Hello, goodbye.

For the first time since moving to Baltimore I'm starting to feel like I have actual friends here. The worst part of this year- other than the physical assualt, of course- has been feeling so unloved and unwanted. It isn't that people are mean, but I have no connections with anyone here. Until this week I genuinely felt like when I moved to Serbia no one would miss me or even really notice I was gone. I'm not saying that now people will be rending garments and covering their faces in ashes for me, but I am begining to feel more understood and- dare I say it?- cared about by several people here.

It's a good feeling, but it makes the countdown to moving bittersweet.

88 days until Bosnia, 74 of those in Baltimore. I wish I knew how to feel about that.

Flowers CAN grow in Baltimore!

My strawberries are growing! Soon we will have no need for the farmer's market. Take that, Waverly.



They might not look like much, but give them time! Also, my mums are still alive! Photographic proof:



Many of you will not be impressed by this. That is because you didn't see the number of plants I killed in college.

I was assigned lawn duty this weekend. It involves mowing the lawn, and perhaps doing other yard-y things. I have never mowed a lawn in my life, and, as stated in an earlier post, my very presence tends to kill plants. My official plan was to have a boyfriend by this time and make him do it, but that didn't pan out. Sad day.

In other news, it is 85 degrees out, which is glorious, but I'm not allowed to open the windows in my room, which is heartbreaking. Thus, I will spend the day on a balcony learning Serbian flashcards and praying the grass cuts itself. Or dies. Either way.

Bout darn time.

I'm going to take a SHORT break from complaining about Baltimore to say that I get to LEAVE Baltimore for a week and go to the Caribbean! My sister was offered a free cruise from Carnival so that she'll write about it in the magazine she edits, and her husband can't go, and she didn't want to spend a week on a boat with her 10 month old baby and no help, so I get to go! I want to say that I do not approve of cruises. They are environmentally destructive, encourage gluttony, and provide ample opportunity for Americans to disrespect local people in the cruise destinations. That being said, I'm not the type of girl who holds on to her beliefs so strongly that she would turn down a free cruise, so I'm going.

You can read about how badly sunburned we are day by day here: http://maggieandkristenandjackonacruise.blogspot.com/

It will be awesome.

In other news, I made a basil pesto that is good, but not perfect. The quest for that continues.

Ouch.

Whoever said cockroaches can't hurt you needs to come take a look at the bruise on my leg.

Last night around 10:30 I was minding my own business, about to go to bed. I get up from my desk, turn around, and see a cockroach that must have weighed at LEAST as much as I do but looked much, much stronger. Like any young, responsible, college educated woman, I screamed and climbed onto my bed, begging my housemates in the living room to come save me. After about 10 minutes of no one coming to rescue me, I got up enough nerve to try to trap it so I could go demand aid. The only empty container I could find was a metal heart-shaped tin my sister gave me for valentines day. The cockroach was crawling on top of the lid to the bin where I keep my dirty clothes (we have to keep our dirty clothes in giant tupperware-like bins or else the mice eat our underwear. Seriously). The lid was on the ground, with a plastic grocery sack on it, and the cockroach was crawling on top of the bag. I put the tin over the roach and the bag, and then stacked two books, "Kosovo: A Short History" and "Bosnia: A Short History", on top of it. I should point out that both books are HUGE and very poorly named. For good measure, I threw my sketchbook and two pairs of shoes on top of the books. Then I went for help.

Anna was in the living room, and leaped to action after being briefed of the situation. We then spent about 10 minutes staring at the tin, trying to decide how we were going to dispose of the intruder. Anna was of the opinion that I could lift the tin and she could smash him to death with a hole puncher, but I was doubtful of this solution for several reasons. One: I have heard that cockroaches are hard to smash, and this one certainly seemed like a formidable opponent, two: I didn't want to lift the tin, three: I didn't want to have cockroach guts on my laundry bin or, worse, my carper, and four: I was about 87% sure that if I lifted the tin, the roach would fly or crawl around and Anna and I would both scream and panic and he would find a way to burrow into my underwear drawer or, worse, my brain.

I should point out that Sarah was on the phone with her boyfriend, Jeff, this entire time. I, of course, demanded that Jeff come save us, and he flat out REFUSED. What is the point of any of us having a boyfriend if he doesn't even come out to meet our needs in times of crisis?? Yes, it is 10:30 PM. Yes, you live 20 minutes away. What is the problem? Anna insisted that we were strong women who could handle the situation ourselves, but I was doubtful. I'm a pretty big fan of traditional gender roles, because I like babies, cooking, cleaning, and not opening doors or paying for meals. I have always thought that "bug killing" was in the "manly chore" category, along with yard work, taking out the trash, paying for everything, and defending my honor. If the men in my life will do that, I will be happy to bake scones and give birth. ANYWAY, Jeff refused, so I texted my sister and demanded my brother in law come to Baltimore to save me, mostly because he has a gun. And you know what?? HE refused, too!

Having exhausted the entire list of men I know in Maryland, Anna and I had no choice but to handle the task. We devised a plan in which we carried the entire apparatus- plastic lid, plastic bag, roach, metal tin- to the bathroom, where we would then try to flick the roach into the toilet, shut the lid, and flush. We were about 70% into this operation when Jeff (via phone) helpfully suggested that it could probably fly, would land in the toilet water, and then fly into our hair/ eat our faces. Anna was willing to take that chance, but I was NOT. Thus, we began the painstaking process of applying heavy pressure to the tin while sliding the plastic bag until the tin was INSIDE the bag, and the roach was in the tin. We tied the bag in a knot, and then lifted the tin enough to get the lid on it. I wanted to carry it up to the attic and leave it there, but Sarah said I had to take it outside. I ran down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor, opened the front door, and threw the whole thing in the trash. Then I shut and locked the door, and vacuumed my entire room. It was around this time that I realized at some point (probably the screaming/ flailing stage) I had banged my leg pretty badly on something hard. I now have a huge purple and green bruise to show for my efforts.

There is really only one conclusion to draw from this: I need a boyfriend. With a gun.

And... does anyone know if there are cockroaches in Serbia...?

Confession

So, I'm sitting here, listening to hymns and eating jelly beans (what? like you read to underprivileged puppies in your spare time?) and I caught myself picking out the army green ones that, as far as I can tell, are death flavored. I paused, and had a moment of quiet reflection on who I have become these past few months. Then I threw them back in the bag.

It was a long time coming, but something snapped in me about two weeks ago. It was the day the client attacked me (the first time!) I think. I came home, still fighting back tears, thinking about if I could move in with my parents, if I could find a job, if I could live with my sister... for once, no one was in our kitchen. I went to the pantry to get a snack, and grabbed a box of mixed nuts. I poured myself some tea, ate the nuts, and thought about the various ways I could get out of my commitment to MVS.

I don't really like mixed nuts; I mean, they're fine, but they're not my favorite snack. I, like everyone, like some better than others. I have this rule, though, that I really try to follow. I believe that one should eat what one grabs. Not just for sanitary reasons, but on ethical principal. If you are eating out of a communal bag of chex mix, for example, you can't pick out all the bagel chips and eat them because they're your favorite part. If that is just your chex mix, fine, but if you're sharing it you need to keep in mind that maybe other people like the bagel chips, too, or don't want the delicate bagel chip/chex/pretzel balance upset. It's taking one for the team, sometimes, when you eat the pretzels in the chex mix or the back jelly beans, but it is your DUTY as a member of a family or community to not mess with everyone else's snacking pleasure.

So, there I am, eating whatever nuts I grab. Cashews, hazelnuts, almonds, and pecans. I really just like the pecans. The others are fine, but the more I think about it, the more I know that I only really WANT the pecans, and I'm eating the cashews as more of a penalty. A penance. A necessary evil to enjoy the pecans. And then it happened- it was almost audible. The "snap" of my moral convictions about mixed snack food tearing apart. I was not going to eat any more f-ing cashews. I work 40 hours a week for free, I had just been attacked by a client, I get out of bed at 11:00 PM to pick up my stranded housemates, I live with 14 people in a neighborhood that scares the crap out of me, I make $50 a month, I hate my job, I don't drink bottled water, I don't buy clothes made in sweatshops, I give 10% of my income to the church, I match dollar for dollar what I spend on alcohol on a clean water charity, and I do NOT need to SHARE or GIVE or SACRIFICE ANYTHING ELSE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

I ate every pecan in the box.

I feel kind of bad about it. In reality, I don't think my housemates will notice, and if they do, I doubt they'll care. But again, it's the PRINCIPAL. Shouldn't I be willing to eat the proverbial cashew? This is the life I want- I chose this- because these are things that matter to me. I miss shopping at Gap, but I DO think human rights are more important than fashion. I DO think it's ridiculous to pay for water in a bottle when our tap water is clean. I DO think that the gospel is best lived out and understood in community. And yet...

I guess I'm learning my own boundaries. Sometimes my ideals don't look that ideal with flesh on them. I don't know if the pecan (and now jelly bean!) incident is just funny, or a sign of something larger breaking down. I guess at this point I can learn to love myself as a person who sometimes picks through mixed nuts. I think I can live with that. I want to be flexible, even within my concept of justice, because I know I don't now, nor will I ever, know all the answers. But if Bathfitter starts looking like a great deal on a good idea, I'm moving to a convent.

The past few weeks here have been really, really awful. As I stated in the middle of February, I was moved (without my consent) from working at my shelter to working with clients at another shelter. At the new shelter I had 9 clients, all men, and was often there as the only staff person. There was sexual harassment at my old shelter, but it was nothing compared to the new one; at the new shelter, sexually inappropriate comments were daily and severe. I was incredibly uncomfortable being there by myself, but figured I would be able to tough it out, because I was told I would only have to work there through the end of February. The end of February became the middle of March. The middle of March became the end of March. The end of March became "until each client has permanent housing", which could be months.

The day I found out my stay at this particular shelter had been extended indefinitely, a client became extremely hostile and aggressive towards me. I was the only staff person in the building with a violent and irate male client twice my size in the office. It was terrifying. I calmed him down enough to get him to leave the office, shut and locked the door, and called the social worker who was sometimes at the shelter. She told me to just stay where I was and she would deal with it when she got there.

This was (understandably, I think) a really scary experience for me. I told my supervisor that I did not feel safe at the placement, and also told my local program coordinator for MVS. My supervisor agreed I could work part time at the new shelter so I wouldn't have to be there all the time. This wasn't ideal, since I didn't want to be there in the first place, but this year of my life (and hopefully my whole life) is about serving, so I figured I would be a servant, swallow my pride (and my fear) and deal with it. The first attack was on a Monday. The next Thursday the same client came into my office and flipped out again, and I was alone in the facility again. I maintained my composure long enough to get him calmed down and out of the office, shut the door, and wept. I have a VERY strict "No Crying at Work" rule, which, until that day, I had managed to follow pretty well. Not today. The stress of the harassment, the fear of even being in that neighborhood, the anger at being left there alone when I have no training or background in this all came out, and I cried and cried. At work. I still feel badly about it.

I emailed my supervisor and my local program coordinator and told them that what had happened and that I was going home for the day. I went home, watched TV online, cried for another hour or two, and then went into work at my old shelter. Basically they decided that I don't have to go to the new shelter any more, which is great, and I was (and am) really happy to be back with other staff who support and encourage me (and stop clients from assaulting me, when possible). That was until I found out yesterday that all the clients from the new shelter are moving into the old shelter, including the one who seems to hate and want to hurt me. You can guess how excited I am about that. Stress induced stomach pains, anyone?

I will say one thing about the whole situation: it has made me appreciate my housemates, especially the other volunteers, much, much more. Even before the client became violent towards me, I hated the new position so much I was considering dropping out of MVS, moving back in with my parents, and trying to get my old job at the zoo until it was time to move to Serbia. By the time the client actually flipped out, I was ready to have my bags packed. What stopped me is the love and support I received from my housemates. I have been honest about feeling a little disappointed in community; the living situation has not been the blissful nest of love and support I was naive enough to expect. I did not chose to live with these people, and there are some I would not chose to live with. In the past few weeks, however, they have been wonderful, expressing love and encouragement and concern for both my physical safety and my mental health while in these situations. I don't think I realized before how much they care about me, or how much I care about them. I wish I didn't have to be attacked to realize these things, but I'll go ahead and take the silver lining where I can get it.

I apologize for dropping of the face of the earth for a while, especially to those of you I owe emails or letters or phone calls. Hopefully things will get better and I will feel sane enough to be a decent friend again. Or maybe this client will kill me, in which case you can have my books and CDs.

Can we have a new heaven and a new earth, please? We broke ours. We're sorry, though.

Today at work I sat for an hour listening to one of my clients talk about how he almost killed himself Friday night, then went and smoked crack and tried to sleep with a prostitute, and then almost killed himself again. I say "tried" to sleep with a prostitute because, apparently, the (massive amounts of) antidepressants, antipsychotics, and anti anxiety meds and/or the crack prevented him from actually being able to have intercourse with her. Because that's what I want to hear about. My client's sexual problems. With prostitutes.

Now Maggie, you're thinking, don't the vast majority of your clients continue to use drugs while under your care? Can't you safely assume that many of them are also engaging in risky sexual behaviors? And you're right, many, if not most, of our clients continue to abuse drugs and/or alcohol while they're in the program. It happens. Heroin isn't like biting your nails; it takes a hell of a lot more than will power to give it up (and I KNOW how hard it is to stop biting your nails! But I think heroin is, in fact, harder to quit). And, of course, drug abuse is only a symptom of other issues that are going on. You need to treat the whole person, all of their illnesses, in order to end a pattern of destructive behavior. Sometimes it takes 2, 3, or 47 tries. Sometimes it never happens.

So why was I particularly shocked that this client did this? Because he was a model client. He's been at the shelter for about 4 months now, and I've been his counselor the whole time. He has a host of mental illnesses, but has come so, so far in his functioning, emotional stability, recovery, and self confidence. He now has a job moving medical supplies at the Veterans' Administration (he's a Veteran) and has completed three differnet mental health and social skill programs at the VA. He comes to our weekly meeting religiously, and calls me to tell me if he will be back late, if anything changes with his meds or appointments, and one time just to tell me he was on the bus. "Hey Maggie. I’m on the bus. I just thought you should know." And then he hung up. Strange? Yes. But I would rather 400 clients like him than one I never see or hear from, who doesn't trust me or tell me what is really going on.

This client trusts me. He tells me what's going on. He told me not only about his suicidal ideations, but his drug use, and WAY too many details about the sex (or lack of). Crack is not an aphrodisiac. Who knew? When he told me, I could tell he was in so much pain, that he felt ashamed and worthless. He wouldn't look me in the eye. He asked if we could keep it between us, which of course I couldn't do. Even if I was willing to overlook the drug use, which I was not, suicide is not something that can EVER be taken lightly, particularly not in a client with his history and illnesses.

After I assured him that I was not disappointed in him, that he is the only person he answers to, that him being honest was more important than using, he seemed to feel better. After he left the office I was talking to another counselor. She asked me if I thought it happened because I wasn't there. I have transferred buildings and am now only at my old shelter, where he lives, once a week. Last week I wasn't even accessible by phone, because I was in the Midwest visiting friends. This client is freakishly attached to me, and has had a very hard time since I transferred to the new building. He (apparently) asks where I am all the time, if I'm ok, when I'm coming back. This other counselor asked if I thought tat I was his crutch, and if having the crutch removed contributed to his depression and self doubt, which led to him seeking a prostitute, which led to him smoking crack.

No. I didn't cause it. I can't control him. I don't know, maybe if I had met with him on Friday afternoon I could have said or done something to make things turn out differently. But maybe I couldn't have. Maybe I would have made it worse. We shouldn't use people as crutches- not our friends, not our family, not boyfriends or girlfriends or spouses- because NO one will ever be there all the time. No one will. You can't ASK that of someone, and I refuse to try to pretend like I could live up to some unrealistic expectation to be a super-counselor. I mean, I'm not even a SOCIAL WORKER, I'm just some kid. White girl from the suburbs moves into the big bad inner city trying to make good, right? I can't even fall asleep without straining my ears for gunshots, or walk with total confidence to and from work. I can't fix him, or anyone else. No one can. I can't do it.

I hate this.

Given the choice, of course, between (not) having sex with a prostitute and smoking crack or suicide, I would rather he smoke the crack. But I don't like the choices.

Sometimes I don't even remember why I'm here. I would rather live in some crappy apartment and work as a receptionist or telemarketer or ANYTHING other than this. I feel so tiny and worthless and powerless and vulnerable. And then I remember that I'm here because I love Jesus, and he calls us into these places, that Jesus lives with the crack whores and the drug dealers, and that's where I need to live, too, for now. I need to love them and serve them and work for them, even if it does nothing and means nothing, because that's what people who love Jesus do. We love people. We serve them.



(and then sometimes i try to remember why i love jesus. and sometimes i don't know. why would i love someone who asks me to do this? why would i love and follow someone who leads me here? and i try to remember and i try to remember and all i can think is i'm here and i love him because he promises something else and he promises something better, a world without crack whores or dead babies or drug addicts.)

so where. is. it.

Oh crap.

I bought a book that is supposed to help you teach yourself Serbian. I didn't even get past the alphabet page and was lost (and I am good at languages!). Conclusion: next year might be painful.

Also, this is really embarrassing, but because I have heard the same thing from several people my age, I will confess: as a child, I thought Bosnia was in the middle east. It's because when I was growing up I knew there was a war there, and I saw images of people running in terror out of burning buildings, buildings being bombed, tanks rolling through streets... and I just thought that all wars happened in the middle east. Certainly all the wars I heard about as a child happened in the middle east... I knew World Wars I and II involved Europe and Asia, of course, but I just assumed that all wars that happened during my lifetime happened in places that were really hot and sandy (which, to be fair, doesn't even describe most of the middle east). The truth, as anyone who reads this blog and ever had a decent history or geography class will no doubt know, is that since 1986 (the year I was born), plenty of wars, genocides, and other horrible things have happened all over the world. I am only now starting to learn about the things that tore apart former Yugoslavia, my future home, this little part of the world that BOTH my mother and I had to look on a map to find.

By the way, we had the same map, and on it Serbia was too small to have its name written in. Instead it was labeled "12", and you had to look at the number key on the side to see that 12 is Serbia and Montenegro. And while we're on the subject, I can't figure out if Montenegro is a separate country or part of Serbia. And don't even get me started on what Kosovo/a is.

Good thing I don't leave until August, because I have a LOT to learn.

Wait, WHAT?

I guess I am moving to Belgrade, Serbia. Wait, what? Who moves to Serbia?!

I guess I do. I'll be teaching kindergarten and working in a center for education and counseling for victims of trauma starting in August. Here is my new job description:

The last 15 years have been difficult and traumatic for all citizens of the former Yugoslavia, due to the long and devastating war. These events also struck Serbia. In the beginning there was a great fear of possible mobilization, causing many people to hide and live in fear. As well, the number of refugees that came upset people and brought fear.

Sanctions for Serbia lasted for years and caused serious economic crises. It was very difficult for people to provide even the basics for their families. The future seemed unpredictable, causing feelings of uncertainty and insecurity. In addition, the spread of the war to Kosovo ended with the bombardment of Serbia, a traumatic experience for all Serbians.

Apart from traumas caused by wars, many of the traumas Serbians are dealing with occurred within the family. Family violence multiplied during these years. General disappointment and insecurity as well as economic and political uncertainty caused anxiety that was felt within families, where the victims are usually children and women. Men are usually victims of crime, and the reason they engage in illegal activities is in order to provide for their families.

Noah’s Ark Kindergarten: SALTer will help the kindergarten teachers in their everyday work with children. This placement represents an opportunity to build bridges and to strengthen one of the few church-sponsored kindergartens in Serbia.

Psihoorijentir: SALTer will assist the Center in organize files and the library, developing materials, consulting and fundraising. SALTer's observations and analysis will be sought as to help the Center develop better.


Assignment Description:

Kindergarten - The kindergarten Noah’s Ark is situated in the central part of the city of Belgrade. It was founded in 1996. The founder is the Baptist Church. At the moment there are 35 children attending the kindergarten, including 2 children that are handicapped. There are 4 teachers working in the kindergarten and usually one trainee. The kindergarten is financed by the donations and contributions of the parents.

Psihoorijentir - is a center for education and psychological assistance. There is a team in the Center trained for education on trauma. Educational trainings are held in the center, designated for teachers, kindergarten teachers, pedagogues and psychologists employed in education and social institutions (orphanages, social work, reformatory schools…). Beside education the Center offers support to adults and children that experienced traumatic events. This is conducted through individual therapy and support groups. The Center also educates volunteers for work in support groups.

Duties:
Throughout the assignment and especially at the beginning the service worker will focus on learning Serbian to fulfill the duties listed below.

Noah’s Ark Kindergarten: SALTer will work 3 days a week (Monday to Wednesday) from 9 A.M. to 5 P.M. He/she will assist one teacher: will observe what the teacher is doing and will follow her instructions. Working in the kindergarten involves playing with children, helping them with dressing, helping them in drawing and all sort of creative work, setting the tables for lunch and removing the dishes after lunch together with kids, setting the mats for their afternoon naps, helping them dress and most of all be able to answer to their questions, instruct them in their work and observing their behavior and interactions with other children.
It also involves some extracurricular activities. Together with the teacher, depending on activity, he/she is to help in doing it, for instance: an excursion outside the kindergarten area, sport activities, going to theater for children, kitchen activities and so on.
SALTer is expected to be present at all activities that are organized for children and parents by Saturdays and after the working hours. She/he is also expected to be present at the meetings where we plan and analyze our work.

Psihoorijentir: The working hours of the SALTer would be 2 days a week (Thursday and Friday) from 9 A.M. to 4 P.M. Our project is a specific one because of the seminars and consequently we are forced to work on Saturdays. Therefore the volunteer will be expected to participate in working on Saturdays, with the option that whenever the volunteer works on Saturdays he/she could take a day off during the week.
Filling and organizing the library – SALTer will help in organizing files and library which will help the Center in learning what other resources are needed and how to obtain these (via web, buying books and so forth).
Development of materials – Since the SALTer will have access to materials from the US or Canada which are designed for people in helping professions, we expect that volunteer would help us in the choice of material as well as in advising us how to use them.
Observation – A SALTer would attend seminars as an observer. He/she will be the observer of our teamwork as well. If SALTer shows interest and would like to be part of the team that leads the seminar we would be open for this (the Center’s staff). However, we understand that this might take some time after volunteer would feel comfortable with the language.
Analysis – A SALTer would help us to analyze the work that has been done and also to evaluate it. The participating of the SALTer in analysis will be the result of the observations that he/she has observed.
Fundraising – To research the web and learn about grant possibilities from organizations and individuals that would interested in supporting the work of the Center.

As far as working on Saturdays SALTer will in conversation with the director of Psihoorijentir and the Kindergarten make decision when to be working at the Kindergarten and when at the Center. Just to make a note that not all Saturday will be work days.

SALT participants are expected to demonstrate an active interest and commitment to learning Serbian language and to engage within the local community where they serve.

Location Description
Belgrade, the capital of Serbia and Montenegro as well as the biggest city with a population of more than 2 million, is strategically situated at the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers. Because of this it is a city that has been destroyed many times due to wars, and is now a mixture from charming old architecture to plain somewhat neglected concrete apartment buildings from the communist era. Because of the recent conflict in the region hundreds of thousands of displaced people have migrated to Belgrade, straining public services and causing a very tight housing situation.

Despite the recent history Belgrade remains a safe place to live, generally without fear for personal safety. It is a bustling city with constant activity 24 hours a day. There are many theatres, cinemas, cultural events, good restaurants with reasonable prices, and coffee shops which spill out onto sidewalks and side streets for 6 months of the year. Public transportation is readily available, with buses and tramlines providing good connections to all parts of the city.

The climate in Belgrade is temperately continental. Winter temperatures are usually around -5 to -10 degrees Celsius, but it can get as cold as -17. It is normal to have some snow in the months of December to February. Summers are fairly hot, with temperatures climbing to 40 degrees Celsius for brief periods of time. Fall and spring are fairly long and pleasant seasons.

I still feel like they are lying to me about the winter, but I think that is because I am mixing up Serbia and Siberia (they're different, I looked on a map).

Happy ash Wednesday!

Oh my.

There are times this job feels daunting and thankless. When I sit in my office and look out the window and can LITERALLY watch drug dealers hand out testers (free samples of drugs) to people- mostly kids- to get them addicted, I feel discouraged. I think that is probably a normal reaction.

But then there are certain days and certain clients that are filled with gratitude. I have one client who said that he was feeling bored and restless and that he wanted something to do. He said he grew up on a farm and loves animals and misses his dog. I went online and printed out three applications to volunteer at different animal shelters in the city, and I filled out some of the basic information for him. Today when he came in to the office, I showed them to him and told him he could fill out the rest, or I could fill the rest out with him. He looked up at me, astonished. His eyes filled with tears. He thanked me repeatedly and told me I had really helped him out, that he would work on them right away, that God would bless me for this.

This is not something I deserve that kind of gratitude for. The entire process of printing and starting the applications probably took less than 15 minutes. What touches me is not that I was finally shown some gratitude for my hard work, but that I was shown gratitude for almost nothing. These people have been beaten down- figuratively and literally- so many times by so many people for so long that they begin to see themselves with the world's eyes. They start to believe that they are worthless, that they don't deserve love or attention or affection, that their disabilities or addictions or illnesses define them. This client is so used to being ignored that the simplest act of kindness became monumental to him. His tears are not a testament to my love or service, because I didn't do anything particularly noteworthy. They're a testament to past cruelty and pain. As such, his thank-yous were more painful than pleasing to me.




In other news, I have to decide by Thursday if I want to take a job working at an orphanage for kids with developmental disabilities in Managua, Nicaragua, or a job teaching kindergarten three days a week and working at a center for people with PTSD two days a week in Belgrade, Serbia. Both jobs are a year long, starting in August, and are through the Mennonite church. I have no idea which would be better. Serbia sounds awesome, and would be new, but I love Nicaragua and have close friends there. Nicaragua has mangoes and monkeys. Serbia has... well, I don't really know, I've never been there. I'm thinking of flipping a coin. After all, I agonized over my decisions of what to do with this year and ended up in a job that has nothing to do with my interests or skills, and I'm pretty happy. So deciding between two jobs that ARE relevant to my interests and skills should be refreshing. And terrifying. I'll let you know on Thursday where you can start sending my mail.

I used to think it was a bit silly when people would say things like, "It's the little things that make life worth living!" Part of me still thinks it is. The little things, after all, are just what fills in the space between the BIG things. I like the Big Things. I've always liked Big Things, and tend to end up with a lot of big events in my life. This is partially because of luck (both good and bad) and partially because I have a flair for the dramatic and tend to thrive on change, movement, even crisis.

This is changing somewhat for me. I am not doing the most glamorous job in the world. I spend a lot of my days entering urinalysis results into a computer, on hold with the department of social services, or trying to fit a new shipment of food from the food bank into a pantry. Most days, there isn't too much to tell about what I've done. There are rarely measurable accomplishments, and sometimes there aren't even clear goals or benchmarks. I would prefer a job where every day something really breathtaking or beautiful or heartbreaking or scary or hilarious happens, but really, how many jobs are like that? The fact of the matter is, Big Things are big because they don't happen every day.

I tend to see God and learn about myself and form really lasting friendships during or immediately after Big Things, but I guess that doesn't mean God isn't in the small things, or that nothing in my character is revealed in how I deal with the mundane, or that genuine relationships can't be born out of boredom. Lately I've been really enjoying watching the flowers on my windowsill grow. I've been trying to be fully present and really looking with open eyes as I walk home from my new job (although, honestly, this is AT LEAST as much to prevent mugging as it is to see the neighborhood, which is TERRIFYING). I have found joy in attempting to perfect a cupcake recipe and seeing how happy it makes my housemates that I've started baking so many cupcakes. I've been trying to really taste the coffee I make. Not just drink it, but taste it, feel the warm cup, watch the sugar dissolve...


Life is short, but sweet for certain.

sigh

I started a new job today, kind of. I'm now working with external clients at another facility. They're funded by Project PLASE but are housed in an outside agency. Six of these will be my clients, in addition to the two at the co-ed facility. Today all I'm doing is reading files and looking at charts and trying to get to know the people, where they've been, and what they need. It's so hard to try to understand people from these little blurbs that counselors write.

"Client reports witnessing incest between father and daughter."

"Client was diagnosed with HIV in 1985. He called his sister to share diagnosis and she told him to never call her again. His uncle said 'you turned out to be a real bum.' Client has no other family to speak of."

"Client began using heroin at age 17, cocaine at age 20."

"Client dropped out of school after grade 5."

"Client dropped out of school in 7th grade, aged 17 years."

"Diagnosis: Adjustment disorder NOS"

"Diagnosis: Adjustment disorder with depression"

"Diagnosis: anxiety disorder"

"Client is more irritable than usual."

"Client has passive suicidal thoughts but no plan."

Counselor is in over her head.

Rebirth

Reason Number 468 Why I Need to Live South of the Mason-Dixon Line:

One of my biggest complaints about Minnesota is the lack of flowering trees. Living there for 4 years was rough for me. Not only is winter really, really, really long, but spring isn't even that pretty. It's mostly muddy from all the melting snow, and then just when it's getting warm and you're wearing skirts and flip flops it will snow AGAIN, and there are no dogwoods or cherry blossoms, and then the next thing you know, it's summer. I'm not OK with that.

Walking home from work today I was in a pretty bad mood. As I crossed over 83, I looked up, and a tree by the side of the sidewalk had little buds on it. I think they were flower buds, they were about the size of a large olive and were fuzzy. I pulled one off a low-hanging branch and rubbed it between my fingers the rest of the walk home.

It made me feel like I was holding a tangible representation of a promise. "Spring is coming!" it said. "And there will be flowers!" No winter lasts forever, and even things that may seem dead for months can produce fruit.

It isn't that I'm unhappy here, per se, and it's not that I'm counting down the days until I leave (although I am counting down the days until I go to Minnesota to visit friends- 27 left!). I just feel stuck in winter, in a ground too frozen to til and temperatures that kill seedlings. I long for a warm spring breeze and FLOWERS and the scent of honeysuckle. Today I was reminded that they're on their way, and that party of the beauty is in the patient waiting.



"Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing."

Goodbye?

I'm not very good at letting people go. I still talk to my best friend from when I was 6 about once a week on the phone. This weekend I'm going to visit my two best friends from high school. I talk to my roommate from college on the phone about twice a week and email with her a few times a day. I am in regular contact with college friends who are now living in Kazakhstan, Tanzania, and France. I email my host sister from Nicaragua and my host father from Kenya. Thanks to Facebook, email, gchat, Skype, and cell phones, it seems that no one is ever REALLY gone. Even if I don't communicate directly with friends from high school and college, I, in most cases, can still see when they get a new job, move, start dating or break up with someone, and any number of other things through Facebook and blogs. I, and most of my generation, have come to expect and demand ties that withstand any distance or length of time, however informal. I'm not even at the forefront of this communication and connectivity craze. I am notoriously hard to reach by cell phone, partially because I leave it places and partially because I refuse to answer it during work, meals, or meetings (and it appalls me that this surprises people). I only use one online networking site, despite invitations to join MySpace, twitter, and any other number of resources that would invite even more people into my life.

I'm not trying to say that all of this is good or bad; like (almost) everything else, there are benefits and disadvantages to hyper connectivity. This week I'm learning about some of the disadvantages.

My favorite client from work is gone. He arrived at the shelter the same day I did. I even did part of his intake interview (which with LITERALLY no training was an interesting experience). He is friendly, funny, and very intelligent. He was a source of encouragement and joy for staff and clients alike. We had frequent conversations about friendship, relationships, family, religion, and politics. A recovering cocaine addict, he had relapsed and used drugs once while a resident here. He immediately told staff, was placed on contract, and even publicly apologized to the other residents (which he did of his own accord with no prompting from us).

Last Sunday he didn't come back to the shelter. His curfew had just been moved from 4:00 PM to 6:00 PM. At 10:00 PM he phoned to say that he was waiting for a bus, and would be back soon. That was the last we heard from him. The veteran's administration, who funds his placement here, has said that they will no longer pay for him to stay here. If he returns to the shelter, we are supposed to escort him to retrieve his belongings, and then ask him to leave. As the days pass, however, it is seeming less and less likely that he's coming back. We have called central booking and every hospital in Baltimore, and he's not there.

I feel betrayed. He specifically told me when I pointed out that he and I had the same first day that "we came together and we'll leave together." He said he wanted to have permanent housing before I leave in August. It was quite a realistic goal, he was doing well in recovery and worked very, very hard. And now? He's just gone. I'm not offended if he has started using drugs again, because I know that addiction is bigger than I am and that nothing I can do can make it go away, but I'm hurt that he would not at least let us know what's going on.

More than anything, I'm worried about him. Did he die? Is he staying with family? Is he living in a park? There is no Facebook status update or blog entry or group email I can check. I can't call him because he has no phone. I can't send him a letter because he's homeless. Ours was a relationship built entirely on face-to-face interaction; now one of those faces is gone. While going home from work I found myself looking closely at the people I pass on the street. Maybe he's out there. Maybe I'll run into him at the inner harbor or Lexington Market. But most likely, I'll never see or hear from him again, and that is a concept that is incredibly difficult to wrap my head around.

who needs insurance?

Today is my first day in a week wearing real pants instead of my awesome organic sweatshop free yoga pants from Maggie's Organics (www.maggiesorganics.com). I have been sick for about 10 days now, and didn't leave the house for the last 6 of them except to go to the thrift store to buy decorations for an Edgar Allan Poe party.

The worst part of this illness, which I at first referred to as tuberculosis until a friend mistakenly thought I actually HAD tuberculosis, is that I am so unused to being sick. I don't get sick, and if I do, I'm over it in a day, two tops. I often joke that it's OK that I don't have health insurance this year because I have the strongest immune system in the world, with the only caveat being that I am incredibly accident prone.

In the past 8 years I have fracture my skull, broken my ankle, ruptured an ear drum, and sustained three compression fractures, several bone chips, and a ruptured disc in my back. I have had to seek emergency medical care for a severe allergic reaction to an antibiotic and been hospitalized overnight for a drug overdose. I contracted a parasitic worm and, as a result, dysentery while in Kenya. I haven't been to the ER in over a year, which is the longest I have gone without going to the ER in 8 years. Some would say I'm due for an accident of some kind, and I am inclined to think they might be right.

I deal with pain pretty well, and know the drill for riding in ambulances (which, by the way, is really, really fun, except for the intense pain and fear of death part that often comes along with the ride). But sickness I do not do well with. I get incredibly frustrated- irate, even- when I am unable to breathe. I refuse to give in to the sickness, which means I often refuse to rest or stay home from work. I try to show the virus (or bacteria or evil mutant space germs) who is boss, but in this case, I just ended up feeling worse and worse. I TRIED to go to work, and they sent me home because I looked and sounded like death herself. So, I stayed home for a whole week. I cleaned everything in our house, drank my weight in tea, drank a WHOLE BEAR full of honey, and made cupcakes (which will probably infect everyone else in the house, oops!). I stayed in my pajamas and sweatshirt and caught up on my reading. But it was still awful. For all the days I lie in bed and wish I could stay home from work, I now know that the flip side, staying home all day every day, is worse. So today, despite a lingering cough and brief periods of light headedness, I am at work. And I'm not in yoga pants. And it feels good.

Please pass the honey.

life

I'm good at taking care of things, I like to think. I have been told on multiple occasions that I'm quite good with kids, and to be honest, I think I am. Few things give me more pleasure than talking or drawing with a child between the ages of, say, 18 months and 4 years. Holding a baby is a unique kind of bliss. I have recently decided that after 4 years of art school and a year of social work with the homeless that my TRUE desire is to be a preschool teacher.

I'm good with animals, too. I spent two summers working as a zookeeper, and was the ONLY keeper for whom the zebras would approach the wagon rides. You want to see a zebra up close or have a chance at petting one? You better hope you were on one of my rides. In fact, I was the chosen keeper for training the camels and tagging baby deer, too. I spent 3 years in college volunteering at the local humane society, and at no point in my childhood had fewer than 3 pets, including, at most points, 2 dogs. If you're small and/or furry, there is a good chance that I will love you and take great pleasure in caring for you.

This is all to point out how sad it is in comparison that I kill every plant I have the audacity to look directly at. It isn't that I don't like plants, because I do. I especially love flowers, which my mom will tell you is partially why I kill everything. I insist on trying to grow flowering plants on windowsills with far too little sunlight, which is why they don't flower and, in most cases, don't live. But I don't care. Why would I grow ivy when I could grow daisies? The answer, of course, is that I CAN'T grow daisies, but whatever. I have, on occasion, set my sights lower, like the time I got a cactus. I was assured by multiple people that I could not kill a cactus, which was the basis of my purchasing it. It seemed to do well enough in the week or so I had it in Virginia, and then I put it in a cup holder to drive it 20 hours to school in Minnesota. I mean, it was in a flower pot, so what's the big deal? Well, at some point during the trip, perhaps while veering wildly to avoid a median, or while flailing in excitement at seeing a taco bell, or while trying to unearth a case of CDs from underneath some bedding, the cactus tipped over and fell out of the pot. Since there was still dirt all around the roots, I figured it was fine and stuck it back in the pot and vacuumed up the rest of the dirt. Apparently this is NOT how you care for unearthed cactus, because it died. Only- and here is the really sad part- I didn't know it was dead. I thought it seemed to be getting smaller, but convinced myself that I was just imagining things. That is, until the day when a book fell on it and it literally collapsed in on itself, revealing an interior that was completely hollow except for a bit of opaque ooze that, to be honest, reeked.

Anyway, I love to care for things, but do not have a green thumb. My mom gave me 3 pots of flowers that have managed to stay green on my windowsill, but have ceased to produce flowers (the little jerks). A few weeks ago, however, I was given three little flower pots in a bag of donated art supplies from the preschool where I used to work. The art supplies are for my art group at work, but the flower pots, I couldn't help but feel, were meant for me. After all, what would 14 adults do with 3 tiny flower pots? They came with little cakes of dirt you soak in water to make expand and 2 packets of seeds. I was hesitant to get my heart involved in something I know will end in sorrow, but then decided to go for it. I took my paintbrushes out of my tall plastic cup and soaked the little cakes of dirt. When they had achieved regular dirt status, I filled up the little pots and planted a few seeds in each one. For several days, I dribbled just a little water into each one, remembering from my grow-your-own daisy kit (which I later killed) that new seeds need pretty damp soil (but not TOO damp, but how do you KNOW?) and I waited. And I waited. And then today, out of nowhere, were 13 tiny sprouts! There are 3 in one pot, 2 in another, and 8 in the other other. It is just so beautiful. Yesterday I had three pots of dirt, and today I have 13 teeny tiny living growing beautiful plants. Sprouts. Whatever they are. They are supposed to grow into mums, though I am smarter than to think I will ever guide them to that stage. I know that they will last a few weeks and then slowly, much to my dismay, begin to wilt and die.

One day I really, really want to have a beautiful garden. I want to have a yard with so many daisies that you could pick a bouquet every day and never know the difference. I want to have pink roses that grow along a blue fence and tomato plants that produce so many tomatoes that I and the hundreds of orphans I hope to raise will be able to eat them at every meal. Actually, while I'm dreaming, I'm going to go ahead and say that I want tomato plants that produce all year long. Why stop in August? Give me tomatoes in February! I want to grow fresh herbs to season all the food I make, and plants inside in pots- two for every piece of electronic equipment in the room. I know this will (most likely) never happen, but today I don't care. Today I have 13 plants that I planted and watered and love, and I love them all the more for their vulnerability and inevitable demise.



"nothing we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility" e e cummings

Community

I've been meaning to write on intentional community for a while.

Living in community is one of the main reasons I chose to do MVS instead of the SALT program (which is a 1 year service abroad organization through the Mennonite Central Committee). In MVS, volunteers live together in a common space and share food, money, chores, sometimes a car, etc etc etc. I chose to come to Baltimore because our house is such a unique community. Instead of just having MVS volunteers, we have 13 housemates from 6 different countries. We have 5 refugees, 4 Mennonite volunteers, 1 Brethren volunteer, and 4 community members/ renters. We share chores, space, basic foods like flour, sugar, and spices, and of course our lives. When I have a hard day, there is always someone in the kitchen who will listen to me talk about it. When I am excited about something, someone will probably be in the living room to be excited with me. Community is a beautiful thing- when it works. But like everything else in the world, it doesn't work all the time.

Before there was sin in the world, God saw that it wasn't good for man to be alone. A lot of people take this verse to mean that God wants everyone to get married, but those people are idiots. Not everyone is supposed to get married, and marriage is not the most sacred institution or relationship on earth; one's relationship with God is. I think far fewer people need to get married and instead devote their lives to service and, yes, community. But I digress. I LOVE that after God makes (evolves) the world, the animals, and humans, He looks and sees that it isn't good enough to have just one person. It isn't sin that separates man from God or the animals, it's simply how we're made: we need each other. There is nothing wrong with feeling lonely. Wanting to be with others isn't weakness, it's instinct. Community is huge throughout the whole Bible. The Hebrews are selected and saved AS A PEOPLE. Jesus intentionally forms a tight-knit core group of disciples. Disciples are always sent out in pairs to go serve and heal and preach. The early church lived together and shared everything in common. Paul's epistles are written to entire church bodies and communities of believers. We were never meant to go it alone, and the gospel looks and feels different when it is lived out in it's proper context- that is, in community.

That being said, let me also say that community is really, really, really hard. Forming a "community" of a Bible study or even a group of friends while I was in college was an entirely different process than LIVING in community. Senior year I lived with 9 other girls, but I CHOSE those girls. We knew each other and made the conscious decision to live together. I did NOT chose the people I live with now, and to be honest, if I had a choice, there are some that I would not chose to live with. But I wasn't given a choice, I was given a family and asked to function with respect and even love within it.

I would say about 60- 65% of the time, my community is a good thing. When I'm cleaning the kitchen and someone helps me, even though it isn't their kitchen cleaning day, or when someone makes me tea because I'm sick, or teaches me to cook a food from their country, or shares a story about life before Baltimore, it feels like we really are one unit, here to serve each other.

But then there is that pesky 35- 40% of the time. The other times. The times when for the 6th time in a row I didn't use the last of the toilet paper, but the toilet paper is gone with no new roll in sight (yeah, the toilet paper fairy who magically replaces the roll when you use the last of it and leave the cardboard there? That's me). The times when no one communicated about using the car and now it's gone and no one knows where it is. The times when I just want to sit by myself and watch the Office online in my room and a housemate WILL NOT LEAVE or STOP TALKING about something irrelevant. Those times are hard. Really hard.

More than that, though, I've been shocked by how painfully lonely living in community can be. After all, loneliness isn't about being around people or not being around people; it's about feeling loved and understood and known and wanted. Living with 13 people doesn't mean that 13 people love and understand and know and want me, it just means they're obligated to give me phone messages and save me some of their dinner.

This community has not been what I expected or, to be honest, what I wanted. But more and more, at work and at home, I'm learning to die to myself and thrive on service. My life is not my own, and nothing drives that point home more than working 8 hours at a homeless shelter and coming home and having to cook dinner for all the volunteers and clean the bathroom, putting my needs and desires aside. I don't have the luxury of taking a nap or going to Starbucks or having cereal for dinner. I have certain obligations I need to do and certain relationships that I need to nurture, like it or not. Sometimes I do it well, and sometimes I don't. Sometimes other people in the house take care or me and nurture me well, and sometimes they don't. But for now, it works more often that it doesn't, and it's enriching, even when it's hard. And maybe that's all we can ask for.

Wow.

There is no such thing as a normal day at this job. I mean, there are certain things that I do every day or every week, but there is never a day that is exactly the same as any other.

A few days ago, a female client of ours got $700 on a a food stamp card (which works like a debit card, but only on food). The average food stamp award for a single person is only $160 a month, but she hadn't received them for quite a while even though she was entitled to them, so they gave them to her all at once. She has been clean for less than a month, and she told staff that she was concerned she would use the card to buy drugs. My first thought was, holy crap, I knew this was a bad area but they sell COCAINE in the GROCERY STORE?, but that wasn't it. She was afraid she would sell the card, then use that money to buy drugs, which is apparently pretty common (reason #64 why I would be a pretty bad drug addict).

She and the rest of the staff agreed that the best thing to do would be to spend the money on the card so it would be less of a temptation. I had my car here today, so I was given the task of taking her to the store to spend the money. She was really excited about being able to get lots of "extras" to share with the house. The shelter is fully stocked with food, of course, but only basic things, and they're the same all the time. So, off to Save-a-Lot we go, her food card in my hand, to feed the homeless.

The main thing she wanted was crab legs. We got $45 worth (about 5 pounds). We got tons of chips and cookies and soda and pies. I threw in a few bags of grapes, apples, and bananas. We got about 6 boxes of "fancy" cereal (off-brand Lucky Charms, Cookie Crisp, etc). We also got a 10 pound bucket (yes, BUCKET) of chitterlings. Google it. Then guess which one of us picked THAT one out.

It was nice being out with her, walking around the store, talking about our families and what foods we like and don't like. She was surprised but pleased that I don't have kids. She has 4 and is currently pregnant. But at the same time, it just seemed so odd. I wondered what the cashier thought as I pulled the card out of my pocket and gave it to her to use to pay. Of course, the reason they switched to cards was to make it less obvious that people were purchasing food with government assistance, but they're still pretty recognizable (and the fact that they have "INDEPENDENCE CARD" written in big red letters doesn't really help). We ended up spending about $300, mostly on junk. I was torn between being excited for our residents, some of whom have spent years living on the streets, who now get to have special things like cookies and cake and soda and crab. Another part of me was thinking about the dead babies I saw in Kenya who had starved to death. From anorexia to involuntary starvation to compulsive eating to $700 in back payments on food stamps that need to not be spent on drugs.... we, as a collective humanity, have a pretty f-ed up relationship with food.

When I got back to the shelter, I went through the mail, which I do every day. I also alphabetize it every day, but the overnight staff always mess it up. WHY? I don't know. You should ask them. Anyway, today we had a letter from prison. I LOVE when we have letters from prison, because I get to be the one to answer them. Granted, it's with a form letter explaining that we do take ex-offenders and has numbers and addresses for them to use to get housing through us, but I still like answering them. I like reading them and feeling like I get to help a person I might never see.

This letter wasn't seeking housing, though. It was from a 58 year old man seeking employment. He didn't say how long he had been in prison for, but he did say he has his masters degree in social work. He also said he has schizophrenia and bi-polar disorder. He ended the letter with, "I need to get back to work. I am sober now for the long run. Starting over is hard at my age. Please help me." When I took the letter to my manager to ask what I should write back, she pointed out that his release date had already passed and that he hadn't left an address other than the one of the prison, so we have no way to contact him.

Educationally (which is probably not a word), that man is more qualified for this job than I am. Actually, he is probably more qualified based on life experiences, too, and would probably not have to use urbandictionary.com to translate the drug slang the clients use. But here I am, working, smelling the crab legs that a client is so excited to serve her friends. And where he is? I can't know.

Housing.

I just got off the phone with a woman who was trying to reach our intake counselor, who doesn't actually work at this building. I told her she should call the main office and gave her the extension of the person she wanted to reach. She asked me if I could give her the name and number of someone who could help her if she couldn't get through to the first person, so I asked her what the call was regarding so I could know to whom I should refer her.

She told me that she had spoken with our intake person a year or so ago about getting housing and has been on the wait list. She is currently facing foreclosure on her house and just lost her job. She won't get her last paycheck from work until her eviction date, which is, of course, too late to stop the eviction from happening.

She was desperate; I could hear the sadness in her voice. I told her that there really wasn't anyone else for her to speak with, that the intake person is in charge of the wait list and all new clients. She asked what to do if the intake counselor didn't answer, and I told her to leave a detailed message, stating what was going on and emphasizing the fact that it is urgent, and that the counselor would get back to her.

She was persistent; I don't blame her. "And if she doesn't? What do I do? Who can I call or go to if she doesn't get back to me in time?"
I was silent. What do you say to that? This woman was asking me, point blank, how to avoid becoming homeless. What was I supposed to say? "Oh, I'm just a volunteer, I have a degree in art, I haven't worked here that long, I'm not a social worker...." I mean, what do you say to that?

I told her I didn't know who to call. I told her that the counselor WOULD call her back, that we understand that sometimes quick and decisive action is needed. I told her we would do everything we could to help her, and we will.

And if we don't? If we fail? If she falls between the cracks, and is literally left out in the cold?

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.