Dear Friends,

I’m not a big fan of state-sponsored gambling, but I’ve always liked those lottery commercials that end with “You can’t win if you don’t play!” When it comes to transforming broken lives in a positive way, I feel the same way. Even though your chances are generally slim, you’ve got to take a shot once in a while. Otherwise, there’s nothing to dream about.

Here in Walnut Hills, we’re taking a shot on Tasha this summer.

If you interviewed her, you’d immediately understand why seventeen-year-old Tasha has never had a job. The first thing you’d notice is that she’s hugely overweight—a combination of bad genes, worse food, and a lifetime of negative reinforcement. Moreover, she’s slow to read or do basic math, and painfully shy.

If you got to know her, though, you’d want to hire Tasha in spite of all that. You’d want to hire her because Tasha is as sweet a kid as you’ll ever meet, in this neighborhood or anywhere else. She’s quick to smile or to offer a hug, once she feels safe, and all the ugliness she’s seen hasn’t dimmed her kindness. We’ve known and loved her for years, and ever since she was old enough to work, different ones of us have helped her apply for jobs all over town, with no luck at all. It isn’t just that she needs the money, either. From a family of failure, what Tasha needs most is a taste of success.

Last month, a bunch of us sat around talking about Tasha for a long time. That’s what a community like ours does, after all. We talk about each other, with God in the room. We strategize about how to help this one grow up or that one grow strong. Sometimes it devolves into gossip, I’m afraid, but mostly it is just a bunch of friends plotting small-scale goodness. What we came up with this time is pretty creative, I think.

A few weeks ago, Tasha interviewed and got hired for a part-time job at the local thrift shop, working for a great lady who is committed to really teaching her the business. Tasha is saving a portion of each paycheck in a joint account with a young woman from our fellowship, helping buy groceries with another portion, and having fun with the rest like a normal teenager. What she doesn’t know is that our fellowship arranged the job and is providing her salary, without which the thrift shop lady simply couldn’t have afforded to give her this opportunity.

I just talked to her boss, who told me Tasha is doing great so far, and thanked me for sending her such a delightful worker. I also talked to the young woman helping Tasha manage her money, who told me how Tasha cried when she saw her first pay stub, and realized how much she had earned. Of course, the real test will come when their honeymoon is over, and then again when school starts. As crazy as it sounds, though, a job like this really could be this beautiful kid’s ticket to a decent, dignified life.

If it works out that way, of course, this little secret arrangement will be more than worth a thousand times the money it is costing us. Still, we needed that money to make it happen in the first place. Thanks to the relentlessly hopeful few who give in spite of my downbeat letters, we had it. Seriously, you know who you are. Thank you, from all of us.

And if it doesn’t work out, well, at least I’ll have the makings of another downbeat letter. In the meantime, though, I feel like a hard luck guy holding a brand new lottery ticket. Sure, I know my chances are slim. I know that from long experience. But I know this too: You’ve got to play to win.

Hopefully (whether I seem that way or not),

Bart

Dear Friends,

Out on the road, people often ask about the dangers of bringing up our kids in the ghetto. What they have in mind are drugs and violence, but what I fear most is their extended exposure to ignorance and impotence. There are exceptional individuals here to be sure, but the overall culture of this place is overwhelmingly dysfunctional. If it gets to me as a grown man, I wonder, what is it doing to the developing hearts and minds of my children?

Roman at seventeen is much taller and stronger than me, but coming home from his job as a bagger at the local supermarket he often reminds me of a hurt and angry little boy. It isn’t his bosses or the work itself that upsets him; it is the ongoing drama of child neglect, alcoholism, welfare fraud, theft, domestic violence, profanity, illiteracy, incompetence, and almost militant disinterest in doing the right thing, all on public display.

One day he watched a mother scream at her pre-teen girls for getting caught stealing baby formula and toilet paper, as if she hadn’t put them up to it in the first place. A week later, another mother told the cop shielding her 8 year old that she was going to beat the shit out of him as soon as they left, while the crying little boy kept leaning around, calling her a fucking bitch and telling her he wished she was dead. At the end of last month, Roman gained a lot of seniority when ten of his co-workers were caught on tape robbing their registers. At the beginning of this month, he rediscovered the ‘Check Day,’ when obese young women stuff their shopping carts with potato chips, candy, sugar cereals, and soda pop, all paid for with food stamps, while the rest of the neighborhood stocks up on beer and malt liquor. The good news is that, as part of our little fellowship, he knows lots of his customers by name. Actually, that’s the bad news.

Last night after work, Roman walked in, sat down at the dining room table, and told me he thinks people who can’t read, support themselves, or demonstrate any form of competency should be sterilized until those conditions no longer apply. For him, this was not an abstract policy idea, but rather a very personal, very emotional response to the lunacy he sees around him every day. He named the toddlers across the street, never read or talked to, parked in front of the television or left on the front porch for hours on end. He named the kids around the corner, who call at the end of every month looking for food while their mother and her boyfriend smoke and drink away in their rent-free government housing. He named teenaged parents we know who can’t take care of their dogs, let alone their children.

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t love and take care of people who are totally stupid and can’t do anything for themselves,” he told me, “I’m just saying we shouldn’t let people like that reproduce.” Then he asked what I think.

What do I think? Honestly, I think my poor, young, frustrated son is right. I also think that if you lived here for very long, up to your neck in the human wreckage of this toxic ghetto subculture, you might end up agreeing with us. I’m not saying that’s a good thing; I’m saying that’s the danger people ought to be asking about.

Sincerely,
Bart Campolo

Dear Friends,

The other day I ran into Cletus, an old friend I first met four years ago, over breakfast at the local soup kitchen. I don’t volunteer there; I go for the donuts. The priest who runs the place doesn’t mind. They’ve got plenty of volunteers, he tells me, but hardly anyone who’ll just sit at the table and talk with the guys about what’s in the newspaper. So now I’m that guy, and when it comes to current events, Cletus is my main sparring partner.

His story is familiar enough that I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say he traded a good family and a good job for a bad woman and a bad habit, and ended up with nobody and nothing of value. Unless you count self-knowledge and a sense of humor, in which case Cletus is a rich man.

In any case, on the day in question I was just making my rounds in the neighborhood, connecting with old friends and letting myself be seen by the folks who moved in over the winter. I was glad when Cletus saw me and called my name. It takes a few passes before new neighbors figure out that I belong here, unless they see me hailed down and hugged by an “old head” like him.

We stood and talked on the sidewalk for a while, mainly about another friend from the soup kitchen who had just gotten out of a nursing home after a stroke, and was already back on the pipe. I never saw Charlie look better and happier than in that home, I told Cletus. I wished they’d never let him out.

“Aw, Bart,” he said, “you know ol’ Charlie may have been better off in there, but what he really wanted was to be back out here, doin’ his thing.” He paused. “We all do what we want in the end.”

I nodded, and half-jokingly asked what I should say to the church people who are always asking me how they can help street guys like Charlie and him. He laughed out loud at that.

“Tell ‘em that most of us don’t want their help! Hell, I know I don’t! I had what they have and I threw it away to get high and chase women. That’s still my choice. If I ever get tired of it, I know you’ll help me, but for now I’m just as happy to have you as a friend and leave it at that.”

Then I laughed out loud too, and we left it at that.

We all do what we want in the end, says Cletus, and around here that’s the problem. For his wife and kids, and for the doctors and nurses who spent their time and your money fixing up ol’ Charlie, that’s the problem. For a guy like me, who keeps walking around wondering what I’m doing here, that’s the problem.

What am I doing here? Waiting for Cletus to want something better.

Sincerely,
Bart

P.S. – If you are interested, you can donate online at thewalnuthillsfellowship.org to support our little fellowship, which is conveniently registered as a 501c3 non-profit organization.

Dear Friend,

I can’t stand you. I think you are superior, pedantic, and totally offensive. I don’t come around anymore because I’m worried that if you piss me off again, I might punch you, and I don’t want to do that because, even though I pretty much hate your guts, I know you’re a really good person.

Confused yet? Trust me, if you had seen the dead-eyed hatred masking my old friend Tre’s face when he spoke those words to me, you would have been scared, too.

I didn’t see it coming, to tell you the truth. When Tre stopped coming to our Monday night dinners, when he started avoiding me around the neighborhood, I figured he was depressed over losing his job, or maybe embarrassed because we were the ones who got it for him in the first place, and the ones who got his rotten teeth pulled when we found out how much they hurt him, and the ones who invited his family to join our vacation in Chicago. It never occurred to me that he’d been hating on me all along.

Actually, I thought Tre and I had a pretty good friendship. We talked together easily, and often, and at great length, about everything from classic movies to jailhouse theology to the status of the many kids in our lives. He’s a warm, funny guy. He has a big vocabulary and an even bigger smile. Everybody likes him, and he seems—or seemed—to like everybody.

I only found out otherwise last week, when I finally ran into Tre at somebody else’s house. I could tell he was uncomfortable, so I asked if we could walk around the corner to talk privately. That’s where he let me have it.

Surprised as I was by his outburst, I think Tre was equally surprised by my response. He was looking for anger, or maybe a fight. That’s what happens in our neighborhood; you attack somebody and they attack you back. You attack me, however, and I just get hurt. I ask questions. I want to know exactly what I did wrong. So then, one last time, Tre and I talked together at great length.

Just afterwards, while my knees were still shaking, I was thinking that this was just another case of me over-helping somebody, putting them in my moral debt until they could bear no more, until I made them feel like a case, and not like a friend at all. But everyone knew I was genuinely crazy about Tre, especially him. I helped him, but he was always my friend.

Eventually, as I kept replaying that awful conversation and reflecting on our friendship, it dawned on me that the real problem wasn’t that I did too much for Tre. The real problem was that he didn’t do anything at all for me.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t expect friendships like Tre’s and mine to be entirely reciprocal. He’s a 27-year-old ex-con with no prospects; I’m a 47-year-old college graduate with every known privilege on earth. Then again, so what? I still need love. I still need encouragement. I have a birthday. I have a favorite candy bar. I could use a hand cleaning out Miss Mary’s basement. I’d like to be invited over to watch the big game once in a while. Tre gave me nothing.

It isn’t just me, either. Tre gives nothing to everyone in his life. It isn’t just that he doesn’t work, either. He doesn’t cook or clean for his girlfriend. He doesn’t help her kids with their homework, or show up at their school events, or tuck them in at night, either. He doesn’t give blood, or volunteer at the library, or even pick up the trash on his sidewalk. He’s the friendliest guy in the world, but he isn’t a real, giving friend to anyone.

Honestly, I don’t blame him. After all, Tre’s been on welfare his entire life. For as long as he can remember, strangers have been giving him things without expecting anything in return. His mother sat around. His uncles and older brothers sat around. Nobody he knew was a giver. Nobody taught him that everyone has something to give.

In the Bible, Jesus was watching rich people throw large contributions into the temple offering box, when a poor woman came up and put in two small coins. Jesus said that widow’s mite was more valuable to God than all the other gifts put together, because the others gave what they could easily afford, but she gave her all.

As I think about what happened with Tre, though, it occurs to me that giving that mite was valuable to the widow herself, in a different way. As my mother always said, you feel good about yourself when you do what you can for somebody else. You feel like part of the circle of giving. After giving all she could, my guess is that that woman had no problem receiving what others had to give her, as well. What goes around comes around.

I don’t know, but maybe if Tre had known how to be a better friend to me, maybe if he’d just done what he could for me, the way I did for him, he wouldn’t have ended up hating me. It’s impossible to hate someone, after all, when you’re busy trying to love them.

Sincerely,
Bart Campolo

P.S. – Pedantic…that’s a good thing, right?

Dear Friends,

As much as she doesn’t belong there, I almost left Denise in jail. The $400 it cost to get her out is a lot of money, after all, especially for a woman surviving on food stamps in a $25 per month HUD apartment our fellowship covers to keep her off the street. Then again, we cover it because we know she’s too sick and disabled to work, let alone do jail time.

Of course, as a taxpayer I understand the county’s case against Denise, whose three kids were raised entirely on county funds despite the fact that neither parent ever paid a dollar in child support. I understand why they want the more than $15,000 she still owes, and why they call it contempt of court when she is consistently unable to pay even her $65 monthly minimum. What I don’t understand is why the judge continues her case every few months, even though it’s obvious she’s permanently broke, or how it helps anyone to lock her up for missing one of those countless court dates, like they did last week.

“I can’t do this, Bart!” she wailed into the phone. Just the night before we had celebrated her long-awaited return to our Monday night dinner, after she nearly died of pancreatitis. Now she was worried about having to move too much, and losing sleep, and missing her medications. “I’m gonna die in here,” she cried.

I felt sorry for her, of course, but I also felt frustrated and angry with her. After all the time fellowship folks have spent hustling around for her these past few years, and all the money we’ve spent on her rent and prescriptions and household needs, and all the phone calls and application forms and letters and hospital visits, how could Denise mess everything up by forgetting her court date? Forget becoming an addict and abandoning her kids in the first place; I almost left someone I claim to love in jail for the higher crime of stupidly inconveniencing me once too often.

Or maybe I almost left her there because I couldn’t stand the thought of having to listen to Denise whine and complain and blame everybody but herself for her troubles all the way home. Maybe I’m just up to here with people telling me about how it was the boss’s fault they got fired, or the teacher’s fault they got suspended, or their friend’s fault they got arrested, or their lawyer’s fault they got convicted, or their landlord’s fault they got evicted, or the minister’s fault they quit going to church.

In any case, the next morning I paid the purge order, drove down to the county jail, and gritted my teeth as Denise got into my car. And then it happened.

“Bart,” she said, “As soon as they told me I was getting out, I knew it was y’all that did it. And I’m just so thankful that I have this fellowship family that does so much for me. But all last night I was laying there feeling sorry for myself, and I got to thinking how all of this is my own fault, and how it wasn’t anybody else’s job to remind me of my court dates or take me to them or anything. I know I told you I couldn’t do it, but I was wrong. If I had to stay there for a week or a month, I decided I wasn’t gonna complain or blame anybody, I was just gonna pray to God and hang on. It was me that put me in this situation, not you or nobody else.”

To me, it was a pure miracle. My frustration, my anger, all gone in an instant. That was all I wanted, I suddenly realized. That’s all most of us want, most of the time, almighty God included. Not perfection. Not even close to perfection. All we really want is for the people in our lives—our friends, our spouses, our children—to just take responsibility when they let us down. We can put up with a lot, we can forgive a lot, and we can help with a lot, and even do it with a smile most of the time, if only the person who blows it is just willing to admit that they are the person who blew it, not us, not somebody else. That, mixed together with a little genuine gratitude…my God, it is the jet fuel of compassion, the wonder drug for an ailing love.

I didn’t drive Denise straight home. I took her out to lunch first.

Sincerely,

Bart

If interested, you can donate online (thewalnuthillsfellowship.org) to support our little fellowship, which is conveniently registered as a 501c3 non-profit organization.

Dear Friends,

The jobs that pay my bills – speaking and managing EAPE – often carry me far from the jobs that don’t, writing and loving my neighbors here in Walnut Hills. Just a few weeks ago I found myself in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, where my old friends David Diggs, John Engle, and Kent Annan introduced me to the most dignified, courageous poor people I’ve ever met, who were cooperatively transforming their communities in ways I can hardly imagine happening in this neighborhood. Now I am wondering what will become of all that good work, and what has become of all those good people.

Having seen the desperation of Port-au-Prince just before this terrible earthquake, I know it must be the most terrible place on earth right now. My neighbors here in Walnut Hills are desperately poor in spirit, but our government consistently provides most of their basic physical needs. In Haiti, many people I met had literally nothing but faith, and yet they were organizing schools, learning to read, and rescuing children from grinding servitude, working with my friends’ sister organizations, Beyond Borders and Haiti Partners, to transform their own lives.

Now they need even more help, from families like ours, who know how to give.

Through EAPE, I have established a Haiti Earthquake Relief Fund (https://dlq4.donatelinq.net/qv10/Donation.aspx?MerchantID=EAPE) to collect donations from both our Walnut Hills Fellowship extended family and my father’s network, which we will turn over to our friends at Beyond Borders and Haiti Partners, who we trust most of all. Don’t worry about our little fellowship right now; we’re all giving to Haiti ourselves. Instead, pray for God’s people there, and give what you can to help.

Hoping against hope,

Bart

Dear Friends,

Knowing that you are presently being deluged by holiday greetings (and end-of-year solicitations), I have decided to keep this letter mercifully brief. You hear from me every month, after all.

Mainly, I just want to thank you for caring about our motley little fellowship. Knowing that so many of you actually read these letters, and often reflect on and respond to them as well, is a genuine encouragement to me and a reassuring reminder that we are part of something bigger and better than all we see here in Walnut Hills. I often think I am the most well-supported man on earth.

If you wonder about my wife and children, they are very fine and (in my not-so-humble opinion) quite dandy. Marty continues to grow more confident, both as an artist and as a human being, and that assurance translates into beautiful paintings and all kinds of blessings for those of us fortunate enough to be in her way. Miranda spent an amazing summer doing inner-city ministry with Urban Promise in Camden, NJ before beginning her sophomore year at our beloved Eastern University. When she is on her game, I know no better people-lover. Roman drives, plays varsity football, acts in plays, works part-time at the local Kroger supermarket, and socializes on a grand scale, but none of those activities really define him. A junior at Walnut Hills High School, he has more charisma than the rest of us put together, but what he will do with it remains to be seen. Me you already know about.

I’ll get back to telling stories next month, but these are enough words from me for now.

Much love,

Bart

Dear Friends,

Stanley is a dirty old man, and by that I don’t just mean he talks about younger women in inappropriate ways. He smells bad, too. Really bad. On the other hand, Stanley is about as gentle a fellow as you are likely to meet here in Walnut Hills, which is why the rest of us put up with his stink, even at the dinner table. He’s our friend, after all.

After dinner the other night, we held our annual show-and-tell talent show, which is kind of a homey cross between American Idol and The Jerry Springer Show. Just after one of our teenagers proudly modeled her pregnant belly (her talents, unfortunately, do not include good judgment), I was getting ready for “Cincinnati’s loudest burp” when Karen tapped me on the shoulder. “Della says Stanley has bedbugs all over his jacket,” she whispered urgently. “What do we do now?”

I quietly moved next to Della, who sadly shook her head. Sure enough, Stanley ’s back was literally crawling with bedbugs. How did I know they were bedbugs, you ask? Around here we learn to spot our bedbugs the way an endangered horror movie hero learns to spot her zombies. Della knew too. “You gotta get him out of here, or my family’s leaving,” she told me. “I love y’all, Bart, but we can’t be getting no bedbugs.” And just that quickly, everything changed between Stanley and the rest of us.

I called him outside, but there was no way to avoid embarrassing him. He didn’t argue or minimize the problem. He just shook his head and told me he didn’t know what to do. I shook my head too. Three weeks later, I still don’t know what to do.

If all this seems overly dramatic, then you must be unaware that bedbugs, which were largely wiped out in this country by DDT in the 1950s, are in the midst of a major resurgence, most especially among the poor people in inner-city neighborhoods who are least equipped to fight them. It only takes one hitching a ride on your clothes to infest your house, and after that they are incredibly difficult to get rid of, even with the help of an exterminator, and even if you can afford to throw away your bed and most of your furniture. They feed on your blood every three nights, but you can’t just leave and starve them out, because they can survive without feeding for more than a year.

Spiritually speaking, bedbugs are a kind of modern day leprosy. Della and her family aren’t the only ones afraid to touch Stanley these days; all of us keep our distance. Until we can find a way to shower and dress him in clean clothes each week, we don’t even let him come to dinner anymore. He’s a gentle old crackhead who needs our love, but we shun him.

We’re still not safe, of course. Every day we hug people who might be carriers, or invite their kids into our homes, or go to visit theirs. A few months ago, when Marty and I had a false alarm in our house, our whole ministry here flashed before our eyes. Bullets in the backyard we can handle, I think. Bedbugs…I don’t know. How can you love anybody if you can’t sleep anymore?

Then again, how well can you sleep when you know your old friend Stanley is just a few blocks away, filthy and bug-bitten and alone? Not so well, it turns out, when you think about it.

I used to judge all those Bible people who shunned the lepers to protect themselves and their families. I thought I was different because I was willing to spend my life in a ghetto. Now I know better…and wish I had some DDT.

Sincerely,

Bart

If you are interested it is possible to give online at www.thewalnuthillsfellowship.org.

Dear Friends,

It is Sunday night, and I am suddenly awake at the crack of too-close gunfire. I creep to the window without turning on the light, more curious than afraid until I remember I don’t know if Miranda and her friends are home from their movie. Looking out, I see three men spread out in the backyard we share with Ric and Karen, one moving slowly past the patio furniture where we had Sabina’s 7th birthday party that afternoon, the other two crouched by the trampoline Roman and his football buddies slept out on last week. Strangers in our space, clearly visible in the moonlight, probably carrying guns.

Marty hands me a phone, and the 911 operator keeps asking how many, what color, how old, how many shots, until I hiss at her to hurry up and send a car because they’re still out there, calling back and forth to each other, pointing at the apartments on the other side of our back fence. They move into the side yard, where they regroup for a moment, and then they walk out our gate and down our front steps, cross the sidewalk past three women they seem to know, and get into a grey, late-model sedan parked behind our minivan, where Miranda was supposed to have parked. God, don’t let her come home now, I think, as I keep narrating to the 911 lady, both of us knowing the information doesn’t really matter. The police always come too late. Sure enough, the grey car slowly pulls away, coming to a maddeningly full and legal stop before turning the corner and blending back into the city night The three women’s loud voices trail off in the other direction. It is quiet again. I am not afraid anymore. I am furious.

Those lousy ghetto bastards – my exact words at 2 AM – brought their ignorant violence into our yard on purpose. They weren’t running away from anything. They had a plan. They brought an audience. I don’t know their names, of course, but I know them just the same, because once they get that careless, they are all the same. Before I can stop myself, I hope aloud that they drive themselves off a bridge before they make any more babies. Across the room, Marty wonders aloud what happened to the kind and hopeful man who brought her to this place four years ago, in the name of Love. Finally, we turn on the light and call Miranda. Until she gets home, there is no use trying to sleep.

Hours later, everyone else is safe in bed, but I am in the bathroom, sitting, thinking, wishing I could pray. Beside the tub, Marty has left a book of poems. Reading them, I gradually forget who and where I am. And then I find this:

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn,
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

And suddenly, just as suddenly as those gunshots awakened me, I too don’t want to end up simply having visited this world, or even this neighborhood. I don’t want to end up angry or bitter. No, I want to believe in my heart that each life, and each name, and each body is indeed something precious, both to God and to me. I want to remarry amazement.

I sit alone for a long time, silently thankful for Mary Oliver, the poet, and for Marty Campolo, my conscience in many ways, and for Grace herself, who gives us all our second chances, and then I go back to bed. Tomorrow is Monday, and we in the fellowship will be eating our supper together.

Sincerely,

Bart

P.S. – I wrote this up the day after it happened, early in the summer. Honestly, two days after that, life on Hemlock Street went back to normal, which is to say, life for us and our friends here went back to being pretty terrific. We might be more fearful if such thugs came that close again, or if they were aiming at us, but they haven’t, and they aren’t, so we’re not. If you really want to scare us these days, forget bullets and focus on that force of evil which truly threatens to destroy the good life we share here in Walnut Hills: Bedbugs. Think I’m kidding? Read next month’s letter.

Dear Friends,

First of all, to all of you who took the time to write such thoughtful responses to last month’s letters, a big fat thank you! Your combined wisdom and encouragement—excepting a few very serious cranks among you—are the makings of a good book about coping with hard-to-love people. As for you very serious cranks, well, thanks to the others, I should have you well in hand any time now.

In the meantime, below is the copy of a letter I recently hand-delivered (and explained) to everyone in our fellowship, which signals a significant shift in our Monday night dinner plans for this year. The bottom line is that while our little core group doesn’t mind throwing the occasional ‘light and airy’ party for lots of our neighbors, we’re no longer up for doing that every week. On the contrary, we’d rather increase the relational and spiritual intensity of our fellowship, go deeper with a few, and see what happens.

You’ll see too, of course, whether or not it’s pretty. That’s what you get for giving me your e-mail address in a vulnerable moment. Next time, do what smart people do when they pass through the ‘hood: Hand the needy-looking guy some cash and keep on moving.

Keep the faith,

Bart

PS – I have been asked to reiterate that you can donate online to support our fellowship, which is conveniently registered as a 501c3 non-profit organization. Consider it done.

Dear Members and Friends of the Walnut Hills Fellowship,

Bart