived when Americans have spent more money on luxury items than necessities for the first time in history (no cite available) and yet there are still people in our community without homes, without clothes, without healthcare (if you need a citation, come spend a day with me in my office). She knows what's up and she feels it more than I can. Despite all the very sad stories I've heard, somehow I've been able to maintain a pretty emotionless interaction with the people I serve. The only emotion I really feel at work is severe frustration: frustrated that our emergency funds aren't very flexible - I can only use them for very specific purposes, frustated that people can't take "no" for an answer even when there really is absolutely nothing I can do, frustrated that even in our relatively small agency there are so many administrative problems and bureaucratic issues... But, I've never sobbed, like Jill, one of our caseworkers, after listening to Stephanie tell about how her granddaughter's dad beat her to the ground outside her home in front of the child, whom Stephanie is the primary caretaker for. Last night's episode of Charmed brought me a couple tears, but Stephanie's story... just a pair of sympathetically wrinkled eyebrows and a hug for Jill.
What is wrong with me? I think it's just survival. There are so many heart breaking stories, I wouldn't be able to get any of my paperwork done if I was sobbing every ten minutes. Maybe that's just what my agency needs... No paperwork to get done because all the workers are actually emotionally connecting with the families we're serving. That would show them, don't you think?
What is wrong with me? I think it's just survival. There are so many heart breaking stories, I wouldn't be able to get any of my paperwork done if I was sobbing every ten minutes. Maybe that's just what my agency needs... No paperwork to get done because all the workers are actually emotionally connecting with the families we're serving. That would show them, don't you think?
August 21, 2003
Sometimes they get to me. Answering my phone at work today reveals a familiar voice. Raina calls me every other month to see if we can help her again or if I happen to know of any new places she can apply for help paying her natural gas bill.
Let me give you some background: In Iowa (and perhaps in many states, although not Illinois), the state Utility Board mandates that all electric and natural gas companies must respect the Winter Moritorium period of November 1 - April 1. During this time the companies are not allowed to shut off utility service for non-payment for any household approved for the Federal Low-Income Home Energy Assistance Program (LIHEAP). As the title suggests, this is a federally subsidized payment to heating companies for low-income families, which I facilitate for my county. It's a one-time payment for the year, usually in the neighborhood of $200 dollars/family. Our agency and the utility companies stress to these approved families that if they don't pay a dime all winter, it will catch up to them in April and their service will likely be cut off as soon after April 1st as the company can get a person out there. Still, we have a couple families that always seem surprized to open their mail on some chilly late-March day and see a big, red, 12-day notice of pending disconnection.
Don't get me wrong. Out of the 909 families I approved for the assistance program last winter, only a handfull, for one reason or another, bring in the big huge $1,000+ gas and electric bill and expect me to work some magic and plead to the utility for their pardon. Outside of the winter moritorium I do get about $1,000 a month of emergency money to help prevent disconnection of gas/electric service or to help reconnect service. Raina is one of these people that calls me up this past April, and our agency, along with 3 other local organizations, whittled her bill down so she could go back to making budgetted payments of $200/month. She calls me today, now the middle of August to see if she's eligible for that help again. Technically, I'm allowed to help a family with up to $500.00 of emergency money each year (the cap is $200 per crisis). There are so many families in need of these funds throughout the year that I really don't like to approve the same family for help more than once a year because that's basically taking that money from a new family who's bound to come in tomorrow: a woman who's partner took off and left her with all the bills, a man who just got laid off from his unskilled job of 22 years, a college student who's trying to make it on their own, but is learning from their mistakes. I just can't reason spending another $200 on the same family, who never seems to achieve anything resembling self-sufficiency, where every month is a crisis, no matter how many times I help them out, year after year. And for this I feel bad. I don't know that my judgement would make sense to Raina, when her baby's on a nebulizer, and her husband's still laid off, and there's a problem with her welfare check... So I lie. Sort of. I tell her we can't help now (but I don't offer when she would be elligible again.) I guess it's not really a lie since I kind of make the rules. But, I've made exceptions for other people. A particular former staff member has been helped three times this year, though I was upset about that (I was out of the office and our director made that decision; if it was up to me, I wouldn't have done it).
Am I a scrooge? I am a bit of a tightwad with my emergency money. It breaks my heart to have to turn away an old farm widow who's traveled 20 miles in the middle of July for help on her $50 electric bill because I spent my last $200 for the month on a repeat family. I'm realizing that my reasoning probably makes perfect sense to you. Those welfare queens and all their sick children. Why don't they get a job, quit smoking, and stop making babies?
The thought wanders into my head some days too... but then I see Jennifer and her two little boys. She works down at the Taco John's. She makes too much now to qualify for welfare payments, no food stamps, no child care assistance, no LIHEAP anymore. But you can tell it's hard... She comes in for food every now and again (no income requirements here for a food pantry) when shifts are low. Maybe she could go back to school and get a better job. But then, who would make your tacos?
Let me give you some background: In Iowa (and perhaps in many states, although not Illinois), the state Utility Board mandates that all electric and natural gas companies must respect the Winter Moritorium period of November 1 - April 1. During this time the companies are not allowed to shut off utility service for non-payment for any household approved for the Federal Low-Income Home Energy Assistance Program (LIHEAP). As the title suggests, this is a federally subsidized payment to heating companies for low-income families, which I facilitate for my county. It's a one-time payment for the year, usually in the neighborhood of $200 dollars/family. Our agency and the utility companies stress to these approved families that if they don't pay a dime all winter, it will catch up to them in April and their service will likely be cut off as soon after April 1st as the company can get a person out there. Still, we have a couple families that always seem surprized to open their mail on some chilly late-March day and see a big, red, 12-day notice of pending disconnection.
Don't get me wrong. Out of the 909 families I approved for the assistance program last winter, only a handfull, for one reason or another, bring in the big huge $1,000+ gas and electric bill and expect me to work some magic and plead to the utility for their pardon. Outside of the winter moritorium I do get about $1,000 a month of emergency money to help prevent disconnection of gas/electric service or to help reconnect service. Raina is one of these people that calls me up this past April, and our agency, along with 3 other local organizations, whittled her bill down so she could go back to making budgetted payments of $200/month. She calls me today, now the middle of August to see if she's eligible for that help again. Technically, I'm allowed to help a family with up to $500.00 of emergency money each year (the cap is $200 per crisis). There are so many families in need of these funds throughout the year that I really don't like to approve the same family for help more than once a year because that's basically taking that money from a new family who's bound to come in tomorrow: a woman who's partner took off and left her with all the bills, a man who just got laid off from his unskilled job of 22 years, a college student who's trying to make it on their own, but is learning from their mistakes. I just can't reason spending another $200 on the same family, who never seems to achieve anything resembling self-sufficiency, where every month is a crisis, no matter how many times I help them out, year after year. And for this I feel bad. I don't know that my judgement would make sense to Raina, when her baby's on a nebulizer, and her husband's still laid off, and there's a problem with her welfare check... So I lie. Sort of. I tell her we can't help now (but I don't offer when she would be elligible again.) I guess it's not really a lie since I kind of make the rules. But, I've made exceptions for other people. A particular former staff member has been helped three times this year, though I was upset about that (I was out of the office and our director made that decision; if it was up to me, I wouldn't have done it).
Am I a scrooge? I am a bit of a tightwad with my emergency money. It breaks my heart to have to turn away an old farm widow who's traveled 20 miles in the middle of July for help on her $50 electric bill because I spent my last $200 for the month on a repeat family. I'm realizing that my reasoning probably makes perfect sense to you. Those welfare queens and all their sick children. Why don't they get a job, quit smoking, and stop making babies?
The thought wanders into my head some days too... but then I see Jennifer and her two little boys. She works down at the Taco John's. She makes too much now to qualify for welfare payments, no food stamps, no child care assistance, no LIHEAP anymore. But you can tell it's hard... She comes in for food every now and again (no income requirements here for a food pantry) when shifts are low. Maybe she could go back to school and get a better job. But then, who would make your tacos?
August 09, 2003
Last night I helped a man in a wheelchair across the street and it made me angry at you. I was in my Cutlass enroute to a meeting that I was already late for and approached one of the ba-zillion stop signs in the little downtown area of Ames. All of a sudden I realized I needed to give the chunky soles of my sandals a little bit more pressure on the brake than my toes appreciated in order to avoid cutting off the brick-path crosswalk where a man was trying to cross. I hate those drivers who stop beyond the Big White Line at stop signs for that very reason: you're likely to either hit a pedestrian or bike-rider or uppity Schnauzer-on-too-long-of-a-leash OR at the very least cut off their path and cause me to muttter "Dickhead" under my breath at you in hopes that it will make you less rude in the future.
So, last night I was one of those drivers and stopped just a tad over the red bricks laid to denote the crosswalk and there's Nick in his wheelchair to my left, stuck in the road between the hump of the middle of the street and the ramp from the sidewalk. He waves me on to pass him and complete my turn. "Don't wait for me to cross; you'll be late for your meeting and for work tomorrow too if you wait on me," he seems to be saying. And I do complete my turn, looking around frantically for a pedestrian that could lend him a hand and allow me to continue on, guilt-free, and be only a few minutes late to my meeting. There's a middle-aged couple crossing the street perpendicular to Nick. I figure they'll take care of him, but by the time I'm halfway down the block and look in my rear-view mirror, they're opening the door to the jewelry store and Nick's still stuck between the hump and the ramp, waving on other vehicles.
I park in the first spot I see and leave the car running. As I trot down the block in the direction from which I had just driven, a young man passes in front of Nick and continues on, entering the Jimmy Johns on the corner, not even seeming to take note of the battle going on between metal and cement and biceps only a few feet away. By this time I'm pretty furious but I don't let it enter my voice: "Hey there! Looks like you're a little stuck... Can I give you a hand across the street?" I'm not sure what kind of brain is in the body in the chair, so I'm cautious, but Nick nods his head. It becomes apparent that he's at least a little developmentally challanged and I try to wheel him swiftly, but not so fast that he's freaked out. Safe on the opposite corner, I ask Nick, "Which way are you going now? I can help you over the other hump." His arm makes a big gesture and his index finger points crookedly, but mostly to the left. "Here we go!" When we get the other side of Main Street, now kitty-corner to where Nick
started, he lets out a delighted squeal and reaches around the chair to shake my right hand. "My name's Nick," his lips struggle to get out. "Hi, Nick," I hold onto his overly-firm grip, "My name's Melissa. Nice to meet you. Where are you on your way to?" He says something that I don't understand and I ask him to repeat it, twice, in fact. But I never do catch what he's saying. "Oh, I'm new in town," I hear myself saying, even though I've now been here a year and a half, "you're good to get there on your own?" He nods his head wildly, "see you later!" I think he tells me as I jog back to my car.
I'm angry at you because you might think I'm a super nice person to stop what I'm doing, be extra late for where I'm going and dash to help a man in a wheelchair over the hump in the street. I'm not a super nice person. I'm just a normal, reasonable human being and you should be too, you jewelry-buying, sandwich-eating, lazy shmoes. Normal, reasonable human beings stop and take a moment or two to help other human beings by doing something really easy (get a man in a wheelchair 50 feet) when it's really hard and a little humiliating for that other person to struggle in public to acomplish (get your not-so-strong-developmentally-and-movement-challanged body 50 feet). Nick might not understand humiliation, or he may be used to the whole process by now. But, he sure seemed extraordinarily happy to get a little push.
I curse the little highs I get from helping other people, multiple times a day at work and also little events like this, because it shouldn't be novel when you do what you can to minimize suffering of any kind. It shouldn't be something worthy of note at the dinner table or in a blog. It should just be life...doing all you can to look around you for opportunities to spread love, build trust, and encourage harmony. If that's too hippie, touchy-feely for you, try opportunities to be a normal, reasonable human being. Otherwise, you might as well be on Neptune.
So, last night I was one of those drivers and stopped just a tad over the red bricks laid to denote the crosswalk and there's Nick in his wheelchair to my left, stuck in the road between the hump of the middle of the street and the ramp from the sidewalk. He waves me on to pass him and complete my turn. "Don't wait for me to cross; you'll be late for your meeting and for work tomorrow too if you wait on me," he seems to be saying. And I do complete my turn, looking around frantically for a pedestrian that could lend him a hand and allow me to continue on, guilt-free, and be only a few minutes late to my meeting. There's a middle-aged couple crossing the street perpendicular to Nick. I figure they'll take care of him, but by the time I'm halfway down the block and look in my rear-view mirror, they're opening the door to the jewelry store and Nick's still stuck between the hump and the ramp, waving on other vehicles.
I park in the first spot I see and leave the car running. As I trot down the block in the direction from which I had just driven, a young man passes in front of Nick and continues on, entering the Jimmy Johns on the corner, not even seeming to take note of the battle going on between metal and cement and biceps only a few feet away. By this time I'm pretty furious but I don't let it enter my voice: "Hey there! Looks like you're a little stuck... Can I give you a hand across the street?" I'm not sure what kind of brain is in the body in the chair, so I'm cautious, but Nick nods his head. It becomes apparent that he's at least a little developmentally challanged and I try to wheel him swiftly, but not so fast that he's freaked out. Safe on the opposite corner, I ask Nick, "Which way are you going now? I can help you over the other hump." His arm makes a big gesture and his index finger points crookedly, but mostly to the left. "Here we go!" When we get the other side of Main Street, now kitty-corner to where Nick
started, he lets out a delighted squeal and reaches around the chair to shake my right hand. "My name's Nick," his lips struggle to get out. "Hi, Nick," I hold onto his overly-firm grip, "My name's Melissa. Nice to meet you. Where are you on your way to?" He says something that I don't understand and I ask him to repeat it, twice, in fact. But I never do catch what he's saying. "Oh, I'm new in town," I hear myself saying, even though I've now been here a year and a half, "you're good to get there on your own?" He nods his head wildly, "see you later!" I think he tells me as I jog back to my car.
I'm angry at you because you might think I'm a super nice person to stop what I'm doing, be extra late for where I'm going and dash to help a man in a wheelchair over the hump in the street. I'm not a super nice person. I'm just a normal, reasonable human being and you should be too, you jewelry-buying, sandwich-eating, lazy shmoes. Normal, reasonable human beings stop and take a moment or two to help other human beings by doing something really easy (get a man in a wheelchair 50 feet) when it's really hard and a little humiliating for that other person to struggle in public to acomplish (get your not-so-strong-developmentally-and-movement-challanged body 50 feet). Nick might not understand humiliation, or he may be used to the whole process by now. But, he sure seemed extraordinarily happy to get a little push.
I curse the little highs I get from helping other people, multiple times a day at work and also little events like this, because it shouldn't be novel when you do what you can to minimize suffering of any kind. It shouldn't be something worthy of note at the dinner table or in a blog. It should just be life...doing all you can to look around you for opportunities to spread love, build trust, and encourage harmony. If that's too hippie, touchy-feely for you, try opportunities to be a normal, reasonable human being. Otherwise, you might as well be on Neptune.
August 07, 2003
Today I learned that Jeremiah makes more money than me. He asks me if I can move my not-yet-sorted-because-my-volunteer-didn't-show-up-today canned goods off of the food pantry floor and into the hallway so he can mop tonight after we've all gone home to our family dinner time. He grew up in a small town whose name I can't remember now, but begins with an 'L', near a bigger town whose name begins with an 'A' in North-Central Iowa. There were 21 kids in his graduating high-school
class, he tells me. He wasn't real smart, he says, so he's glad he didn't grow up in a large school system like Ames. But, he's worth more than $8 an hour so he quit his job at the hotel for his current gig with Story County Maintenance. I don't know how I came to know these things about Jeremiah since I only remember asking him how he was as he breezed by my office door, but I start to really wonder why after four years of higher education and a B.S. I'm only making $8.37/hr.
The answer seems simple, I guess. It's because of my chosen field, it's because of budget cuts, it's because it was supposed to be temporary until my partner finished his M.S. But I could be someone else with this job. If I were a single mom with just one child, this wage would put me at 145% of the Federal Poverty Guidelines and I would qualify for the very services
I'm adminstrating. That seems a little twisted... But since I'm an over-educated single woman living in sin with her parter and children are a long thought away, I can't really complain. Stephanie up in Hamilton County can though.
class, he tells me. He wasn't real smart, he says, so he's glad he didn't grow up in a large school system like Ames. But, he's worth more than $8 an hour so he quit his job at the hotel for his current gig with Story County Maintenance. I don't know how I came to know these things about Jeremiah since I only remember asking him how he was as he breezed by my office door, but I start to really wonder why after four years of higher education and a B.S. I'm only making $8.37/hr.
The answer seems simple, I guess. It's because of my chosen field, it's because of budget cuts, it's because it was supposed to be temporary until my partner finished his M.S. But I could be someone else with this job. If I were a single mom with just one child, this wage would put me at 145% of the Federal Poverty Guidelines and I would qualify for the very services
I'm adminstrating. That seems a little twisted... But since I'm an over-educated single woman living in sin with her parter and children are a long thought away, I can't really complain. Stephanie up in Hamilton County can though.
There's something about summer that makes the pressure rise. Whether the electricity in their Section 8 apartment is getting shut off tomorrow, or they just got layed off from their 40K job and want to know how they can apply for rent assistance next month, the calls are twice as many and twice as strained in the heat of August. Even in my over-cooled basement
office, their voices break me into a sweat and my heart races trying to think of where I can turn them to for help. The second to worst answer I can give is "I don't know who can help you." The worst is, "there's no one who can help you." I don't ever really actually give the latter answer, although I often think it while I'm giving the former. My eyes panic as they scan my referral phone number list...is it under 'C' for "Community", or 'S' for "Services"...?
office, their voices break me into a sweat and my heart races trying to think of where I can turn them to for help. The second to worst answer I can give is "I don't know who can help you." The worst is, "there's no one who can help you." I don't ever really actually give the latter answer, although I often think it while I'm giving the former. My eyes panic as they scan my referral phone number list...is it under 'C' for "Community", or 'S' for "Services"...?
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