Dear Friends,

I won’t even try to describe all the ghetto details of finding a HUD apartment for a homeless, no-income family which consists of a single mother, five kids under the age of nine, and the two youngest kids’ unemployed but nonetheless nurturing father. Suffice to say that after three weeks of slogging through that kind of absurdity and ugliness, I began to understand why the mother, our friend Jaleena, tried to kill herself when her original building got condemned. Without my car, phone, and checkbook, they would still be in a shelter. Even with all that, we barely managed an awful apartment, and by the time we did most of the furniture Jaleena had left in the old place had been stolen by her former landlord.

So then, there I was last Saturday, along with our friend Kwami (the nurturing boyfriend), loading and unloading a truckload of second hand bunk beds and bureaus, wondering how long my surgically repaired ankles and arthritic hands would hold up. I could have found somebody else to do it, of course, but no one I trust enough to do it right. Strange as it sounds, moving donated furniture into a broken down family’s worn out HUD apartment is an awfully delicate job.

It wasn’t about the furniture, after all, just like it wasn’t about all the phone calls, line-waiting, sidewalk hot dogs, application fees, and driving all over town. That stuff is valuable sometimes, but it sure as hell isn’t enough to keep us here in this neighborhood on a bad day. No, the real job – the job that keeps us here – is about communicating genuine, garden-variety love to incredibly vulnerable poor people who feel quite certain that they aren’t worthy of your interest, let alone your friendship.

To do that, well, you can’t act too cheerful about giving up your Saturday. On the contrary, you have to whine about the heat and swear out loud when your thumb gets crushed between the couch and the doorjamb, like you would if you were moving your sister’s stuff. You take the beer if they offer it, and hint around if they don’t, and either way you let the guy know he’ll be helping you move some of your stuff soon enough. There’s a lot more to it than that, of course, but I can’t really explain it to you. Nobody can. That’s the problem.

These days I encounter lots of people who want to love poor people, just like Shane Claiborne or John Perkins or Dorothy Day or some other radical Jesus-follower they’ve heard of or read about. Some of them want to move to the inner-city, or to an African slum, or an Indian orphanage, or a Native American reservation. Others want to reach out right where they are. Either way, their enthusiasm for serving God’s people in need is positively thrilling to me. And yet…my first instinct is to keep them away from Jaleena and Kwami.

Perhaps it would be easier for us to welcome such people if we were running a soup kitchen or a shelter, but we have no program standing between us and our neighbors here. We have no clients, after all, only friends, and given all the differences and fears and brokenness among us, keeping those friendships genuine is a tricky business indeed. I am often amazed at the beauty of our little fellowship, but I am always aware that it must be protected.

So then, forgive me if I complain about my sore ankles and aching hands, but then won’t let anybody but Kwami help me with the furniture. It’s my job, after all, and I’m glad to have it.

Keep the Faith,

Bart

PS For those of you looking for an update, Bobbie hasn’t yet passed her truck driver’s license test, but she hasn’t given up on it either. It turns out she has four tries before she has to start all over again. Her school will keep working with her for as long that takes, but I still fear Bobbie’s opportunity may be slipping away. Honestly, between the dangers her inner demons, the toils of the learning itself, and the snares of her extended family, she’s going to need more grace than I’m used to counting on. Pray for me.