Sacramento's Trinity Cathedral offers haven to homeless

Pics to be added later; I'm in a rush.  I love getting good press for what we do!

CAPITAL'S TRINITY CATHEDRAL HAS UNIQUE PROGRAM OF SHELTER, FOOD

By Jennifer Garza

jgarza@sacbee.com The Sacramento Bee

Published: Thursday, Jan. 28, 2010 - 12:00 am
Page 1B

The homeless people who walk through the doors of Trinity Cathedral in midtown Sacramento have faith in the church, the only one in the area to offer them a hot meal and a roof over their heads.

Since mid-December, the homeless have escaped the wet and cold for a warm sleeping bag on the floor of the church hall twice a week. A slice of heaven on earth, said one.

"You have no idea how much that means," said Ronnie Holiday, who has been on the streets for years. "They're going to be blessed for doing this, I'll tell you that."

No other church runs a program like the one at Trinity Cathedral, homeless advocates said.

To abide by the city's camping ordinance, the Episcopal church stays open only two nights in a row during rainy weather.

"Is it legal? I don't know," said Jerry Pare, operations manager. "We're doing it because it's the right thing to do."

He said church leaders notified neighbors about their plans and have not heard any complaints.

City officials said the shelter doesn't violate the camping ordinance. "Because they are being sheltered inside, the outside camping ordinance does not apply," said Amy Williams, a city spokeswoman, in an e-mail.

At Trinity, parishioners donate money for food. On a recent night, they fed nearly 100 at a dinner prepared in the church kitchen – spaghetti, salad, bread, and cookies for dessert – followed the next morning by a breakfast of hot cereal and raisin toast.

"Jesus said take care of the poor, it's not much more complicated than that," said Kirstin Paisley, a church volunteer. "This makes the Gospel more real to me."

Church leaders became concerned about people sleeping on the street as temperatures dipped in December. They met with the leaders of Safeground, which organizers call a movement by homeless people for homeless people.

The "safe ground" campaign began last spring after more than 100 people were forced to leave a tent city on property owned by the Sacramento Municipal Utility District.

Trinity Cathedral is helping fill the void.


"What they've done is wonderful," said David Moss, a retired United Methodist pastor who now volunteers with Safe Ground. "They've given us the chance to show other churches that we can be responsible."

Other congregations are considering similar programs, said Moss. Some are reluctant because they already host homeless families in a program called Family Promise. He said others have expressed concerns about their neighbors, property and safety.

"I understand they may be a little afraid of the commitment," Moss said. "We are asking them to open their doors to 100 people they don't know."


The Safe Ground organizers rely on teamwork. Every afternoon at 3 p.m, they meet at Loaves & Fishes to determine where the homeless will sleep that night. "There's safety in numbers," said Chuck Rogers, who cooks for the group.

If it's raining, the group heads to the church. Once there, organizers get to work. Some work at the sign-in desk and others in the kitchen. Most, however, wait for dinner, which is typically served around 6 p.m. At 8, sleeping bags are handed out. Lights are out by 9. Women sleep in the classrooms upstairs and men sleep on the floor in the hall.

The next morning, the group eats at 6 a.m. Some clean the bathrooms and the facilities. They are gone in an hour.

Participants must abide by the rules. No drinking. No drugs. No fighting. No exceptions.

"Everyone looks out for each other," said Trish Allen.

Rogers, who said he was laid off from his job at Wal-mart two year ago, praises Trinity Cathedral.

"So many people see right through us or they see us as outcasts. They don't," he said, "and that means a lot."

"Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."

Another post on CrossTalk, inspired by the homeless people I'm so graced to be able to work with.

More blogging from Trinity

I've been pondering grace. And I'm nowhere near done.

Epiphany I -- The Baptism of Jesus

I preached today at the 12:45 service.

Isaiah 43:1-7
Luke 3:15-17; 21-22

There is so much I could say about baptism.
This ancient ritual is at the center
of who we are as Christians.
This water and oil,
and these ancient words,
have sustained our communities for two thousand years.
There are so many layers of meaning here.

I could give a history lesson.
I could tell you how the rite of baptism
has evolved in the church and before it.
I could talk to you about ancient Jewish ritual baths,
and of how the church picked up on the idea of initiation
in Jesus’ own baptism.
I could point out that we know absolutely nothing
about the adult Jesus before he was baptized in the river Jordan—
and every story the church tells
about the ministry of Jesus
comes after that dove descended on him.
How baptism obviously prepared him,
in some way,
for everything he did and taught and became.

I could tell you about the early Church—
the catechumenate periods that lasted three years
before you were allowed to be present for Communion.
I could tell you about the conversation on Facebook
that began when I said that baptism didn’t make me want to talk;
I only wanted to be.
How friends of mine wrote about existential faith,
living into revelation,
being loved because God is love.

I could tell you about the time
I fell out of a kayak into Lake Michigan,
held on to the boat in fear for my life--
really thought I was going to die if I let go--
and really understood that nature,
and God,
are bigger than me.

See? There’s just so much meaning here.
So much to explore about what we do,
and who we are.
But one thing caught my attention.
It got under my skin all week.
Did you feel uneasy too?

Isaiah writes this:

When you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
and the flame shall not consume you.

It’s comforting, right? Reassuring.
God’s presence is stronger than any suffering.
We have nothing to fear, ever.
You hear him say, “Stay calm. I am with you.”
It’s going to be okay.

And here’s John the Baptist:

“He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”

Yikes. Doesn’t that just scare you silly?
I want to go hide under my bed.
Wake me when the Apocalypse is over.
I don’t want to be burned up.
What could the Good News possibly be?

I confess that I don’t really get our friend John.
I know a lot of people who camp by the river, in Sacramento.
Sometimes they have dinner here.
They’ll be sleeping in our Great Hall, tomorrow and Tuesday.
They all have wilder hair than I do.
They wash their clothes when they can.
Some of them know the Bible inside out,
and sometimes they preach to me.
But I think of them as my friends.
None of them have ever yelled at me;
much less threatened me with holy fire.
John is just a little too out there.
He sounds unstable.
He’s not someone I think I could talk to.

But maybe I haven’t been paying attention.
There’s another way to hear the Baptist’s words.

Wheat is healthy, and life-giving.
Wheat is the foundation of bread.
Bread that the Israelites baked in a hurry,
and carried out of Egypt, ahead of Pharaoh.
Bread that fed the five thousand.
Bread that Jesus broke for his disciples.
Bread that has been broken for us
at this altar
for two thousand years;
bread that we will eat again in a few minutes.
Bread that feeds our bodies, and our souls.

Wheat gives strength to a body,
and to a community.
Chaff is the protective covering over each individual grain.

Not a defective piece.
Not some part of you that isn’t good enough.
Chaff is a shield.
It’s a shell that the grain grows,
to keep itself safe from predators.
But you don’t need to protect yourself
from the love of God that wraps around you.

Paul writes in the letter to the Romans,
“Neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

This is the power of the love of God.
This is the force of God’s longing for us.
We are loved from the moment we are thought of.
We are wanted. We are treasured.
God is love.
We are God’s beloved.
There is nothing we can do, ever,
that will put us outside of God’s love.
Baptism is our acceptance of that love,
for ourselves and for our children.
Baptism is a public confession of our faith
in the God who became human.
Who lived with us, and died, and rose again for us.
Baptism is when we say, Yes, back.
Yes, you are our God.
Yes, we are your people.
Yes, we will be your body.
Yes.

One of my seminary textbooks says
that baptism is not an insurance policy for salvation—
it’s a commitment to a radically counter-cultural life.*
We promise to love, in the face of everything.
We say that we will live the life
of love, service, and justice
that God calls us to—
and we will do it, with God’s help.
It’s a commitment we need to be reminded of again,
and again,
and so we make it each time we welcome a new Christian.

Our prayer book says that the rite of baptism is indissoluble.
It’s not about being perfect.
You are still you,
when you come out of that water.
You still have the same good and bad habits.
You still make mistakes.
You do beautiful things—
and you still make harmful choices.
You belong to God.
You will always be loved.

This is what happens when we baptize someone.
We pray for them,
and make promises to support them.
We affirm our faith in the God who created us,
redeemed us,
and loves us still.
We thank God for the gift of water,
and for being present with us
through all our people’s memory.
We tell the story of our creation and redemption,
through the symbol of water.
We pour this holy water over them
in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
We anoint them with holy oil.
And we mark them as Christ’s own for ever.

This is who you are.
And you will never be otherwise.
Baptism is a scary thing to do.
It’s a spiritual cliff-jumping.
A life given to God is not necessarily predictable.
Your faith can take you to places that you never thought you’d go,
sometimes to places you don’t want to go.
Baptism is also the most loving thing you can do for someone.
They are, as you are, as I am,
Christ’s own. For ever.

We will each of us walk through fire.
I had a health scare
that brought me face-to-face with the limiations of my own body,
even as it showed me, in screaming color,
the limitlessness of God’s healing power,
whether or not I was cured. (And I have been.)
Many people I know are facing financial crises.
You can still be hurt.
You will still be afraid.
But you are loved beyond all human understanding.
There is nothing you can do,
to be outside of that love.
And you do not need to try to protect yourself
from the God who created you,
and knows you,
and loves you.
All of those protective shells will be burned away.
They’re not bad.
We just don’t need them.

God says to us,

You are my beloved Child. In you I am well pleased.

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name, you are mine.

This is the gift in every baptism.
This is what belonging means.
We are loved beyond all our imagining.
God is with us,
and in us,
and for us.
And all that’s required of us,
through the promises we make in the Baptismal Covenant,
is to love God,
and love one another.

I will, with God’s help.


*Charles P. Price and Louis Weil, Liturgy for Living, rev. ed. (Harrisburg PA: Morehouse, 2000), 69.

Blogging elsewhere

I've been busy with my church community, hosting homeless people overnight when the weather is wet or cold. I asked for and received access to the cathedral blog; my stories are here and here.

Pray for all who sleep outside tonight, and every night.  And pray that we may have the courage to help them, in any way that we can.

Flurry of busyness

Yeah, I know; it’s December. But I’m not talking about shopping.

I’ve spent three nights, in the past week, sleeping over at my church. We’ve been hosting members of the Safe Ground community—homeless people in Sacramento who are trying both to not freeze this winter, and to overturn the city anti-camping ordinance. Today, I’m meeting with the man who is essentially the group’s chaplain, and a pastor from another church to ask him if that congregation would be willing to host as well. Speaking for myself, I’d do this every night—but it needs to be an ecumenical effort, and we all know that. I could testify all over town about how amazing (and organized!) Safe Ground is, how the neighbors didn’t squawk and the building’s just fine, and how our own community--overnight hosts, cooks, clergy and staff--was fed by hosting them.

I’m also working on getting a project up and running the first week of January. And I was gone for two weeks, critical in retrospect. I was babying a cold for one week, and then I went to the Ranch. I learned as soon as I came back—and slept that night in the Great Hall—that my heart’s work is here, and I can’t leave again for awhile. Not only do I feel guilty for missing too much, but I miss the things that I need to be part of.

I want to be reflective in this space, but right now I just can’t. I’m feeling my own responsibilities heavily, and what I’ve set for myself scares me (though I’m totally committed to doing it, and I know I’ll have help). I’m also agape at the kindom of God.

Stretching my muscles

I’m just out of the shower, this day after Thanksgiving, excited to write for the first time in ages.

To begin with, I didn’t really get a Thanksgiving on the day itself. (I got one a week ago, at the cathedral, with the homeless people I’ve been getting to know.) Which is, and was, completely okay with me. I’m still living with A., in Stockton. This is her mom’s holiday, and her mom wants that time with her, to herself. I knew I’d be on my own either for doing something or going somewhere. I could have easily wrangled an invitation either to Sac or the Bay Area; I would have only needed to ask. (Friends in those places, don’t feel guilty.) I’ve been to lots of potlucks and orphan Thanksgivings, and they’re always fun. But I didn’t want to drive. And I did want a day and a night to myself. I will get all the festivity of Advent and Christmas. I lack for nothing.

I didn’t do a damn thing, other than bake the bread that we need anyway, and that I customarily keep us in. I stayed in my pajamas. I watched trash TV online. And I guess I must have incubated, because I woke today with my sleeves rolled up.

I haven’t posted anything at all on this blog since my birthday, and that one LOLcat hardly counted. I just haven’t been in this space. I haven’t known really what to write. I finished seminary, and I finished chemo. I have these huge, life-defining events behind me. I’m engaged in the life I have right now, and I love it and am challenged by it—but it doesn’t consume me in the same way. I’m not in the tsunami anymore. I’m not trying just to not drown.

I wrote about the “post-nuclear life” a year ago, or thereabouts; I know it was last fall. I was still in the oh-my-God-I-had-cancer space, sick from chemo with more time ahead than behind me. I was still caught by surprise; I’d been well and now I wasn’t. I knew (and know) that cancer could recur any time. I knew that I’d carry that reality with me. And I knew that my life would be different.

What I’m writing sounds like the economic fears I have now. “Can I get my head above water? What if I can’t?” But it really is different. I have support; I have housing and food and my basic bills taken care of. I’m physically miles and leagues and oceans better; I still get tired, and even still dizzy sometimes—but I have more energy and power than I’ve had for a year and a half. I’m getting myself back.

I feel now like, “Okay, the wave destroyed the island and everything I thought I knew. The riptide’s washed back out again. The ocean looks normal. But I know that I’m not.”

And I don’t know how to relate to this blog right now. This is holy ground. I can’t do memes, or anything else that’s totally inconsequential. That’s what Facebook is for. But I don’t want to give it up completely.

I woke this morning, needing to shore myself up. I need some sort of discipline, and I need writing to be part of it. I have a routine, for three days out of seven—but I’m ready for more. And I’m missing the spiritual practices that come with living in a seminary community.

Advent is the beginning of the new year. It’s time to start over, to focus, to re-commit. I’ve got good work, and the potential for funding it: I asked at the cathedral if I could start a soup kitchen. I got a resounding, “Go for it.” We’re next to River City Food Bank; there’s need in the neighborhood. And throughout my recuperation, I’ve discovered a knack for baking—and an appreciation for food, wholeness, community, and healing. There’s an obvious connection between the sacramental and the physical, and I can’t break and bless the bread yet. But I can do this. I’m not proposing that I myself cook for a hundred—but I know that I can feed people. And I can put together a team that’s willing to help.

I can give this the commitment I want to, if I can fund myself. I can’t simply volunteer full-time indefinitely. So I’m learning about fundraising, and researching grants.

All of that is good—though I definitely feel like I’m out on a limb, I have the cathedral staff’s support. People are really wanting to reach out to the homeless and the food-insecure. (Seriously, that’s a word now.) I walked in wanting to change the world, and they think well of me. They see a feisty survivor who knows what her work is. And I know that I can do this, if I stay with it.

It’s keeping the commitment, that’s my challenge. I’ve got the time. I need to build more structure into my schedule. I need routines, disciplines, specific accountability. I drive up there three times a week, now: once for church at the cathedral; once for a meeting of the Sacramento Homeless Organizing Committee (Safe Ground leadership wing) in the morning and Trinity staff meeting in the afternoon, and once for a Safe Ground meeting and River City volunteer shift. I’m definitely active and engaged. But I have more of myself now, and I need to give more of it. I need to structure the time that I’m not on the road, or with people. When I’m by myself and I could either Facebook or find funding, I need to make the right choices. And I need to stay as connected as I can with God. I need to spend some focused time every day in prayer, and I’m not doing it.

Maybe I’ll start doing daily Morning Prayer in Advent, and keep it up through the church year. I like that idea more, the longer I think about it. And maybe Evening Prayer as well.

The point is just to start, and stay with the connection more than the specific practice. Once I get walking, I can’t help but go somewhere. If I start with ancient words, and end up making rosaries, God is praised.

I don’t know what that means for this blog. I know it would be useful in the public domain, if I tell the story about how some church people in Sacramento start feeding anyone who shows up. For myself, I miss the whole process of thinking things out as I’m writing. And I miss the connection with the part of myself that starves when I don’t do this. So, expect to see more of me.

Blessed be the One who creates, loves, sustains, and feeds us all.

Birthday!

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

Shaking

I went to sleep with the news of Ted Kennedy's death. And I found out this morning that one of my high school classmates has died of melanoma.

Another classmate/friend mentioned his death on her Facebook page. I left a question mark; she messaged me about him.

Later she messaged me again, because she thought I’d want to know more. He died of metastasis into his brain.

This is one of my most paralyzing fears. I’m trembling as I write this. I don’t remember him, except for his name. I don’t know if our paths ever crossed when we were fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. I looked him up on Google, and discovered he was an artist. Here’s his homepage.

I remember his name, but nothing about him specifically. I couldn’t tell you what he looked like, what his interests were then. Nothing. And we would have been very different people, then and now.

Different, except for disease. Mine was caught before it could spread. I live with the fear of recurrence, at such a time when I don’t have health insurance. (I am still covered now. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to be.) But in the moment, I am healthy.

The artists I know are self-employed. They’re covered through state assistance, if they’re covered at all. I don’t know what his situation was.

People kept telling me I was young to get it. Pat was my age. He fought longer, and he died.

My doctor told me, melanoma breaks the rules. I had a growth for more than two years before it was diagnosed as cancerous. I had access to a dermatologist; I was worried about it, I went. I’d been playing with it in class, and having it bleed, for the previous year and a half. (I’d been told by a dermatology resident that it was some innocuous something, in January 2006. I was diagnosed with melanoma in April 2008.) And I still will never know how lucky I was to have listened to my own intuition, and to have this caught when we did. I don’t know what Pat’s first sign was, or how he dealt with it. I don’t know why he died, and I live. I certainly wasn’t vigilant, until I knew I had to be. And I had access to care all along.

It’s quite easy to have a skin lesion in a place you don’t see. How often do you look at your back? Would you even know what to look for? Mine was on the back of my ear. I couldn’t actually see it. If you don’t think you need a doctor, or you can’t afford it, you don’t go.

I was listening to an NPR interview with T.R. Reid this morning, from a few days ago. He said that we have parts of three major health care systems in the US already: the UK, Canadian, and Japanese. And he said that if you don’t have insurance, don’t qualify for assistance or can’t pay out of pocket, “you live in Malawi. You stay sick, or you die.”

This is the greatest fear I have. Not being sick, and not dying for its own sake. Knowing the care I could have had if I had access to it, and dying because I couldn’t get treatment, or I waited too long.

Pray for the soul of Patrick Federmeyer. And work for universal health care in this country.

I've been thinking about the owl all day.

I said I knew who it was. Obviously I didn’t. I couldn’t have. That was arrogance born of unknowing.

I only knew it was a sacred touch. I knew what I felt, when I saw it fly in front of me. I placed a context on it, which was not its own.

I know, as if I didn’t before, that there is power I don’t understand. I could have seen any animal, in the woods after sunset. I saw this one. While I was praying in a sacred place.

The owl will teach me how to see what it sees, and how to walk with this entire experience. But I don’t even know how to ask respectful questions.

I almost don’t want to talk about it now. But I need to be wise about this. I saw an owl in sacred time and space. I have been given something that I do not understand, and that I have no experience with. And the first thing is to confess that when I spoke so glibly, I had no idea what I was talking about. I do not know what I am doing.

The spirit world vibrates with life.

I need to tell this story

...however I can, well or not. I don’t know if I’m back from my blogging break. I may explain that later; don’t know that it matters. Come and listen.

I’m at the Bishop’s Ranch for a week. I hosted my own parish retreat, and I’m helping fill in for the reservations coordinator while she’s away. I got here last Wednesday, and I leave this Friday. I’ve been working, resting, spending time with friends. Healing parts of me that don’t get touched, anywhere else.

Tonight, I took a walk after dinner. I hadn’t moved my body all day, and was craving the exercise and the prayer-time. I threw my fleece on, because it’s already cool in the evenings. Packed water, camera, and flashlight in case I got back after dark. (There is ambient light, and my feet know the trails. There’s also poison oak.)

I set out toward the peace pole. If you don’t know the geography, it’s about a 20-25 minute walk for a healthy person. The last half or so is steep hill. At my sickest, I couldn’t walk it. It’s been a good distance as I’m recovering; strenuous but doable. I’ve always stopped when I’ve needed to. When I really can’t do it, I don’t push myself to get there.

I was walking along, thinking about cancer, treatment, healing. I got to the crossroads where you’d either go left to the treehouse or right to the peace pole. I paused... and I started singing the Troparion. And stomping to it. I did this, the entire hill climb.

Christ is risen from the dead,
Trampling down death by death
And on those in the tombs bestowing life,
Bestowing life!

I sometimes sang full-voice, and sometimes whispered. There were times I had to pause and stomp in place. I ran out of breath, and my muscles got tired. But I did it.

I climbed, and stomped, and sang, and thought, “No, I’m going to the Cristo instead.” It’s a new piece of art, behind and above the peace pole. A huge, welded crucifix. The artist was dying of ALS when he created it. It’s the last thing he built, before he died.

I got there, breathless, triumphant, prayerful. I knew that my body was praying. I didn't realize I was on a pilgrimage, until I stopped walking. My head refused (and still refuses) to understand any of this. But my body knows what it knows. I stopped singing, stood still. Touched the feet of this Christ. Looked up, into his face. The sun had just set, behind him.

I stayed there for a few minutes, just being. When I felt ready to leave, I faced the cross again and said thank you. To the resurrected Christ. To my body, for healing and for bringing me there. To my feet, for making contact with the earth—and to the earth, for supporting me and all life. To this sacred place, for existing.

I turned. And I found myself singing a new song, the lorica that my advisor taught us on our class retreat. That weekend in April coincided with the anniversary of my diagnosis. I’d been sick with respiratory gunk, had laryngitis, and couldn’t sing a note. But tonight, the melody that I’d never quite learned came easily to me. I sang, and I danced all by myself down the hill.

May the spirit of Christ be our guide through the day,
Our guard through the night,
Our companion on the way.

Christ be ever before us,
Christ be ever behind us,
Christ be ever around us.

Over and over. Like a mantra, and a circle dance alone. I knew I didn’t really get what I was doing. And I knew that I did.

I got to a place where I needed to pause, catch my breath and my balance. Hills of oak trees rose on either side of me. The creek bed was to my left; dry this time of year. Still, quiet, and vibrating with life.

A flutter caught my attention. I watched it fly in front of me, and settle briefly on a branch. Owl. It paused for a few seconds, and flew back the way it had come.

I know that I’ll never understand this, with my head. There are meanings that words do not touch. But I know who that owl was. And I know why it flew just there, just then.

I said thank you to the owl, and to God. And I walked the rest of the way home.
***

I am not the storyteller that sickness taught me to be. I don’t have the patience to make this my art, in the way that writing always has been. I traded the gnats in my brain for the skittery being of a water bug. Slowness and deep attention are skills I’ll need to re-learn. But I can, if I work at it. And I need to. I love baking bread—but I miss this, too much. Both the sharing of stories, and the open space required of me to hear them.

Done.

Alleluia, the great storm is over.

More in a day or two. All I've really got right now, is an animal yell.

Three, two... one.

I just did it again. And for the first time in many months, the act became a prayer.

Not in words: in presence. Not “Yeah me!” or “Suck it, cancer!” Not even, “Almost there.”

Nothing I can translate. Just reverence, patience, breath.

Friday will be all celebration. I’ll wait for my best friend to get home. I’ll do the shot with her, at her dining room table. Bang! and out to dinner. That will be the time for shouting.

Right now, I just want to quietly hallow this time.

On the cusp

I just did my injection. Only two more.

I did the thing that has made me sick for a year. I long since stopped fearing it, or being creeped out by it—it’s become simply a chore. I don’t even dread the effects; I just know what they’ll be. I do this because I have to. Because my doctors told me to. Because, though it makes me sick, it may also be keeping me well.

I know I’ll feel like crap tomorrow. And injecting myself has become a habit. I can do it without thinking. It takes about two minutes, each time. Wipe the skin with alcohol, open the band-aid up, wipe the pen, twist the needle in, dial the dose. Pinch thigh with one hand. Inject with the other. Bandage. Drop the needle in the sharps box. Drink more water; take four ibuprofen. Go on with my evening.

Tonight is different. I’m so close to done. And I feel so powerful, right now.

Take that, cancer. I’m still here, and I know that I beat you.

You taught me how to fight you. You taught me how to look you in the eye. You taught me how to stand up and raise my head. You taught me how to love this life.

If you come back, I will fight you again. I know what that means, and I will do it if I have to.

Rrrraaaarrrrrr!

Lazarus, get up.

I never actually intended to take a month off from blogging. It just happened. I’m forcing myself to go back to it, now. This really isn’t the environment for me to do that, as easily as school was. Something about the fog, and the light. Maybe I’ll get more used to it, as I settle in.

But I really miss storytelling. So I’m here.

I had a conversation with a friend about a month ago, the week after graduation. I wrote this in an e-mail to another friend, because I didn’t want to forget the allegory. I’ve been thinking about it off and on, since:

[My friend] also asked me, where God was in the cancer. The first thing I thought of: A fish doesn't know it's in water. It just swims. The water is God. I surprised myself, with a perfect NW native analogy.

There's a creek just west of my hometown. Salmon spawn there. Which means, they're also born there. When they hatch, they dig themselves out of the gravel and start floating downstream. They're just doing what baby fish do. They have no control over where the current takes them.

Creeks meet rivers. When the fish get big enough to be seen, hawks and eagles fly above them. They get scared; they hide. And they keep making their way.

They don't see their bodies changing. They don't see themselves growing. It just happens.

Rivers meet the ocean. The fish has to change its metabolism, to breathe in brackish water. Without realizing it, it does. It hangs out there until it's ready. Then it swims for open ocean. It has long since forgotten, the rocks and roots and branches that it used to have to swim around, or jump over. The water is God. There are no boundaries. And the fish is that free.

I told my friend this story—and I wasn’t reaching for anything. This is, what is. I'm in the estuary now; I'll be in the ocean when I stop the shots, and start feeling better. And I know I'm headed there.
***

I’ve been in the estuary since, part ready and part waiting for opportunity and time. I’m settling in Monterey, in my instructor’s dead mother’s house. It’s a strange place to be. I never met my “host,” as it were, but I’m surrounded by her stuff. This morning, I’ll be attending her church. Her daughter has always been an ally and friend. Last year would have been very much more difficult without her. And now she’s giving me this.

It’s good. But it takes some getting used to. I’m used to fishbowl community. I really don’t know people here, yet. Today will be my first Sunday at church; that should help. I’ve also had a week of half-day Spanish classes, and met a possible friend. But I go home every day from that with a headache, so I haven’t tried to connect outside of class. I’m also in the middle of years of dental-care catch-up. I’ll feel more solid after next week.

I will REALLY feel better after next week, because I only have one more week of shots! I’m going up to A.’s house next weekend, to celebrate. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, done. I’ll get my body, brain, and energy back.

Part of me wants to sit with that for awhile. I’ve been so attentive to the cancer journey, over the past fourteen months I’ve been on it. But right now doesn’t feel like the time. I’m more like, “Yeah, yeah, yes this can teach you—but go be healthy, already.” So we’ll see what I do with that.

One more blood draw—which I probably don’t even really need. But I haven’t skimped on any piece of this, and I’m not starting now. Cancer has taught me all I know about dedication. Consenting to make yourself sick—and actively doing it, for a year—is commitment. I suppose I could say that I know I can follow through on anything now, but I don’t really. That still has to be tested, and applied, and learned from, when I’m doing things in the post-cancer real world that I’d rather not have to go through. Looking for jobs, for instance.

I’m in a gift-time right now, sort of a limbo but not really. I’m not expected to be even capable of looking for work yet—and in truth I’m not. So I’m in Monterey, finishing chemo, taking six weeks of intensive Spanish... and I have all the time around that, to immerse myself as much as I choose in Latino ministry. Which I know nothing about—but a question about it, five weeks ago in class, is how I landed here. It’s a summer thing—but I don’t have an end date. Whenever we feel like I’ve been here enough, I suppose, and what this is leading to becomes clearer. Also, when my instructor knows what she wants to do with the house.

I went to a meeting yesterday for Latino clergy. The canon I’ve been e-mailing with invited me. The meeting turned out to be in Spanish. I can read some, and understand some spoken. I don’t have the vocabulary to speak it myself yet. And I got more words than concepts yesterday; I really couldn’t tell you what was talked about. But being there was a good experience. I didn’t feel shut out; I felt, “Oh. This is what it’s like.” People were kind to me. They just conducted the business of their group, in the language most comfortable for most of them.

The host conducts services in that town—I think even at that church. He also does urban ministry in San Jose. I pounced on him to tell me about that—and I’m going up to check it out as soon as I can, probably after next weekend. They do education (child and adult) and what sounds like a huge food program.

Yes, church in the fields interests me. That’s how I landed here, and that’s where the diocese is responding to me. But it’s more idea than reality right now; meanwhile, urban ministry apparently has my heart. It took that kind of reaction in me, to show me how much I miss it. You know when God says, “Here.” I’m an hour and a half away from San Jose, by driving—essentially, it’s halfway home. Three hours, by bus and Caltrain. I’m going to drive, clearly. But I miss public transit. I miss the stories.

I’m going to get involved with COPA (community organizing) trainings, too. I’ve landed in an odd place; it’s weird for me right now to be in a small town and feel so strongly called to the city, though it is beautiful here. But I’m clearly meeting the people whom I need to get to know. And all I really have to do is stay organized, myself.
***

The obvious reason that I’m feeling rootless: I’m new here. I’ve been through something that is so significant to me—and not only am I a week from not having to talk about that (because it affects my limitations), but my story-keepers are scattered: in San Francisco, around the Bay Area, and all over the country for the summer. I went through this, in a student community that I’m not going back to. My parish knows, and loves me—but I’m also not sure when I’m going back there. Or how. I also miss the Night Ministry community, and I’m just far enough away, to make visiting impractical.

Which means, I’m just far enough from home, to have to plant myself where I am. And I get to decide how. Who I am is who I say I am, here. I’m feeling rudderless—but I will have a community context, as soon as I create one. And as soon as I participate in the community that’s been given to me.

When I was well, I was so fearful of everything. Traumatized and broken. Aching for safety. Now, at face value I’m just like you: capable, competent, and whole. My story makes me different. And how I tell that—or not—is completely my choice.

How I use it, internally, is also my choice. And I’m a week from it being story, not active present.

I’m on the cusp of I know not what. In every possible dimension.