Changing the World

15 Seconds

2011-05-04T09:27:00.000-07:00

Have you ever stood in line at the grocery store and the checker is a little slower than you’d like? You’re in a hurry. You’re meeting a friend for the matinee showing of the latest Harry Potter movie, and now you’re going to be late. To make matters worse, the elderly woman in front of you insists on paying with way too many coins. She is short three pennies and she has to dig in her purse some more. Now she’s lost count and has to start all over again. Frustrating isn’t it?

It is finally your turn. You pay for the candy bars and chips you are going to sneak into the theater. There is no way you are going to pay those high prices the theater charges when your purse is big enough to hide a gallon of milk. You walk out the door and head to your car. Another shopper has left their cart in front of your vehicle and now you have to take the time to move it. Seriously? Why would they do that?

You get stuck in traffic and the man in the blue car wants to get over. You see his blinker but you think, “No way I’m letting you in. I’m in a hurry, besides, I was here first.” He cuts you off. You are sooo angry, you raise your fist and say a few words you know you probably shouldn’t, which he can’t hear anyway.

You finally get there, pay for your tickets and enter the theater just as the credits are beginning. You knew you were going to be late. You’re frustrated and it takes all 6 previews to calm you down enough to really enjoy Harry, Ron and Hermione.

You know what irks me about all of this? That we as humans are arrogant enough to think that it’s all about us. We deserve for things to go our way and when they don’t, we often believe that the world as we know it is going to come to an end.

Let’s go back and break down the scenario. Let’s make it about them and not us.

The slow checker just found out her child has leukemia, but yet she was at work because she can’t afford not to be. She’d rather be home playing with that child who may not see his 10th birthday. She took an extra 15 seconds to ring up each order.

The old lady who counted out her change had just lost her husband of 57 years. Where once her days were filled with the joy of waking every morning to the smiling face of her Joe, now they were filled with emptiness and sadness. It took her 15 seconds to count out that change.

It took you fifteen seconds to move the shopping cart that was left behind because the two year old stood up in the seat and fell, splitting her lip open. Mom had to rush her for stitches.

And that man who cut you off on the freeway? His wife had been in a terrible car accident. He may only have a few minutes to say his goodbyes.

So all of these things that interfered with your life took a total of one full minute away from the goings on at Hogwarts Academy. But even if it made you ten minutes late. So what?

What can we really do in 15 seconds?

In 15 seconds, you can:
Pour yourself a cup of coffee
Turn on the hot water for your morning shower
Kiss your children or grandchildren goodnight
Wave to a neighbor
Get the mail
Put away the leftovers for lunch tomorrow
Put the clothes in the dryer

With 15 seconds, you can be a change in the world. All it takes in one thing. One 15 second event that can help to change the lives of hundreds of people.

SMILE.

That’s all it takes.

When you smile at the slow checker, it lets her know she’s doing a great job.

When you smile at the old lady who is having trouble counting out change, you are letting her know she matters and she’s not alone.

When you smile at the man who just cut you off in traffic, you are letting him know that what is going on in his life is important.

Smile at the homeless person on the corner.

You never know. That smile, that moment of acknowledgement may mean the difference between being homeless for another year or having the courage to take the next step to get the help he needs to start over again.

There are 31,536,000 seconds in a year. Life is too short to worry about 15 of them.

Head Smart, Heart Foolish

2010-08-31T06:30:00.000-07:00

Well...for those of you still patient enough to log on, between problems with the computer (I apparently need a new motherboard, but the tech showed me how to override the problem, at least temporarily) and being on the coast for the last several days, therefore have been unable to blog through my phone as I have in the past.

Anyway...I am finally leaving the coast and am moving inland, therefore can again give you updates from the streets of the Pacific northwest, perhaps, if not daily then at least a few times per week. I am thrilled at this prospect of course because I am so far behind on blogs due several shelters we have visited. For now however, I think I'd like to catch up on lessons learned for a bit. I know I have friends out there who are a bit worried since you haven't heard from me for a while, and I thank you for the good thoughts and prayers.

I have a friend who recently told me she did not know the now solemn, demure, humbled, Lynn that stood before her and she was 100% correct. I return to Oregon a different person than when I left. I know I have said this before, but I believe it will almost be a new mantra. I set out to change the world and instead the world changed me.

I look at the world through a homeless set of eyes now. When I walk into a grocery store, the things I take note of are not the freshness of the produce look, nor what's on sale. The first thing I look for are the hours of operation. Are they open 24 hours so if I have to relieve myself I can do so with dignity and not have to pee in a cup to be disposed of at a later time? The second is the location of those emancipating restrooms, and the third, is there a soda dispenser in order to get fresh water, and ice. The final thing is the location of the street lights. It's hard to sleep with a spot light shining in your eyes, so we look for the darkest corners if we choose to sleep in a busy parking lot.

One of the things I have mentioned recently is the wild fennel that grows rampant on the California Coast. Lavender and rosemary, my favorite herb of all time, grow in abundance as well. My traveling companion always gets a kick out of how I constantly run my hands along the fresh exhilarating, oil laden leaves. He jokes that I am the only woman in the world he knows that uses rosemary behind her ears instead of perfume. The fact is in my homeless days of long a long, I discovered that not only are both fennel, and rosemary invigorating, but they are natural deodorizers. When we are not able to bathe for more than 2 days in a row, I will break a piece off and rub it on my arms, and my neck.

As we drive along the good earth the Lord has provided, we notice the beauty of it secondary to, where can we park the car and sleep privately for a night. There is a nook here; a cranny there, but questions arise such as will it be safe here. Not necessarily from human intruders but from bestial ones. There have been times we have come across mountain lion, bear, and even rattlesnake warning signs that have us wondering if our choices are once again, so smart.

It was explained that the foods eaten by the homeless are foods that are meant to fatten you up. High fat, high carb foods that will keep meat on your bones in colder days. This made sense of course once we actually took note of the homeless we interviewed and saw throughout each city. After all, the majority of the homeless spend much of their time walking, day in and day out. Much more than I did on this trip, and as I looked around I thought to myself, I have yet to see a skinny homeless person. So they are eating well, not necessarily so healthy.

One thing we heard from more than one service provider was the fact that many times formerly homeless people have something similar to survivors guilt. If a family member or friend needs help financially, these formerly people will, to the detriment of their own finances, give to those in need. Even if they know the reasons are bogus. They fear letting them down even if these people have let them down time and time again. Some have been known to pay a relative rent before they pay their own. They give the shirt off their back so their relative will not have to suffer the same fate as they had.

That fact shouted out to me as if it were written in neon lighting. I do exactly that. I act with good intentions, but those actions are not always so smart. My heart tells me; they have three children. They can't always afford to pay their rent. But then you hear how she gets her hair and nails done each month as well as goes tanning twice a week. He took the family out to an amusement park and spent more than $150. You hear how he bought several rounds of drinks for his friends, but can't pay his phone bill.

My head tells me logically of course, you can't do that. You can't afford it. You will loose your own home, your own vehicle, food out of your own mouth, never mind the fact that you know what they are in trouble because of their own doing. I believe it's called co-dependence personified. I suppose I could say the same about me right this very minute.

Before I began this trip, my thoughts were on being a good samaratin and helping others. It turns out, it has been once again, at my expense, pun not intended but apropos.

Since my car was going to be just sitting for four months (now 6) I loaned it to a family that greatly needed it. Sadly it no longer runs. It was an oldie but a goodie, and now it exists no longer.

I loaned someone else my bed. The home it went to is flea infested, not to mention that the child of the household, wet the bed time and time again. Now apparently the bed has been disposed of because it was in such horrible shape. The family cannot afford to replace it for me.

In my arrogance, I gave away ALL of my clothes, thinking because of the amount of walking being done I would drop 70 or so pounds. Nothing could be further from the truth. Since I ate the same foods the homeless ate, I only dropped a bout 10, maybe 15 pounds. So now, all I have when I come back are the clothes I brought with me. That will teach me to think so well of myself.

While on this trip, I gave every one of my blankets, coats and gloves to the homeless. Although on limited funds ourselves, when we could, we bought a meal for a homeless person here and there. Mostly we listened and offered a prayer or two.

Do I regret these actions. I'd would be less than truthful if I said no, but it was done with the best of intentions, without the expectations of recieving anything in return. The regrets are only that I have no means at this present time or replace these things for myself. Am I asking for a handout for myself? Heavens no! I got myself into this mess, I will get myself out. I have a merciful God who knows my heart was in the right place even if my logic was not.

I share this to give you a better understanding of how some people get themselves into financial difficulties out of acts of co-dependent love. This 'ever enabling mother' has learned her lessons well.

Politics Schmolitics

2010-08-27T08:59:00.000-07:00

Today, I am going to put my political two cents in. Again. If you have been following my blog regularly you will know that when I get back to Portland, I have no home to return to. that got me to thinking about transitional housing for those who are not drug addicts or alcoholics. So far, we have found none.

Although limited, there is space available if you are single with a child, pregnant with a child, even married with a child. There is space if you have a drug addiction, if you are an alcoholic, or if you are mentally ill.

If you have been beaten to a pulp by a loved one you can not only get into safe housing but you can be given your own apartment paid for, at least for the first 90 days.

Now, here's the rub. If you are a woman who has been told by her roommate that she no longer wants a roommate, as in my case, or if you are a woman who was out of work for more than two years because of a work injury, also as in my case, or if you are a woman who is just down on your luck, then it seems you are out of luck because other than a first come first serve basis dorm of beds, there is nothing out there for you.

I can tell you that we have met many, many homeless men and women who do not want to be in the streets, but due to unforeseen circumstances they are. They also feel a huge sense of hopelessness for they are low on the totem pole as to who is a priority in who receives help.

So what do we do about it? Other than opening my big mouth and protesting the inequality of the system, I haven't a clue. Any ideas?

Have You Seen My Childhood?

2010-08-26T07:34:00.001-07:00

Andy Parker slept under the stars for the first time last night. He didn't notice the glow of the starlit evening. He didn't notice the light they gave off illuminating the path he could have chosen. Instead he lay shivering, huddled under a piece of cardboard, barely big enough for his not yet fully grown body. He thought of his mother then, wondering why?

"You're just like your no good daddy," she shouted, exhaling a veil of sour liquored breath. "You ain't good for nothin are you boy? You're probly gonna leave me high and dry just like he did, aren't you?

"But Ma," Andy protested, "Daddy didn't leave you. He died.

"Well he ain't here now is he Mr. Smart Mouth?" Andy turns to let his mother stew in her own drunken stupor. "Don't you walk away from me boy!"

He stops, turns and ducks, just before the blow would have struck his face. He didn't want to explain another black eye to his teacher.

"Get out!" his mother shouted. "Get out of my house."

"But mom, where will I go?"

"Ask me if I give a rats ass," she said under her breath. "You can go to hell for all I care. I don't ever want to see your sorry face her again. You hear me boy?"

He heard.

'An innocent' they called Andy. During the month he had been in Balboa Park, he had earned the nickname Pony Boy, after the youngest character in the Outsiders. They stood together, the dozens of teenagers that became 'family' to Andy. They watched each others backs.

Andy was the one they watched out for the most. He was the only blond haired, blue eyed of the bunch. He was the kind the men in the BMW's, Cadillacs and Mercedes who came around after dark sought out the most. It was cold the night Andy found himself alone. He had been sick all day, so the others had gone to find food without him. He knew they'd bring some for him.

"Hey son," the bald man in the jaguar coaxed. "Want to earn $100 dollars?" Andy nodded. "My wife's away for a few days. It gets kind of lonely in the house."

Andy looked around for guidance. No one was there. If there had been, they would have recognized the look of desperation on Andy's face. They had all been there before.

He pushed away the thoughts that begged him not to go. The call of warmth and a full belly beckoned to him. Andy shrugged and walked to the car, feeling the blast of heat before he sat down. The man smelled of sweat, stale cigarettes and too much English Leather. He ignored the sausage like fingers that now rested upon his knee.

Andy walked toward the overpass at I-5 and Friars Road. You know. The high one, out near Murphy Canyon Road. He forgets the crisp $100 bill, hidden safely in his pocket. He doesn't feel the warmth of the sun on his back. He doesn't hear the blaring of the horns, warning him to steer clear of the heavy traffic. In his daze, he hears nothing. Not the screeching of tires; nor the pleas for him to get back from the railing he just stepped over.

A single tears escapes him. He thinks of the man who stole from him last night, the last ounce of childhood Andy had left. He takes one more step, and falling, his last thoughts of the mother who threw him away. He wondered if she would ever think of him again. Thirteen year old Andrew Parker died that sun filled Indian Summer day in San Diego. He was 'an innocent' no more.

Obscene Littering

2010-08-23T07:31:00.000-07:00

When I arrive back in Portland on the 15th of October, I will have been gone for just a few days shy of 6 months. Probably the biggest thing I have discovered about myself on this trip, is what a homeless snob I am.

I am used to going to the fridge and finding it full of vegetables, fruit, meats, condiments and juices available whenever the hunger urge strikes. I am spoiled by my Egyptian Cotton, 600 thread count sheets and a Therapeutic mattress topper that helps me sleep like a baby. I love my Internet capability which allows me to log on, on a whim.

The fridge has shrunk, and food is stored in a small cooler that needs to be replenished daily with ice. I brought my sheets with me, and yes I do use them. I told you I was a snob. The mattress topper wouldn't fit in the van however, and I truly don't sleep well at all cramped in the front seat of a mini van, especially with a bum hip and bad knees...but of all the wonderful things that money can buy, the thing I find I miss the most is my bathroom.

What I wouldn't give for the privacy of a shower curtain, or a toilet within walking distance of my bed. While in Washington, and Oregon we had rest rooms at our disposal what with all of the rest areas available for a travelers convenience. Since crossing the California border however, not only have our safe sleeping accommodations been taken away with the closure of their rest areas, but so has our ability to relieve ourselves privately, when nature calls in the middle of the night. So what do we do?

At first, we drove around looking for a 24 hour Safeway, or Denny's which never closes. Even they got further and further apart. Although completely unsanitary, I believe it is much easier for a man to answer the call of duty in the woods than a woman. Especially a middle aged woman with knees that don't cooperate therefore squatting is not an option.

Of course this got me to thinking right away about all of the homeless we have come across. Every once in a while, we would find someone crawling out from behind a bush, toilet paper roll in hand, so it was pretty obvious what how they spelled relief.

After more research, I found out that if caught in the act, the official charge is 'Obscene Littering.' Fancy name for such a touchy subject. I mean seriously, I think of places like San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, where homelesness is in abundance in the city streets. There aren't nearly enough beds to accomodate all of those people, and if their doors are closed once beds are assigned, where are the 6000 people on skid row to go? Answer...anywhere they can.

During the day of course is a different matter. There is always the local McDonalds, or library or other establishment whose doors must by law remain unlocked to the public. At night however, the police, for the most part, look the other way. They are overwhelmed by the homeless situation and it is far beyond their control to arrest 6,000 people each night.

More porta potty's need to be provided, if housing cannot. But it is not in the city's budgets to supply them let alone clean them once in a while. So what's the answer? I wish I knew. I'm working on it, but at the moment all I can do is worry about my own middle of the night call of nature.

What does this old lady do in the middle of nowhere? Sadly, when my bladder is beyond bursting, I do what all the other homeless women do. I pee in a cup, put a lid on it and empty this pocket sized honey bucket in the next available toilet.

Fred and Ethel

2010-08-22T16:43:00.000-07:00

The Tom Joad’s dust bowl of Oklahoma I had pictured in my mind was hot and sticky with various shades of gray. I imagined seeing a dust storm or perhaps even a twister coming just in time to head for cover. The Grapes of Wrath men would be in overalls with some type of well worn hat, chewing on a piece of straw. The women would all be large buxom grandmotherly types, and all, wiping their hands on their aprons after having just taken some wonderful hot buttered delicacy from the oven. And of course, each and every one would have white hair worn in some type of bun almost halo like extolling their god-fearing virtues.
The truth was, when we arrived in Oklahoma, we found ourselves smack dab in the middle of a bigger snow storm than the one that stranded us for an evening in Ohio. The flakes were fat and feathery. The kind you’d rather watch through the safety of your living room window while doing jigsaw puzzles in front of the fire, instead of our intermittently working windshield wipers.

It was a beautiful sight and the kids hadn’t any play time since this whole ordeal began. Although I hesitated at first we took a break at a rest stop. We bombarded each other with snow balls for a full thirty minutes of freezing on purpose, and called it “having fun”. Val and Dominick had always been guarded at home and taught by their father that children should be seen and not heard.

He was no where around to hear their howls of laughter, which to me was the most beautiful sound in the world. It did my heart good, not having heard the children laugh so freely in quite some time. By the time we headed back to the truck, we were half frost-bitten, wet, exhausted and deliriously happy. Only I noticed that the short walk to our awaiting chariot was getting a bit slippery.

With Val soon asleep, wrapped in a blanket on the floorboard and Dominick beside me, just beginning to allow his eyes to close, I felt myself getting drowsy as well. I slapped my cheeks, willing myself to stay awake and alert. I would stop soon and sleep for a while, but right now I wanted no more delays than necessary and decided to weather the storm (no pun intended) and forge ahead before the roads became impassible.

It seemed like a matter of moments before I found myself jolted by a thud. To my horror, I had in fact fallen asleep and begun to run off the road. I righted the truck just in time to see ahead, a large dark shadow in the middle of the highway. Although a city girl, I do know a bull from a horse from a deer and what was looming ahead was none of the above. I blared my horn which roused my son but did nothing to dispel the creature I was about to strike. I did the only thing I could do and slammed on my brakes.

The back end of the truck began to swerve to the left although I was turning to the right. With Val lying on the floor board wrapped in a blanket, she was somewhat protected. Dominick however was being tossed around like a rag doll. On this partially deserted highway in Oklahoma, I just knew we were going to die.

We hit the center railing, jumped the median and were now headed in the wrong direction, yet the truck still had not stopped. It was careening towards a ditch that, although as we found out later was no more than three feet deep, it was deep enough to make the truck turn over once and somehow right itself. The world had finally stopped spinning.

I released my breath which, until now I had not realized I was holding. In less than a second I assessed the situation. Val seemed unscathed; rubbing her eyes as she sleepily emerged from her cocoon. Dominick whose grin would have given the Cheshire cat a run for its money, seemed no less for wear either.

“That was fun mommy,” he chimed. “Let’s do it again.”

Obviously, the only one with frazzled nerves, I gathered my children up in my arms and held them tightly, making a sound that was half laugh and half cry. I had put my children’s lives in jeopardy. I had taken my kids from one dangerous situation and had put them in another. I never could have known that this was only the beginning of a new perilous life.

No one that stopped to help us was dressed in overalls. I was now sure that the grandmothers in Oklahoma helped more in the fields along side their husbands than in the kitchen, and their hearts were larger than the state itself. I say this simply because of the three women and six men that showed up at our wreck. It was the women who took control and calmly assessed the damage both to us and the truck. It was the women who were calm cool and collected and did more than just stand around and observe the scene. It was the women who had the strength and the backbone to get things done, and I wanted to be just like them when I grew up.

Miraculously, not only were none of us damaged too much, but neither was the truck. Oh it had scratches up one side and down the other, but the dents were not nearly as bad as I thought they would be and it was still drivable. The women fussed over us, brought blankets from their car and one even offered me a shot of brandy from the flask she had taken from her husband.

“No thank you,” I declined politely. “I need to get back on the road.”

“Not tonight you’re not,” the woman with the brandy declared. “I’m taking you home with me sweetie and I don’t want to hear a word about it. You and your children need to settle down for the night in a nice warm bed, not the front of a truck.” Before I could say anything she turned to whom I presumed to be her husband. “We’ll see to the truck, won’t we Fred?”

“You bet Ethel” declared the short round bald man.

“Fred and Ethel”? I thought to myself. As if she could read my thoughts Ethel turned to me and with eyebrows raised scolded, “Honey, don’t say a solitary word. We’ve heard all the Fred and Ethel jokes there ever was and if it weren’t for the fact I love this old coot I would have divorced him long ago just ‘cuz I can’t stand our names.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” I wouldn’t have either, but only out of politeness.

“Yeah well, I heard those wheels spinning up there. Anyway, let’s get you to a nice hot bath and feather bed. You can tell us in the morning why you’re out here all alone with two kids and not a husband in sight.”

I had seen that look on my own mother’s face to know there was no arguing with this woman. I took my kids by their frightened little hands and followed the leader.

Chapter four to be continued

Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Wireless Gone

2010-08-18T14:17:00.000-07:00

As you know, I made it to my goal of Mexico and am heading North. We thought to take the coastal route and enjoy a few days of respite before diving back into the heart wrenching task at hand of reaching out to the thousands of homeless we were not able to reach on the way south.

Sadly to my surprise, as we took our time, the further North we got, the less places to plug in our modem. Today is the first time since Tuesday that we have found a place to do so. Hopefully, for the next week or so at least, I will be able to blog regularly again.

I find these days that I cannot seem to turn my brain off. Since I am no longer officially on the Change-for-Life Walk, will I really continue to have followers as I continue the mission North? I suppose it doesn't really matter, although I like to think so. What does matter is that I keep putting one foot in front of the other and continue doing what I believe God has called me to do.

Some days, He puts a homeless person, couple or family in my path and I spend time getting to know them, their stories and what their hopes are for their future. Sometimes He has me spending the time catching up on listening to the tapes of the dozens of interviews I have yet to be able to blog about. Other times it is continuing to write pages in one of the three books I am writing. And upon occasion, like yesterday, He just has me stopping to smell the fennel or rosemary that I so dearly love, and grows wild along the California Coast.

Whichever the case may be, it is still the footwork for future Change-for-Life endeavors. I am as you read this blog, putting together plans to do the East Coast walk next year. Now I of all people fully understand that plans can change on a daily basis and that God may be having a good laugh at my expense, but I with the success of this trip, I hope next years will not only happen, but will be even more successful.

For now, I move forward with current plans and will be back in Portland on the 15th of October. In the meantime, I do hope you will continue to check in once in a while for I will continue to blog as often as I can and keep you apprised of where I am, and future plans for this undertaking. I will also be including more chapters from my book, Finding My Way Home. Chapters one and two were the blogs Kiss Your Eyes Sing you to Sleep and Wherever the Road May Lead.

I would appreciate any feedback you may have to offer, because although I am none to fond of having my life out there for the whole world to see, I also believe that if there is one person who can benefit from hearing my story, then it must be told.

Anyway...thank you all for your support and loyalty, even through the insanity.

The Center of it All

2010-08-17T16:30:00.000-07:00

The wind stops blowing. The birds become silent. The stars plummet from the galaxy. The earth stops spinning on its axis as your world comes crashing in.

First you cry. Fear sets in as you lie in bed and think of your future. Will you have one? How do I tell my husband? How do I tell my children? How can I get through this? Why me?

Your body changes. You look in the mirror and no longer see the same woman. He walks in and you grab a towel. You hide. Don't look at me. I'm ugly. Don't touch me. Keep away.

He takes the towel aside, kisses the breast that is no longer there. He touches your cheek, turns, and walks away. You won't be okay for your life has changed forever, but you will go on. You have love on your side.

The doctor gives you the update. You release the breath you didn't realize you had been holding for months. You will live to see your grandchildren grow up.

One of my dearest friends, Paulie, was the lucky winner of two tickets to the cancer ball. She has an amazing faith in a God bigger than life itself, and the love of a wonderful husband who carried her through it all when she could not carry herself.

The link below is a tribute to women who have survived cancer. It is well worth watching and what prompted the writing of this blog. I do hope you will watch it before reading the remainder of this blog.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xnguqsMQmg4&feature=related

Three years ago, I found a lump in my breast. The day I went for the testing that could have changed my life forever, Paulie showed up to be there for support. Being single, she wanted me to know someone cared, someone loved me enough to offer a shoulder if the news was bad, or a celebratory hug if the news was good. Thank you was not enough to express how I felt, but just having here there by my side meant everything to me.

For most women who live in the streets there are no friends, there are no Paulie's to hold your hand when your afraid. There are no such things as yearly exams, or even self-examinations. If they even find a lump it is often to late for medical treatment.

What happens to any type of medical care when you live in the streets? Where do you get your insulin? Your high blood pressure medicine? What about heart conditions? How are these treated? In Los Angeles, it's at the Weingart Center for Community Health.

With some insurance plans each time you go in to see a doctor, you never see the same one twice. You're just a number, a dollar sign, not a person with problems that may go deeper than a stomach ache or a even a lump in a breast. Not at The Weingart Center for Community Health.

If you live on skid row, The Weingart Center for Community Health, a state of the art comprehensive health facility, wants you to have a Paulie in your life too. Therefore at skid row's only health clinic, your doctor will be the same from the first visit to the twelfth, even the fiftieth visit. You will have the comfort of knowing that someone cares. You won't have to repeat your medical history to everyone you see.

If you need blood work, there are labs on site. If you you need an x-ray, machines are on the premises. Heart problems? There are specialists on staff. Dental work can be taken care of. Glasses can be prescribed, and the worries of no care for ill health can be put aside.

You are offered a personalized plan to a life free of the enslavement of addiction. If you need help to get through this traumatic time in your life, the same psychologist will see you each time you come in. The list goes on.

But most importantly, at the Weingart Center for Community Health, you are not a bum. You are not a vagrant. You are not an alcoholic, nor a drug addict. You're not even homeless. You are someone who matters. You are someone with a name. You are a Ruth. A Caleb. A Jessie. You are a person who deserves to be cared for with respect, compassion and love. All you have to do is walk through the door, and let The Weingart Center for Community Health be your Paulie.

Turn Around, Look at Me

2010-08-13T14:04:00.000-07:00

I don’t understand why anyone would live like that. He’s an old man. He’s filthy, he stinks. He’s disgusting.

There is someone walking behind you,
turn around, look at me.

I look at the picture of my little girl I haven't seen in more than 20 years. I miss her terribly, my Lizzie. She's the reason I'm still alive.

There is someone watching your footsteps,
turn around, look at me

I found a photo of my dad in my mom's belongings. I hadn't seen it for years. My dad had left when I was just 9 years old. I always wondered if he was still alive? If he is, where is he? Why did he leave? Mom told me he came back from Vietnam a different person.

There is someone who really needs you,
here's my heart in my hand.

Why am I alive and they weren't? I started doing heroine in the jungles of Vietnam. I would do anything to numb the pain of losing his friends one by one. But the drugs hurt my family. So I left. It was the best thing for them.

Turn around, (turn around,) look at me,
(look at me,) understand, understand,

This wasn’t what I meant when I told the pastor I wanted to volunteer where I was needed most. I’d rather be somewhere else than here serving meals at a homeless shelter.

That there's someone who'll stand beside you.
Turn around, look at me.

That could be her. She has that little mole right above her left eye. Wouldn’t that be something if it was her?

And there's someone who'll love and guide you.
Turn around, look at me.

Who laughed? Who was it? It’s my father. I know it is. I will always remember his laugh. Where is he?

I've waited, but I'll wait forever for you to come to me.

It is you Lizzie! My little lady bug, all grown up. Don't look. I don't want you to see me like this.

Look at someone (look at someone) who really loves you,

Daddy? Daddy is that you?

yeah, really loves you.

Lizzie. I miss you. You do see me don't you? Can you really see past the drugs, past the dirt? Please see me Lizzie. See Me.

Turn around, look at me.

It’s okay daddy. We’ll get through this together.

Turn around. Look at me.

It Ain't Over Til the Fat Lady Sings

2010-08-09T20:23:00.001-07:00

1863 miles. 111 days. 27 blisters and 1,000,000 tears later Mexico became a reality. The Canadian border greeted us with rose filled gardens, colorful 'welcome' signs and smiles. Mexico met us with desolate desert, barbed wire, and rifle bearing border patrol officials. Hmmmm. Certainly says "Hi there, welcome home" to me.

When I began this trip the only expectation I had was to walk every step of the way. By the end of the trip, I know some people were disappointed in the fact that although I walked until I could not walk any more, I opted to bypass the more extensive rural areas. The decision did not come lightly, especially since with the falling off of steps, the media fell off as well. Disappointing as it was, this trip was not about the media. It is not a Lynn McPherson walk, nor a Guinness World Record walk. It is a homeless awareness walk.

The cows and rabbits inhabiting America’s amber waves of grain need not be educated in the fine art of homelessness. They are already homeless. They will always be homeless. They had no interest whatsoever in what I was telling them, so why bother?

I could have, and actually did start out walking each and every step of the way, trusting that Google Maps would not mislead me. Wrong. On day one, the beloved mapping system had me taking a 4 mile detour for what should have been a football sized stretch. Had I gone the route of Google Maps, the walk from Medford, Oregon to Redding California would have taken an extra four weeks. Now as much as I am an avid lover of four legged creatures, two legged creatures are of much more importance to me.

Had I continued to literally walk every step of the way, I would have spent about 4 hours walking through Seattle; two or so hours walking through Tacoma; three hours through Portland. Even Los Angeles would have gotten only four hours of our attention. Bypassing the fruited plains allowed days, not just moments, in each city to meet with the homeless, interview service providers for the homeless, and to educate the public on homelessness.

I can tell you that had I taken my time, and merely enjoyed the lovely scenery of the west coast, I never would have met any of the 50 some odd service providers who are all so dedicated to their beliefs which mirror mine. Beneath the drug addictions, beneath the alcoholism, beneath the tough guy exterior, beat shattered, broken hearts of hurting men and women who for one reason or another, are not always capable of asking for help. There is a story behind each and every face; A story that would melt even the coldest of hearts if only we, as Americans would take the time to listen.

If you have been keeping up with my blog, you would know that there were times when I wanted to give up; Times when the emotions of being back in a place that has haunted the back of my mind for decades almost sent me to the nearest airport home; Times when the physical pain sent me to sleep in tears. Had I, not taken the time to listen to the changes God had for this walk, I would have made it to the finish line and although it would have been a coup for me, I would have gone home thinking I had failed at what I set out to do. I would have gone home thinking that all the time, effort and hardship was all in vain.

Had I selfishly gone the way I planned, walking step by literal step, instead of the way God had in mind for me, I never would have had the opportunity to meet so many men, women and children who had the courage to take that first step forward and ask for help. I never would have met the George Hill, who had 13 years of living on skid row in Los Angeles; Carleton Griffin who overcame 25 years of heroin addiction while homeless; Gina Parnell who spent 33 years as a drug addict in the streets of L.A. and is now grateful for the life she never knew she could have if it weren’t for places like the shelters that gave her sanctuary.

But, it is these people, and the thousands of other I encountered on the way that encouraged me so much more than I ever encouraged them. The ones who have made it into transitional housing or those who are no longer living in the streets gave me the confidence to continue. The ones still out there are the ones that make me know I must go on. If I were to do it all over again would I change anything? Not a single step.

I may have set out to change the world, instead the world changed me. This trip was and continues to be about 'doing the right thing'. It is my hopes to continue through the remaining 47 states. If I zigzag the way I am now through each state it would take 22,356 miles of step by step walking. An average of 15 miles per day would take 1,490 days or a little over 4 years. That is four years of no stopping and talking with the homeless or their service providers, no days off to rest; no time for holidays or birthdays with family or friends. No time to breathe really.

But if the only way to get people’s attention is to walk each and every literal step, then I’ll do it. I’ll travel across the states, and back on my hands and knees if that will get the Brad and Angelina’s of the world to donate that million dollars in their own back yard, without the tragedy of a natural disaster. But, to zigzag across the states step by step, would take years and I do mean years. Many of the homeless don’t have years to wait.

I am an individual, not an official non-profit therefore since no one has stepped up to the plate to sponsor this trip in its entirety, it is 92% self-funding. The remaining 8% has come from generous donations of friends who believe in what I am doing. For now, as long as the funding keeps trickling in, I am going to continue as if these past 1863 miles were just the beginning.

As of today, I am continuing North and will visit many cities I was not able to call upon on the way South. There is so much more to write about, therefore, I will continue to blog as daily as I can. I do hope you will follow.

I will take time off in November to find someone to partner with or if that doesn’t pan out, I will set the wheels in motion to become an official non-profit in order to apply for grants or scholarships that will allow me to continue educating people all across the nation on the etiquette of homelessness.

It takes just one thing to end homelessness. One person; One voice; One step; One Penny. Be that One.

Airing Your Laundry

2010-08-08T09:29:00.000-07:00

By know, most of you know my story. Back when there were no laws to protect battered women, I chose to leave my abuser. My children and I were homeless for more than 5 years because of the domestic violence I endured. As the Thurman law passed and more and more states were beginning to open shelters, I thought all women would no longer have to go through what I did. The more women in the streets I met, the more I discovered I was wrong.

35%, or 1,365,000 of all homeless Americans are women. Of that number 68%, or 928,200 are in the streets because of domestic violence. That means that 2,543 women turn to the streets each day to escape domestic violence. To pay homage to those women I have met along the way, and in honor of Downtown Women's Center in Los Angeles, I thought 'the Clothesline Project' I closed my article on the Downtown Women's Center with, was important enough to receive a blog of it's own.

HISTORY OF THE CLOTHESLINE PROJECT
According to the Men's Rape Prevention Project in Washington DC, 58,000 soldiers died in the Vietnam war. During that same period of time, 51,000 women were killed mostly by men who supposedly loved them. In the summer of 1990, that statistic became the catalyst for a coalition of women's groups on Cape Cod, Massachusetts to consciously develop a program that would educate, break the silence and bear witness to one issue - violence against women.

This small, core group of women, many of whom had experienced some form of personal violence, wanted to find a unique way to take staggering, mind-numbing statistics and turn them into a provocative, "in-your-face" educational and healing tool.

One of the women, visual artist Rachel Carey-Harper, moved by the power of the AIDS quilt, presented the concept of using shirts - hanging on a clothesline - as the vehicle for raising awareness about this issue. The idea of using a clothesline was a natural. Doing the laundry was always considered women's work and in the days of close-knit neighborhoods women often exchanged information over backyard fences while hanging their clothes out to dry.

The concept was simple - let each woman tell her story in her own unique way, using words and/or artwork to decorate her shirt. Once finished, she would then hang her shirt on the clothesline. This very action serves many purposes. It acts as an educational tool for those who come to view the Clothesline; it becomes a healing tool for anyone who make a shirt - by hanging the shirt on the line, survivors, friends and family can literally turn their back on some of that pain of their experience and walk away; finally it allows those who are still suffering in silence to understand that they are not alone.

October of 1990 saw the original Clothesline Project with 31 shirts displayed on a village green in Hyannis, Massachusetts as part of an annual "Take Back the Night" March and Rally. Throughout the day, women came forward to create shirts and the line kept growing.

A small blurb appearing in Off Our Backs magazine was picked up by Ms magazine and everything changed for the Clothesline Project. In the following years, the Ryka Rose Foundation and Carol Cone's advertising agency took an interest in our work and helped create a national push with small pieces appearing in USA Weekend magazine, Shape magazine and others. This outreach created an overwhelming national response and brought the Clothesline Project from a single, local, grassroots effort into an intense national campaign.

At the moment we estimate there are 500 projects nationally and internationally with an estimated 50,000 to 60,000 shirts. We know of projects in 41 states and 5 countries. This ever-expanding grassroots network is as far-flung as Tanzania and as close as Orleans, Massachusetts.

Survivor = A woman who has survived intimate personal violence such at rape, battering, incest, child sexual abuse.
Victim = A woman who has died at the hands of her abuser.

The Clothesline Project honors women survivors as well as victims of intimate violence. Any woman who has experienced such violence, at any time in her life, is encouraged to come forward and design a shirt. Victim's families and friends are also invited to participate.

It is the very process of designing a shirt that gives each woman a new voice with which to expose an often horrific and unspeakable experience that has dramatically altered the course of her life. Participating in this project provides a powerful step towards helping a survivor break through the shroud of silence that has surrounded her experience

The shirts are color coded to show the form of abuse and whether the victim survived the abuse they experienced.

White represents women who died because of violence;
Yellow or beige represents battered or assaulted women;
Red, pink, and orange are for survivors of rape and sexual assault;
Blue and green t-shirts represent survivors of incest and sexual abuse;
Purple or lavender represents women attacked because of their sexual orientation;
Black is for women attacked for political reasons

"NO" MEANS "NO"
"NO" means NO.
"Not Now" means NO.
"Maybe Later" means NO.
"I Have A Boy/Girlfriend" means NO.
"No Thanks" means NO.
"You're Not My Type" means NO.
"*#^+ Off!" means NO.
"I'd Rather Be Alone Right Now" means NO.
"Don't Touch Me" means NO.
"I Really Like You But ..." means NO.
"Let's Just Go To Sleep" means NO.
"I'm Not Sure" means NO.
"You've/I've Been Drinking" means NO.
SILENCE means NO.
"__________ " means NO.

Date Rape = Not Understanding "NO."

If you or someone you know is in an abusive situation, please don't wait. Help is out there for you. Someone really does care. Please call 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or 1-800-787-3224 (TTY)

Range of Motion

2010-08-05T08:54:00.000-07:00

Normally, my blogs are about homeless issues. Not today's. It was a surreal moment when at one of the many California Missions we have encountered along the way, we came across a group of young men on bikes. Now I am not one to stop and ogle men, especially ones my sons ages. In their modest white with green lettering uniforms, I don't think these tall, muscular, handsome young men actually stood out to anyone but me, but something about these young men caught my eye.

As I got closer to one of them who was taking a sip from his water bottle, I noticed the message they were carrying. "R.O.M.P. Range of Motion Project. Riding from Oregon to Guatemala." At the same time I finished reading his shirt, he finished reading mine. "I am walking through all 50 states to end homelessness. What are YOU doing?"

I smiled and said "Are you really?"

He smiled and said "Are you really?"

"I am," I replied.

"I am," he said in return. We shook hands, gave each other a hug and wished each other well. That was it. The end of our conversation which took place close to a month ago.

As I near the border of Mexico, and the end of the first phase of this now 50 state stroll, for some reason these men are still on my mind. They have completed their ride and may very well be relaxing in their homes at this very moment. All I know is even though this is not about the homeless, my walk is more about "doing the right thing", therefore, today, I share their story.

Riding For ROMP 2010, is a 3,500 mile bicycle trek from Eugene, Oregon to Zacapa, Guatemala to raise both awareness and funds for amputee projects in Haiti and Guatemala. But nothing could tell the story of why they do this more than the following excerpt from their blog.

Wow! Riding for ROMP's kick off event from Skinner Butte Park, Eugene, Or last Saturday was a huge success. Pat and I felt so supported and loved. With 100 people in attendance, half joining us for all or part of day one's ride to Florence, the media, some of our sponsors and nice weather we couldn’t have asked for more.

Michelle Turkelson, a Springfield native, shared her story of loosing a leg, below the knee, after being involved in a motorcycle accident that shattered the tibia in her right leg. "She talked about how her prosthesis allowed her to return to an on-your-feet career, as well as to swimming, cycling and playing with her grandchildren. Accident victims in most other parts of the world are not so fortunate, she told the group."

After listening to Michelle share her story, I shared the story of Maribelle, one of ROMP's recent patients, who has overcome an incredible amount of difficulty in the last two years of her life.

"Maribelle was brutally attacked with a machete by her husband; leaving her with two less arms and two children with no father. She left her hometown in Honduras to find the nearest place to receive prosthetic care. She, like so many others, ended up at ROMP’s clinic in Zacapa, Guatemala, hundreds of miles away from her home, during a coup d’etat that was unfolding this past summer in Honduras. She spent a week at the clinic with her Grandmother. ROMP staffers worked endlessly to treat her and some 25 other patients in just that one week! By the end of the week, we had finally managed to design her a pair of prosthetic arms that allowed her to write us a letter. Even after seeing hundreds of other patients go through physical therapy, or walk for the first time in years, I have still to this day never been witness to anything as courageous and powerful. The human spirit that allowed her to travel under the cover of darkness, with two recently amputated arms, following a shred of hope that she would someday be able to comb her daughters’ hair, tie her shoes, or even bathe was embodied in that moment that she wrote us the letter. ROMP has since treated hundreds of others just like Maribelle. We ride for these individuals."

I may never encounter these young men again, but I think of them often and I'd like to think that we are both out for the great good of humanity. Although we may not physically see the growth of the seeds we have planted along the way, I think there is a small garden growing along our paths.

Please take time to watch their video and check out their website.
http://rompglobal.org/index.php#
http://www.rompathon2010.blogspot.com/
http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=8684432894

You Go Girl!

2010-08-03T08:46:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wish I didn’t exist. Oh, I don’t want to die. I just wish I could be somebody else, live someone else’s life. Not mine. But then I think that if I was someone else, my kids would be different too and I’m not so sure I’d want that for them. I only want it for me. Is that selfish?

I once had a therapist who asked me why I didn’t commit suicide. She said, “After hearing your life story...well, I think most other people would have.”

All I could think of to say was, “Am I crazy because I didn’t?” You know what she says to me?

She says “No. You’re not crazy. You’re one of the most courageous women I know.”

“Not me,” I tell her. “I’m the biggest chicken shit in the world.”

You never saw it coming. You spend days wondering what you had done to deserve it. "It's my fault" you think. "If I hadn't burned the toast; if I had only finished the laundry before he came home; if I had have hung the towel back on the rack the right way." You can think all the 'If I's' you want to, but it won't change what he is.

You never know when it will happen again. You walk on eggshells trying to figure out what will you’ll do next to set him off. You try hard to be the Stepford wife. Perfect in every way; never giving him a reason to be angry. Then you wake up, and realize he doesn't need a reason. You can laugh the wrong way; sneeze the wrong way; yawn the wrong way. You can be sound asleep, and the way you breath can send him into a rage. And if he's in a mood, he'll strike out.

The moment you feel that first punch, with the same breath that is sucked out of you from the impact, your dignity leaves as you exhale, and you just know , this time he’s going to kill me. He doesn’t. You’ve had enough. You weigh the odds. Do you choose the violent and drug riddle streets of the big city, or living with a monster? You make the only choice you can.

Dignity is the first to go. Decorum is a thing of the past from the moment you squat in the woods, or pee in a cup. Your pride leaves when you stand in line for hours for a lukewarm bowl of soup or a day old doughnut that actually tastes like heaven for you haven’t eaten in days. Paranoia kicks in and in the wee hours of the morning, you cling to the backpack that contains all of your worldly possessions.

What do you next? Where do you go? If you are in Los Angeles, you go to the Downtown Women’s Center, where you will find a hug, a shoulder to cry on, a friend to lean on and shelter from the storm your life has become.

Rosa was one of the women who chose the streets of Los Angeles. You could find her pushing shopping carts down the streets of skid row. She’d put big cans of water out in the morning so they’d heat up during the day. She’d put up barriers so she could bathe with this heated water privately. She’d also cook on a makeshift stove and often you’d find her sharing her meager provisions with others who were as unfortunate as she.

The founder of the Downtown Women’s Center started to work with her, and found it a very profound experience. She realized there weren’t specific resources down here on skid row for women. She founded the Downtown Women’s Center with that purpose. The mission of the Downtown Women’s Center is to help women suffering from homelessness and extreme poverty.

Downtown Women’s Center is not a shelter. They offer supportive services, a day center and permanent supportive housing offer sanctuary to approximately 50 ladies. They feel solutions do exist to homelessness and it starts with them.

The women in the mural that surround the current Downtown Women’s Center, are the women who are living within its protective walls. Many of the women are elderly. Rosa, is now in her early nineties. You can find Rosa painted in the middle of the mural. She’s the one with all of the roses, and her beloved cat on her lap.

Many of the ladies who are living within the confines of the center may experience mental health issues, domestic violence issues, and extreme poverty. But they also see some much younger women who are there due to unemployment. The average stay is 7 years but some will stay at the center for a year or two as a stepping stone, and then move on elsewhere.

Of the Skid row homeless population, women make up about 35%. Do to the rising numbers in homeless women; the Downtown Women’s Center has outgrown their space. Their new location, due to open in December of this year, can be found on San Pedro and 5th, the heart of skid row. In their new digs, they will be able to provide about 100 units. They will also be opening the first full spectrum medical and mental health clinic designed especially for the women on skid row, focusing on preventative health care. Health Screenings, mammograms, mental health management, and medication management will be offered daily and they are working on getting the first mammogram machine on skid row.

The new building was purchased from the city of Los Angeles for $1, with the condition that they restore it to its 1920’s elegance. Five years in the making it will be a lead certified green building. The staff of the Downtown Women’s Center worked closely with the ASID American Society of Interior Designers, and put together 6 themes ranging from modern to traditional, Mediterranean to country. For most of these women this will be the home they live in for the rest of their lives and the Downtown Women’s Center wanted them to feel at home, therefore, each lady got to pick the theme they wanted. Each floor will have a common area as well as a roof top garden and a second floor garden.

Rosa is going to move. It’s going to be hard for her after 30 years in her cozy refuge. Each lady has been assigned a moving partner or mentor if you will. It started in February with a moving mentor working side by side as the current residents began the process of de-cluttering, packing, and of course dealing with anxiety issues. This is their new permanent home, but it is also a big transition for them.

As I toured the current facility, I was delighted to hear laughing; those deep from the belly kind of laughs that you know only come from feeling safe and secure in your environment. There is not a lot of shaded green space on skid row so in the back of this small community as you go through the open kitchen with the hearth and home feeling, I find the source of the peels of gaiety.

There, away from the violence their lives once were, we find a beautiful serene garden where the women can sit and relax, listen to the birds, the water and today have mani’s and pedi’s.

You will find more than a sense of community and support at the Downtown Women’s Center. Here, you will find a sense of home.

Today was a special day for many of the residents here. They were able to shout to the world that they will no longer be victims. Through the Clothesline Project women can express their emotions by decorating a shirt. They then hang the shirt on a clothesline to be viewed by others as testimony to the problem of violence against women.

Wherever the Road May Lead

2010-08-02T12:03:00.001-07:00

I had taken enough beatings and was now driving away from the city that had been my home for more than 24 years. It was all I knew. I would learn more now. I was taking my kids to a safer place, wherever that place may be.

I had been driving for about two hours, having no particular destination in mind. Just away was all I knew. Driving kept me connected to everything somehow. As long as I was driving I could ignore the fact that I had no real place to go.

The sun was beginning to rise and with it my hopes that my parents would finally relent and give us shelter. They couldn’t refuse to help me now could they? I stopped at a rest stop phone booth and made the collect call to my parents.

“I told you we would help you,” boomed my father’s voice after I confessed what I had done. “But you know the conditions.”

“I can’t leave my kids, dad. You know I can’t.” I began crying. My parents were my only hope, and they were telling me to throw away my heart.

“Then there’s nothing we can do for you. You made your bed when you married him. Now you have to lie in it. Grow up Linda Jean. You should never have been a mother. You’re not very good at it. Look at the shitty life you’ve given them already. You live no better than the bums in the streets. The best thing you can do for your kids is to let Rudy have them. You’re a McPherson, and that name is worth everything. Don’t muddy it any more than you already have.”

“My kids are worth everything, Dad.” I wondered if he had heard me. I assumed he did since I now stood there with the receiver still in my hand listening to a void of static in place of my father’s voice. I stared into this emptiness, not seeing or hearing anything around me, but having this all-consuming knowledge that at the tender age of 24 with two kids in tow, I was still alone.

What would I do now? What would happen if the money ran out before I could find a place to settle? Sell my body; Never. Sell my blood? Only drunks and outcasts did that. Sell my soul? Hadn’t I already? I was all there was in this world for my children, and somehow I had to be enough.

*****

My husbands thoughts were usually centered on schemes to make money through ill-gotten gains, which to him was the easy way out. So, it had not been too difficult for me to con him into a divorce the previous year. If we were divorced, I could collect welfare. Easy money. Money he never let me see.

I did discover however, that when he was drunk, it was easy to slip money out of his wallet. He was constantly buying drinks for his friends, so he rarely knew how much he spent anyway. After months of sneaking a dollar or two here, five there, and on rare occasions a ten, I had pilfered three thousand dollars. Now that we were gone, it had to be enough.

In the fashion of bruises, sunglasses are a compulsory accessory. The ones I chose to wear this day were not only to hide the contusions, but to hide the shame as I walked into the store. I was now working on automatic pilot and everything that had been drummed into my head over the last five plus years was indecent, immoral and illegal. I knew that one more indiscretion would not make a bit of difference as to whether or not I would burn in hell.

Stealing was much easier than I thought it would be. Since I didn’t know where we were going or how long we’d be living in our car, I chose sleeping bags for warmth, and a camp stove to save on the cost of eating out every night. A tent seemed a necessity if we were to go camping; a large cooler to keep our food refrigerated; a first aid kit, for with two small very active children, I never knew when Band-Aids, or worse would be needed; a slew of travel games to occupy those very active children; an atlas to reach our destination, whatever that might be; a CB radio in order to hide from Rudy and soon the police; and last but not least, hair dye.

I took a deep breath and walked up to the cashier. I watched as she carefully entered each code into the register. When the grand total came, it matched my calculations exactly. I wrote the check, for the full balance, knowing it would not clear.

My transaction complete, I walked towards the exit with cart and children in tow. As I was leaving the store with my purchases I hesitated for a moment before passing through the threshold. I just knew that the silver haired lady who wore red tennis shoes and carried a cane was really an undercover security agent. I realized when I made it all the way to the car without a single incident, how foolish and paranoid I was being.

What I didn’t realize, was just how small a Vega really was until I tried to fill it with all of our newly acquired possessions, which filled the trunk and back seat. I crammed the last item into the car and had the kids share the front seat. We drove away, ready to begin our new lives together.

*****

In my mind’s eye, I had envisioned spring flowers and sunshine while making the journey to our now chosen destination of California. Somewhere around Columbus Ohio, Mother Nature decided to have a good laugh. In the warmth of an International House of Pancakes the kids and I ate our first actual indulgence, which consisted of hot chocolate and pancakes for dinner. While dining, we watched as the twenty-three degree gray cloudy evening turned into a full snow storm.

I decided to get a room at the attached motel. My father, in all of his infinite wisdom, taught me how to drive in New York city in the middle of a snow storm, thinking that if I can drive under those conditions I could drive anywhere. I was not at the time however driving with two very frightened children in the front seat. The idea behind my leaving was to keep them safe. How could I do any less now?

We drug in our suitcase and some games and spent a wonderful afternoon playing Parcheesi, Chutes and Ladders and Candy Land. After our dessert of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, washed down with tap water, I tucked the children into the single full sized bed and kissed them goodnight as I had done every night of their lives. I went into the bath and looking at the bathtub longingly, I opted for the shower anyway. I really wasn't sure if I would ever again be able to take a bath after my last experience in one.

There is something soothing about an evening shower. It’s not something one can really describe other than the passage of being able to wash away the days cares with the stream of hot water, and for the first time in years I was able to linger within that passage and enjoy the soothing comfort of the cleansing waters. As I stepped out into the fog of steam I knew from this moment on our lives would be different.

It had been years since I had slept soundly and every little noise seemed to bother me. I heard a loud noise outside my window, and when I woke with a start a bit disoriented, forgotten momentarily where I was and that I was safe. Nothing could hurt me or the children now.

Not being able to go back to sleep, I rose, dressed and allowing the kids sleep a bit longer, I slipped out of the room for some fresh air and coffee. This trip was rough on them, I knew, and as much as they feared their father, they missed him as well.

I inched my way down the icy stairs, taking care not to slip. It wasn't until I had reached the last step that I noticed the small crowd in the parking lot. It was then I realized what had actually woke me up. As I parted the onlookers, I knew my bad luck was still ongoing.

“I tried to stop,” cried an absolutely horrified old woman.

“We know you did doll,” comforted a waitress. “We saw it all.”

“I hit a patch of ice. The car just kept on sliding.”

The waitress looked up and seeing the look on my face as I stared at the carnage that was once Vega, deduced that it belonged to me. “It really was an accident. We all saw it,” she stated in the old woman’s defense.

As a solitary tear escaped from beneath my closed lids, I took a deep breath and nodded. I turned to the woman and gently touched her arm. “Don’t worry. Accidents happen.”

The waitress patted my hand and then led the old woman into the warmth of the restaurant while I remained outside coatless, shivering and disheartened. What was I going to do now? I couldn’t afford to wait while the repairs were made, if they could be made at all. I needed to get back on the road this morning.

“I’ll buy it from you.”

When I looked up I couldn’t help but chuckle. I didn’t know if it was due to shock or to the fact that staring at the wreck, was a middle aged balding man, trying unsuccessfully to hide his bald spot, by wearing the four or five strands of hair that he did have parted on the side and over the top of his head.

“I’ll buy it from you,” the stranger repeated.

“I’m sorry?” I wasn't grasping what he was saying.

“You’re obviously headed somewhere and this will just hold you up. I’ll give you one hundred dollars and take it off your hands.”

I didn’t know if I had spoken out loud before or if my thoughts were that well read on my face, but it was an answer to what I was going to do. I calculated as quickly as my addled brain could go and thought at the cost of a truck rental for the five days I assumed it would take me to get to California I would need ninety dollars. I wasn’t touching the three thousand.
“How about one hundred and fifty?” He opened his wallet and took out a significant amount of bills.

“Two hundred,” I heard myself saying.

He thought momentarily and gave me the amount asked for. I knew when he parted so easily with it that he’d probably still make a profit from it even as is or he would not have agreed so heartily. My loss, his gain. Either way, I had to get back on the road.

My kids and I were waiting at the truck rental store before they officially opened. Within minutes I was signing a contract for the smallest truck available. Together the clerk and I walked out to the truck for the customary inspection. He went over all of the details necessary for me to know in order to drive the truck properly. In only an hour’s time, we were back on the road once more headed towards our new home.

Skid Marks

2010-07-31T07:06:00.000-07:00

In the wee hours of the morning, I sit here in the local Mickey D's, a homeless man walks in and begins to eat the dregs of another’s' breakfast, directly out of the trash. Two other homeless men are waiting to use the single lavatory. Three more are sitting outside hoping for a crumb or two to be sent their way.

A far cry from the Weingart Center just a few blocks away. If you choose to walk through the doors of the Weingart Center, you are choosing a future. A future without rummaging through trash; A future without despair; A future where you no longer have to beg for crumbs of humanity. Dignity, respect and esteem are offered freely from the moment you enter the sanctity of the Weingart Center.

The Weingart Center is at the epicenter of skid row. They are at ground zero, the heart of city where more than 48,000 homeless people can be found wandering the streets on any given night. They are also the heart of firsts.

The Weingart Center Association transforms lives by providing high-quality human services to homeless men and women, giving them hope and an opportunity to lead productive lives off the streets. The Weingart Center is a pioneering force in developing programs and innovative solutions to help break the cycle of homelessness and poverty. The Weingart Center helps individuals address the daily personal challenges they face by giving them the basic skills necessary to stabilize their lives, secure income and find permanent housing. Located in the Skid Row area of downtown Los Angeles, the Weingart Center is one of the largest human and social service agencies serving the homeless population on the west coast.

Beginning with the big man on campus, CEO Gregory Scott, who is no stranger to poverty himself, “It starts with me" is their motto that is lived up to in every respect. Staff members set the example by voluntarily giving back financially to the organization, with 'more' in mind. By giving back, they become an integral part of feeding more people, housing more people, employing more people, and offering more services to the people.

The staff at the Weingart Center do not see you as indigent, or as a drug addict, or alcoholic. They do not see African American, Caucasian, Latino, and Asian. They do not see Christian, Jewish, or Buddhist. They see a man. They see a woman. They see a person. They see a whole person and as such, they determine what can be done to treat the whole person. They get to the heart of the matter starting with one on one case management, and continuing to work with you towards a life you deserve.

The levels of services offered are very advanced. Once an 11 story hotel, the rooms have been converted into mostly private residences, rooms one can call his or her own. Meals are served at the Weingart Cafe where Weingart Center residents partake of delicious healthy breakfasts and dinners and are offered a bag lunch to go.

Residents are also offered an array of benefits such as:

• Detox/Substance abuse treatment
• Permanent supportive housing
• Short term housing
• Workforce development and education
• Employment assistance
• Vocational training
• Medical and mental health care
• HIV and AIDS programs

Non-resident homeless are able to reap the benefits of the Weingart Center assistance as well. Here are just a few of the many service offered:

• Information and referral services
• Bus tokens for transportation to and from appointments
• HIV and STD testing
• Mail Services
• Community voice mail

The Weingart Center also partnered with the JWCH Institute and the LA County Department of Health Services, to put forward a model of comprehensive health care. The state of the art 22,000 square foot building, offers a team of professional doctors, psychiatrists, chemical behavior specialists, and pharmacy services as well as dental care, optometry, and a full laboratory. They are proud to offer a health care similar to private insurance. Every patient that walks through the door has one doctor assigned to him or her. They don’t walk in and see a different doctor each time they come. They walk in and see their doctor.

Through a partnership with AmeriCorps, formerly homeless men and women can provide the homeless of skid row specialized services such as clinical information, program and services referrals and the distribution of hygiene kits.

We had the dubious honor of being invited to stay the night at the Weingart Center. I was pleasantly surprised at the camaraderie within this towering refuge. I cannot say what I was expecting, but what I experienced knocked my socks off. The staff was warm, and friendly, and treated everyone with the same respect, and dignity with which they treated us.

We had our own rooms as do most of the residents here. They are small but when you come from the streets, a room to yourself feels like the presidential suite. The showers were spacious, bathrooms freshly cleaned, and floors sparkled with the reflecting lights above. There was even a recuperative care, hospital like division complete with attending medical specialists.

Services offered by the Weingart Center are too numerous to mention all of them, but I will leave you with this, this may be skid row, in the heart of Los Angeles, but the Weingart Center has certainly left their mark on the men and women who reside there, the city of Los Angeles, and on this Oregonian journalists heart.

There's a Monster in the Closet

2010-07-29T09:22:00.000-07:00

"I am the conscience of all those who knew something - but did nothing." - Oskar Schindler

I learned early on in our marriage to not argue with my husband. He made quite sure I understood he was never wrong. I was his punching bag, his doormat upon which he often wiped his feet, his captive, if you will. I rarely argued, out of fear. I rarely stood up for myself, out of fear. More often than not, I found myself cowering at the sound of footsteps, wondering whether or not it would be my last day on earth. I became this docile, subservient, governable, chattel, walking on eggshells every waking moment of every miserable day.

The rare occasion, on which I did stand up for what I believed, usually resulted in some act of violence against my person. Our five year-three-month, and thirteen-day marriage resulted in broken bones, missing teeth, cigarette burns, sexual assaults, and the annihilation of Candy, my nickname since junior high school, for there was nothing sweet about me anymore.

******

February, 1979. It was almost 1:00 in the morning. The kids were asleep, but I hadn’t been sleeping well at all. I couldn’t seem to turn off my brain. Paranoia was taking over. My husband would find out I was leaving him, and the thought of what he would do terrified me.

After lying awake for more than an hour I decided to take a bath. The hot, scented water would be calming and perhaps help me sleep. As usual, I avoided the mirrors, feeling my bruised reflection was a brutal reminder of the violence that my life was. The remnant of the cigarette burn on my right breast, didn’t need a mirror to be seen.

I slipped into the soothing comfort of the water, sunk down low in the claw foot tub and closed my eyes. I dreamt of happier, bright sunny days by the ocean. Val, Nicky and I were running, laughing and free. My kids would no longer have nightmares of the monsters in the house, for our monster would be thousands of miles away.

*****

I struggled against the force of the hand pushing me below the surface of the water. I thrashed about wildly, taking in water as I tried to scream. This was it. I was going to die. My kids would be at the mercy of this tyrant.

I don’t know if it was survival instinct or the protective mother instinct, but the strength came from somewhere. I pushed with all of my might and my tormentor lost his balance. In one move, I rose from the water and hurled myself from the tub, knocking him off his feet, causing him to bump his head on the freestanding radiator. He rose with an aggression that only bloodshed would soothe.

I had long ago chosen to wear my hair short. It was less for him to grab. It didn’t matter this night. Before I caught my breath, he seized a handful of hair and dragged me naked from the warmth of the bathroom. The house was chilled and there was a breeze not normally felt in the hallway he was dragging me through.

Humiliation is a powerful weapon. If used enough, even the strongest of people can succumb to its dispensation, and I knew, as I was unceremoniously thrust through the open front door, that I had admitted defeat for the last time.

*****

The bitterness of the snow-covered February morning hit me with a force that belies any meaning. I shivered uncontrollably. I tried to push my way back into the house. Rudy not only blocked my way, but shouted to my neighbors what was being done, as if demanding them to bear witness to whatever my indiscretion had been, and daring them to stop him.

“Look at her,” he shouted. “Look at this cheatin’, lyin’ bitch I married.” Lights went on. Curtains parted. “She’s a whore. She’s a freakin' whore.”

He hit me then, for what would be the last time. Clutching my cheek, I stumbled backwards from the blow. He used that moment to close and lock the door, becoming a barrier between my children and me. I kicked at the door, pounding with every ounce of strength I had in me. It didn’t budge. I turned, and saw the last of the neighbors closing their curtains and shutting off the lights. I would receive no help from them. I was alone.

*****

With the outside temperature being less than twenty degrees, the drops of bathwater remaining on my exposed flesh, began turning to ice. Every hair on my body stood erect in defiance of the cold, as a cat’s does in the throes of a battle. I tried once more in vain to open the door.

“Get a grip, Linda Jean. Get a grip.” I spoke out loud to myself as I rubbed my hands over my face and took a deep breath. As I did so, I took back the control that had been pilfered from me. I looked around and not seeing anything to cover myself with, made my way to the cellar. I hoped there would be something in the basement to keep me from hypothermia.

Reaching my destination, I discovered the door slightly ajar which meant no reprieve from the cold just yet. It smelled musty, this crypt of the past. I hoped it would not be my final resting place as well.

I found the string to the solitary overhead light bulb hanging from the ceiling and pulled it, illuminating the shadows and cobwebs that hopefully held for me a shroud of warmth. After tearing open the lids to many of the boxes, I was disheartened to find mostly papers. It wasn't until I had gone through the last of the cartons that I noticed the old tarp left behind by the painter the previous summer. I did not care that it was covered in feces of local rodents; I only cared that it would offer me a tiny respite from the cold.

Wrapped in this cloak of many colors, I made my way to the access of a clandestine passageway I had discovered when we first moved into this house. The passageway that would not only bring me back to my children, but if luck was with me, bring us to our freedom as well. As quietly as I could, I moved the drawers of the wardrobe, which was the hidden entrance to our apartment. I climbed through the opening and feeling like a cat burglar, I slyly made my way back to the main part of the house.

It was there I discovered the front door not locked, but barricaded by the comatose form of my husband, lying in his own urine. I stared at him for a moment, wondering if I had the courage. There was no doubt in my mind.

I knew every minute counted as I dressed quietly, not bothering to clean the dust and feces from my body. I went back to the wardrobe and reaching up into its bowels, removed the hidden firearm. With silent, purposeful steps, I moved towards the heap that was once something I dared to love. I stood over him for one moment longer, greedy with power, knowing that in less time it took to draw a breath, my nightmare would be over.

The cocking of the firing pin was so loud I wondered for an instant had I inadvertently pulled the trigger. I held the gun to his head. Just as I was about to pull the trigger a noise from behind startled me. I spun around, aiming at the predator.

There before me, stood my six-year-old daughter, rubbing her eyes from disbelief as much as sleep. With my knees turning to gel, I dropped the gun, and gathered her in my arms. I thanked a God in which I did not believe, that in my haste, I had forgotten to load the gun.

I heard it then. A deep guttural sound like a wounded animal coming from within the depths of my soul. There would have been no comfort, no solace that could be offered had I killed what I treasured most. The only taste of consolation came from the gently whispered words, “Its okay, Mommy. Don’t be scared, I’m here.”

*****

I opted to not look back as I drove away with my children sheltered in the back seat of the Vega. What was left behind was now the past. What lay ahead was our future, and good bad or indifferent; it had to be better than the life we led here

Fallen Warriors, Rising Eagles

2010-07-28T19:04:00.000-07:00

When two eagles mate, they free fall to the ground. With talons locked, they fall towards the earth. They tumble, spiral, out of control. Then, just inches away from hitting the ground, just inches away from death, they let go, spread their wings and rise again.

In the beginning, you have daughters, sons, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. Whole families during happier times. They are happy, then for one reason or another, they join the military. They go to war, see horrible, horrifying things.

You come back. Maybe you're okay. But maybe you're not. How do you live with what you saw? What you did? Maybe you're on drugs. Maybe you turn to alcohol. You are separated from society. Society doesn't want you now. Not the way you are. You think maybe you deserve this life. You think maybe there's no going back.

There are 27,000 homeless veterans living in the city of Los Angeles. The largest homeless veteran population in the United States. Many live with substance abuse and mental health disorders.

New Directions is a facility in Los Angeles, that gives back to those homeless veterans that walk the streets of Los Angeles. They give back dignity; they give back pride; they give back self-respect and most of all, they give back the life that was lain on the line for each and every one of us.

"This is a long program," says John Hill director of the detox phase and graduate of New Directions. "1 – 2 years. The average guy that comes in here has been in the streets for a long time or been in their disease for a long time. We address the issue of alcoholism, but we don’t just treat the disease. We treat the person."

"We assess their needs. Sometimes they come in here with nothing. They need it all. Clothing, underwear, toiletries, sheets and towels. We furnish it all. We have a penthouse upstairs. We make sure all they need to do is come in here and detox. If you have a problem even psychological issues. We give them a safe place to relax, to get clean, to get their thinking clear so they can make a decision as to what to do with their future. We empower the veteran so he can return to the community and have a successful life."

"Most of the men and women who come through this program have spent years living in the streets, mostly under bridges, so acquiring this building was a blessing. When we remodeled we wanted to make it home. We wanted to make it familiar, so if you look up, you can see the ceiling is unfinished with exposed beam. The architect designed it to remind them of being homeless under freeway passes. It’s a sense of openness without making them feel closed in. They are used to the freedom of it all. Just to remind them that they are not closed in." says LaShanda Maze, Community Relations/Media Specialist for New Directions Choir.

Maze continues, "Every one who walks through that door gets so much more than recovery. They get a new family. They are surrounded by brothers and sisters who have all walked exactly where they are at now. They are assigned a big brother who stay with them every step of the way through this program. From detox to graduation. Once they have graduated into phase two not only does their big brother stay with them, but now they are a big brother to a new resident. 'They can now say I have been where you are.'

In fact this program is so successful that 40% of our graduates are hired through the program. This way they can share their experience with them. I have been through this. I have been where you are. I have walked through those doors. I have slept here. I have been where you are."

George Hill graduate of New Directions and the New Directions Choir Director talks freely of his homeless past.

"Being homeless was the most miserable thing I ever did in my life. You get comfortable eating out of garbage cans. You get comfortable sleeping on the ground. I was out there for 13 years. And I was like a ghost. What’s really amazing I didn’t think I had a story even though I was homeless for 13 years. I lived in MacArthur Park, the most violent park in the world. But that still wasn’t a story to me. What happened that I finally decided to make a change?

I got out of yet another incarceration. I was already tired of it. I was sitting on the corner of 5th and spring. I was out there in the middle of all these homeless people. I see somebody come along with rags on their feet. Rags tied on their feet! I was like ‘that’s terrible.' You could watch him and see that he was a little mentally challenged. He was so dirty that he was black except where his knuckles bent over his shopping cart. He hair was just matted in two big nasty dreads, and I was just like’ that’s terrible. I sure am glad I’m not that bad.’

Now he’s walkin by all these homeless people. All of them, and there were a lot, and he looked down at me and kind of smiled. He pulled out a dollar bill and dropped it in my lap and said here man I feel sorry for you. I just put on my mental brakes and shook my head and said what? As I watched him shuffle away, I am sittin therewith smoke billowin out of my ears, and I see all these homeless people he passed by, and I’m thinkin ‘you feel sorry for me? Dude I feel sorry for you!'

There was something about that that just said no, no, no. I gotta get some help. From that moment on I didn’t want another drink. I didn’t want any drugs. I didn’t want anything but help. Somehow I thought there had to be somethin out there for me and I decided to come in here and never look back. So now I have been blessed enough to have my life back. And now with my music, I can give back. I can help by showing people that there is help for all of us.

So there was a period of time when you may not have wanted to see us coming. People wouldn’t even look at me. Or if I walked up to them, they’d get to grabbing their purses, lock their doors, turn to the right, turn to the left. They'd think it’s a disease, and it’s a contagious.

One thing people don't realize is how much wreckage is in your past when you're homeless. They don't see the the violence of the streets. But now, I get a chance to tell people what happened. I get to tell them I’d rather be homeless sometimes than in the missions. I like to let people know that if it wasn’t for that hot cup of coffee in the middle of the night when I really didn’t care if I lived or died, that’s what happened to me. That cup of coffee meant the world to me. That day old doughnut saved my life.

I’d like to let them know that they are not just casting their pearls to swine. That people do recover. They get help and come back and become productive. And they help other people get back on their feet. And all those things together you can’t beat it. It works out pretty well. But the fact is this shows what change can do and that people can change.

Carleton Griffin, another graduate of New Directions and the bass singer for the choir, talks about his 25 years living in the streets of Los Angeles and how New Directions gave him the ability to live life again, not just exist in it.

"I am a Vietnam vet. When I came home between the nightmares and all the other stuff, well, when I discharged from the service, I was a heroin addict. I tried to deal with it as best I could. I tried cold turkey. I tried not to do it, but I didn’t have the skills. I didn’t know how to do what I needed to do. So I just went on with it.

Long story short for the next 25 years I was homeless. In and out of jails; penitentiaries. The last time I got out I made myself a promise that if I ever got in trouble again, I’d go to the VA. I would get help. A man gotta get up, try it again and learn from the mistakes that you made. So I found myself going down the path again and I walked here from South Central LA.

In October of 2000 I just took off walking. About 28 miles. I came here, walked in the door and told the guys behind the desk I needed help. I got into the program and spent 28 days in detox going through heroin withdrawal. It took about 17 days before I finally got to sleep. I had done it before but always because I had to. I was locked up. This time I did it for me. So I stayed. I got through the program. Got hired by the program and now. Now I sing. I always sang through my homeless days."

I will never forget meeting and getting to know some of these brave men and women of the New Directions Choir, and I hope with all of my heart that I get to stay in contact with them. They are amazing, and I would be proud to call them friends. In fact, it is my hopes that enough people will want them to come to Portland and share their stories first hand. Of course I hope to be able to sing Amazing Grace with them one day. No truer words were ever written for a more deserving group of men and women.

But the final words of Carleton Griffin are the ending of this story. His words will always echo through my mind and are the epitome of what I am trying to accomplish with this walk.

"Everybody deserves a chance, another chance. Not necessarily a second chance, but another chance."

The men and women you see in the video below were never meant to come back from the streets. They were the statistics that said 'There's no hope for you. You may as well give up,' They had lived through the horror of war, and now having survived years in the rough streets of Los Angeles, they are living proof that they may have at one time been fallen warriors, but today they are the rising eagles. Rising Eagles that do this country proud.

PLEASE. Watch the video. It is a life altering experience.

We Are Made As One from Phil Eastman on Vimeo.

Grace Forgets

2010-07-25T08:41:00.000-07:00

I couldn't understand it. I lived in California for 12 years and I never felt like this. Once I moved to Oregon, I drove back to the Bay Area countless times to visit with my best Friend so why was I shaking like a leaf at the thought of it now? I had taken my kids to Disneyland three times and I never broke down and cried for hours on end. Why was this so different?

With each mile that passed, my anxiousness intensified. This was silly. I have never reacted like this. What was going on? Was I going crazy? I cried out to God but He didn't seem to be hearing me.

Okay. I can do this on my own then. That's obviously the way you want it. I am strong. I don't need help. I can do this. I've been doing it on my own for 30 years now, why should now be any different. Six weeks of fear filled days and sleepless nights. Six weeks of self-flogging for a past that comes back to haunt me now.

I turn to my addiction. Food. Although we are on a tight budget, I purposely choose foods that are my weakness. They have been my comfort for 50 years now. They push the emotions back down into their hiding places. They numb the fears. They lock them up and save them for another day.

The ailing van calls for a respite. It is overwhelmed. It cannot go on without rest.

No! I cannot handle this right now. It's to much to ask for. Five times the van has called in sick. Five times my anxiety worsens. The food is no longer satisfying my soul.

Words of encouragement are sent and although they are uplifting, I still need. I pray once more. Please God. Please don't abandon me now.

I hear it then. the whisper that is my savior. "Do you really think I would remind you of your sins?"

"I, even I, am he who blots out your transgressions, for my own sake, and remembers your sins no more." Isaiah 43:25

"I hear you Lord, but I am torn. Give me a sign. Show me what I am to do."

We continue our southbound journey, passing a lighthouse along the way. It is stunning, towering in the distance in all it's glorious splendor. Decades old. Weathering storms that come no matter how intense or how powerful, yet standing strong against them with grace, enticing all who see its light to come take refuge within its beacon.

When Jesus spoke again, he said, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life." John 8:12

The setting of the sun mesmerizes as it brings a peaceful slumber. A slumber so deep, dreams evade and rest comes upon these weary bones.

Indeed, He who watches over Israel, neither slumbers, nor sleeps." Psalm 121:4

It looms before me, this monolith of stone. It offers protection from the storms, a covering in times of distress.

The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer;

My God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.

He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

Psalm 18:2

So it was I that was hard of hearing. Voices of my past were so much louder than the gentle whisper, "I am here", and through the prayers and words of encouragement from those who love me I continue this journey with a song in my heart.

The Lord is my shepherd

I don't need a thing

I slumber in the meadows

Cool water I drink

And when I am rested

And He has quieted my fears

He sends me back out walking

My path straight and clear.

Surf City

2010-07-21T07:55:00.001-07:00

Chuck Berry is not the blond haired, blue eyed, muscle bound, golden skinned, surf board toting hunk I picture when I think of the California coast. Yet I don't think there is a man, woman or child who hasn't sung, hummed or tapped feet along with his most famous jingle.

If everybody had an ocean
Across the USA
Then everybody'd be surfin
Like Californ-i-a
You'd see em wearin their baggies
Hurachi sandals too
A bushy bushy blond hair do
Surfin USA

Although it was the collaborative effort of Berry, Brian Wilson and Mike Love that brought the sandy white beaches of California to the worlds attention, it was actually another Berry and partner Torrance that started the "Surfer" craze. With hits like "Surf City", "Barbar Ann", "Side Walk Surfin" that made Jan & Dean a California legend while the Beach Boys were just a few brothers singing in their back yard.

But it isn't the collective artistic forces of the surfer craze music of the darling duo Jan & Dean, nor the Beach Boys, the Ventures, the Chantays, that the homeless revere. It's more like the Surfaris with their signature evil little laugh fading into a solitary lyric and an entourage of notorious drumming. Wipeout.

While walking along the famed West Cliff drive in Santa Cruz, we came across a most unusual sight. Someone had taken the time to carry a couch down to the rocky cliffs in order to have a comfortable bed to sleep on. Although we missed the person sleeping there, his or her belongings were still in place neatly stuffed behind the couch.

Further along the Monterey Bay again in the cliffs of the California Coast you will find entire tent cities. Groups of people who risk life and limb to have a secure place to sleep, where hopefully no one will see them, no one will bother them and everyone will let them be.

It's hard to hide along the coast line. The colorful tents stand out like a sore thumb against the white beaches and weather worn boulders of the cliffs but it seems so far, they have not been asked to vacate.

There are shelters in Santa Cruz, Salinas and Santa Barbara, but with views like this to wake up to each summer morning, the shelters are not as overflowing as they could be.

Perhaps these few homeless who enjoy the ocean breeze have learned to Ride, Ride, Ride the Wild Surf.

There's the Rub

2010-07-19T21:10:00.000-07:00

I wish my sister was here. Her name is Sharon. She is not a sister by birth, but the sister of my heart. We have been kindred spirits, best friends, sisters in Christ, for more than two decades and although she can be a pretty tough cookie, and has a habit of calling me on my crap, she is also the one I call when I need a pick me up, when I need to hear a friendly voice, when I can't cope. I can't cope a lot these days. Even though I know she is with me in spirit, it's not the same as having someone that loves you unconditionally, being right there by your side.

I wish I had my circle of friends from church gathered around me to show their support and love as they do so very often. I love them a lot and I miss them.

I wish I could wrap my arms around my children. Although all grown up and on their own, they are my heart and soul and they may not need me a whole lot anymore, I sometimes, still need them. I wish I could cuddle with my grandkids. I could use a grandchild fix right now. I miss them so much.

But I am here, and right this moment, I am overwhlemed. This trip has taken so much out of me. So much more than I believed it would. I knew it was going to be hard, but I wasn't prapared for this depression that has taken over. I wasn't prepared for the emotions that are running rampant and right here on the surface at all times. I wasn't prepared for the feelings that would come swelling up and bubbing over in confronting the giants I thought I had faced so long ago. I wasn't prepared for this trip to be almost as much about me as as it is about the cause I am fighting for.

I feel as if I am failing miserably, and that what I am doing isn't making any difference to anyone but me. Sometimes I think I should just quit right now, that I cannot do this anymore. Then I rebuke myself for not being stronger than this. I thought I was wonder woman and could do it all. But I can not. I am not God and sometimes that pisses me off to no end because I want to save the world and I can't, and it's breaking my heart. I see all of those people out there and I am overwhelmed by the numbers. I am overwhelmed by the feelings that there has to be more that can be done, but I don't know what.

And then I think of all of those shelter directors who did say yes, I would love to talk to you. I think of them and wonder, if I am feeling this way, how must they feel? When the numbers of homeless by far outnumber the funds availble to help them; When they go for days on end giving, and giving, and giving, and no one offers even a ray of hope. When they feel overwhelmed, and wonder if what they are doing does any good at all.

I think of the homeless out there who are alone. Do you see the people whose pictures are at the top of this page. Those pictures and the ones displayed on my last blog were all taken within a one block radius. One block. That's only an insignificant number of people are in need right this very moment. People who have no Sharon's to turn to in their time of need. They have no circle of friends to pray over them, no granchildren to comfort them with hugs.

The homeless, the shelter directors, the food bank operators, the directors of donor relations who try their hardest to bring in the funding and are told no more than yes. Those are the people that make this trip worth continuing for. They make it worth the swollen feet, the bleeding gums, the hair falling out, the discomfort, both physically and emotionally, and although I may not hear from you, in my heart of hearts I know that I am covered spiritually as well, and I apologize for the breakdown. For a brief moment, I let the insanity of depression take over and I forgot that I have a God who really will not give me more than I can handle.

It's So Nice We Had This Time Together

2010-07-17T13:48:00.000-07:00

I have been avoiding this blog. I had hoped it wouldn't come, but sadly it has. Unless some miracle happens, this is more than likely the last blog of this trip. I will keep a journal from this point on and I do have a tape recorder, but I won't be blogging anymore. Since this will be the last one, it will be a bit lengthy. Sorry about that.

I was out of work with this injury for 9 months, I had lost by beloved truck to repossession. I was living with a friend, what I had left of my possessions were in storage in a friends garage. The rest had been sold to pay bills that had gotten way layed during my recuperation. While recuperating, I began working on a small foundation set up to help transitioning homeless people.

But finally after more than a year, I was offered a job. It was actually the best paying job I had ever been offered in my life. I knew God was moving me towards the path I am on now and although the money was awesome, it was a job that I disliked immensely. I accepted the offer though.

On that same day, my daughter asked why I was taking the job. I told her truthfully that I needed the money. She made me an offer I couldn't refuse.

"Mom, you know how much you want to work with the homeless. Come live with me."

"That's not going to solve my money issue daughter but thank you for the offer."

"Mom, you don't need money. Look I could use some help with Vienne and the house. You want to help the homeless. Why not?"

After much prayer and consideration, it turned out that the decision had somewhat already been made. It turned out that when my new employers did the background check, they found out that the Workman's comp case was still open. They did not want to get involved in someone else's legal matters.

So I moved in with my daughter. Now her apartment is tiny. I would be sleeping on a couch, but I could do the work I knew God was calling me to do. So I made the plans and had the helps of friends who tried as hard as they could to get the funding needed via sponsorship. Sadly, because I am an individual, that funding never came. We did get about $600 in private donations and I was elated. I even got rid of my car for funding. But I was forging ahead.

Two weeks before I left on this trip, my daughter asked me not to come back. Although I had done nothing wrong, she just decided that she and her daughter wanted it to be their house again and not share it with anyone else. So although I knew that at the beginning of my trip, that I had no place to live, I was too busy to be concerned about it. It wasn't a high priority on my list so I just about forgot it.

Somehow it didn't hit me until last week, I mean really hit me, that when I go back to Oregon, I have no place to go back to. I won't even have my car to sleep in. I will be living in one of the shelters that I am out here fighting
for.

So between the emotions of facing places in my past that brought me so much pain, and the emotions of worrying about what I am going to do when I get back to Oregon or even whether I am going to go back to Oregon, took over. I begin to wonder whether or not I am really doing God's work or am I just out here for me? Am I really making a difference out here or does anybody really care other than those who work in the field. I write a blog and ask for feedback. I really do need to know because right now I am doubting whether or not I really heard from God. But I didn't get any feedback.

The van we sleep in breaks down. It cost $1800 to repair. We fix it. It breaks down again. We fix it, it breaks down again. Now all the money we had is gone. My traveling companion maxed out his credit card and then some. I send out an SOS that went out to several hundred people. As grateful as I am for the $135 donations we did get, it is not enough to continue this journey on. the donations were always supposed to go to the shelters and I felt bad having to ask for help myself, but we needed it desperately.

So I begin to wonder whether this is making a difference for the shelters we are fighting for. Are people really making donations to the shelters. I don't know. I may never know, but if the only life I am changing by doing this is mine, then there is no need to continue journaling publicly. I can keep all of the humiliation and shame that comes with being homeless to myself.

Although my traveling companion is against this, I fear I am going to have to continue this journey on my own, but my computer will be left behind. I cannot carry it in a back pack and even if I could, there would be no way to recharge it. So I am sorry that you won't be able to share in the crossing into Mexico with me, but at the moment, I can't think of anything else to do.

At the beginning of this trip I had said to my friends I would rather do this and find out when I get to heaven that I wasn't supposed to do this, than to not do it and find out when I get to heaven that I was. Well, that is how I feel right now. I will do this, not knowing whether this is from God, and I have to trust that I am still doing the right thing.

When I am done, wherever I end up, I will have one doozy of a story to tell.

Never Bring Attention to the Name

2010-07-15T15:07:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like had my parents helped a lot earlier than they did. But I wonder what it would have been like had they understood the severity of what my husband did. Had they gotten me away from him the first time he beat me, maybe everything would be different now. They had the resources. And they did use those resources, but not until I had been homeless for 5 years.

I was always the black sheep of the family, a title which wasn't completely deserved. They didn't understand me. I didn't understand them. I was a handful. I was ADHA before it was diagnosable as such. I was so smart yet I failed at almost every subject at school. I froze at tests, I rarely actually did my homework and that certainly wasn't their fault. I was so bloody bored. All the time. I was different than my sisters, and they didn't understand different.

Having grown up so close to Broadway in New York, I got the bug early on in life. I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be a writer, a director, anything that would let me hone my craft. I was always making up stories, acting out plays for my stuffed animals or neighborhood kids. I had this uncanny ability to mimic any accent I heard and to this day, I often talk like Maureen O'Hara from John Wayne's "The Quiet Man".

As I got older, I was often in school plays, choirs and as many afternoon activities as possible. I had horses and when I wasn't doing one of the above mentioned I was out riding. But it wasn't until I was an adult that these activities got me out my head. For those few hours of rehearsals or actual productions, I got to be somebody else. I got to live someone else's life, good bad or indifferent, I didn't have to be me for that short respite.

When I married shortly after my 18th birthday, I was already with child. That was an unforgivable sin as far as my parent were concerned. But it would have been even more unforgivable had I had the abortion they tried to talk me in to. They never believed that my ex-husbands dad had threatened their lives if I had the abortion. I married him out of fear. Oh I loved him, but we were both kids. Neither of us were ready for marriage. But I married him because although he was not part of the mafia, he had mafia family and having just seen the Godfather and having a wickedly vivid writers imagination, I just knew my parent would be swimming with the fishes or find my horses head in my bed if I didn't.

The first time I got hit was on our honeymoon. My husband had gone out to pick up dinner. I was supposed to clear off the table and make room to eat. Instead I got sick. I was pregnant and sadly my morning sickness came at any hour of the day or night. He was pissed. I hadn't done as he asked.

I had never experienced this before. My dad never raised a hand to my mom and being hit was just something that didn't happen to me. All I could think of was that I obviously hadn't done what he wanted so I was being punished. I just assumed that the spankings I got as a kid would stop when you got married. Not so in this case, but the child spankings had turned into an adult backhand.

At the beginning of our marriage, I rarely got hit. It happened alright but it seemed that as his responsibilities grew, so did his drinking and his anger. On the days when I was beaten, not just hit, were days when he was drunk. I can;t remember ever getting hit when he was sober. The beatings that were bad were when he was truly drunk. More often than not he didn't even remember doing it but he saw the results. Remorse inevitably set it and he would apologize, promise it would never happen again and beg forgiveness. If the tears followed he knew I would relent.

After one particular beating my mom and my sister came to the house. They saw the results of what he had just done. He went throw me across the room as he often did, by grabbing my shirt. I was wearing a tank top so instead he grabbed skin. His deeply embedded claw marks were all the way across my chest. My left eye was swollen shut and I had a missing tooth. they saw this and yet they did nothing. Oh they ranted and raved about how terrible he was but they didn't say 'We're getting you out of here.'

My folks moved to Tahoe when dad retired and one time he flew out to New York. He came out for a business trip. He saw the broken jaw. He saw the black eyes, he saw the bandaged wrist. He also said he had talked to my husband, who promised him it would never happen again, so I should stay. Another time the wounds were worse. this time my folks just said, 'You made your bed, now you've got to lie in it.'

Lie in it I did. I was married October 20, 1973. I finally left him for good on February 2nd 1979. I will tell you that story another time, but for now I'll finish this one.

In November of 77, an early snow had come. My husband would not buy coats for the kids, nor would he buy boots. With Dominick in a baby carrier and Val in the stroller, I walked the 3 miles to the nearest department store. I put coats on their backs, shoes on their feet and walked out the door where I was promptly stopped by the store security. They called the police. I was terrified. Not of going to jail mind you, of the repercussions once my husband found out.

When the officer, Sargent Bucuzzi came, he took a look at the paperwork. He saw the name and asked me which one was I married to. I told him and his response was "Tootsies kid?"

"Yes Sir," I replied. I watched in amazement as this police Sargent took his wallet out and paid for the things I had just stolen. He looked at the security guard and said to him "Let her go. She's got enough problems just being married to Tootsies kid. Let her go." They did.

My parents did actually try to help about 3 years into the marriage. They had a friend in another part of Connecticut who had gotten me a job in a convalescent home. Thinking I was free and clear after a month of him not finding me, I got a little too relaxed. He found me, although I am not sure how, went into my place of work and at gunpoint, made me come back with him.

My parents were horrified. Not for me mind you. This brought attention to the McPherson name. This brought shame to the McPherson name. They were mortified. They insisted that I should do everything I could to make my husband happy because they would not tolerate the attention I was bringing to myself anymore.

Did I tell you how I finally got the funding to get away from him? Probably not. It isn't something I am proud of so I don't talk about it too often. Since this will be in the book, I may as well say it here.

It took months of planning; months of footwork; months of risking jail time. I was desperate to get away from him. I would go into a store, buy something, then tear the piece of the receipt that said how I paid for it. I always told them the dog or the baby had gotten hold of the receipt. I would bring the item back to the store and get the cash back. It took four months of this back and forth thievery to save $3000. But I finally did, risking everything if I got caught. It was worth it.

The drive from Connecticut to California was long and tiring with two kids in tow. Somewhere around Oklahoma I picked up a hitchhiker. A man in a Navy uniform. He helped to drive. Somewhere between Oklahoma and Long Beach where I dropped him off, he had found my hiding place and had stolen the money I had just taken. That was the beginning of the end of my dreams of a better life for my kids.

So I cannot help but wonder what life would have been like had my parents understood the severity of what my husband had done to me. I wonder what my kids lives would have been like had my parents realized that although I was homeless by choice it was a choice that I should never have had to make. I wasn't bringing shame to the McPherson name to hurt them, or spite them. But that is what they believed. I was degrading the family name.

Although I am talking about it here, I do rarely wonder anymore what life would have been like

had they helped early on in my marriage. I don't have to wonder. I know that Val would have been an only child. I would not have had my Dominick or my Josh. I wouldn't have my grand kids, Lexi, Vienne, Shyla or Belles.

I wouldn't have my best friend Sharon nor my friend of 25 years who is accompanying me on this trip, nor my friends back in Oregon because I would have still been on the East Coast. But if I hadn't gone through all of that, I may not have known the God of mercy and miracles who I worship today.

When my parents finally agreed to help on April 3rd, 1984, more than 5 years after I left my abuser, there were several conditions I had to agree to before they would lend a hand. I met all but one.

Never again, bring attention to the family name. Sorry Mom and Dad. I think I'm failing that one miserably with this trip.

Kiss Your Eyes, Sing You to Sleep

2010-07-15T10:15:00.000-07:00

I tried to follow the warmer weather as best as I could. But the radio did not work more often than it did. Just before the broadcast cut out, I thought I heard the weatherman say snow was predicted for elevations as low as 1000 feet. I had hoped we'd be safe at 840 feet, but this was an unusual cold front that no one in Lee's Summit, Missouri was prepared for in late September.

"It's cold in here mommy." I could see my daughters breath frosted in the air.

"I know it is sweetie." I begin to feel it; the pain in your heart that you experience where hopelessness resides.

"Can't we turn on the heater?"

"No baby, we can't."

"Not even for a little while mommy?" Rrrip. It tears in half.

"I'm sorry baby. You know we can't. We can't afford it. How about if you climb under the covers with me til you get warm, okay?" There was plenty of room for my six year old to sleep with me. Well, nit plenty, but I'd make do. I always did.

I lifted my blankets in invitation and shivered as her ice like toes penetrated my clothes. Laura was like her mother. If her toes were cold, the rest of her followed suit. I didn't worry much about BJ. He could have slept through the coming of the ice age, with his footie pajamas, and burrowed head in his He-man sleeping bag.

Josh on the other hand was not yet old enough to hide beneath the covers if he got cold. I reached over to touch my 16 month old child sleeping beside me. I tucked his blankets around him tightly making sure he was secure in his mattress of clothing and towels that were spread over the back floor portion of the 66 Nova we had been living in for more than two and one half years.

As my daughter happily snuggled down, I knew sleep would evade me. My brain was engaged full throttle, focused on the previous year's events that brought us to a life of beggary.

During our time of even less than poverty, I had been shot at, stabbed and beaten more times than I cared to remember. But I had to remember. I could never allow myself to forget for within those memories lie the strength to do what was needed to be done to secure my children's safety. As I lay there taking in the sweet breath of my daughter, I had no premonition that those horrific years would be less frightening than the years to follow.

Your life may flash before your eyes just before death, but those flashes are more clear, more vivid the evening before you give your children back to the monster that forced you to hell in the first place.

What a Difference a Day Makes

2010-07-13T22:18:00.000-07:00

I made it all the way to Los Angeles. Whoo hoo!! Only 133 miles to the border. man we'd been making great timing. Then a monkey got thrown into the gears. The van we sleep in broke down and the $1800 estimate left us in a panic. We repaired what needed to be done and in a matter of speaking, went on our merry way.

Our fund were totally depleted now and I had to decide whether or not to continue on foot with just a back-pack in tow. I wanted to think about it for a day or two. We headed for the last known area that we found a place to sleep safely and peacefully, Thousand Oaks, about 50 miles north of L.A., to decide what to do. My traveling companion is not feeling too comfortable with my going it alone and quite frankly, neither are my family and friends.

While bouncing ideas around as to how to complete this trip, the van brakes down a second time. This time, the transmission was acting up and we could not drive in anything but second gear. This estimate was a $4,000 transmission replacement.

While it being Patrick's vehicle, he decided that he would trust no one again with his vehicle and we nursed it all the way to the Bay area to go to his mechanic. Not something I would have chosen to do, but understandable considering the first repair job turned out to be an expensive misdiagnosis.

Because it is going to take a few days to repair, I am sleeping at a hotel, while Patrick is crashing on his mom's couch. The thought of taking a leisurely shower, perhaps even a bath is bliss. Being able to stretch out on a bed for the first time in 3 months is heaven. So why am I up at 3:30 in the morning?

The bed isn't too bad, but my back is throbbing anyway. I didn't have this problem in the van. Oh it ached constantly, but not to the severity it is at this moment. Due to a previous injury, I haven't been able to sleep lying down in years without laying back on several pillows supporting my back and extras propping up my legs.

The swelling in my feet seems to be at an all time high and since my legs are now higher than my heart thanks to bed, this shouldn't be the case. But I put a pair of socks on because my toes were chilly and within 15 minutes, they are cutting off the circulation. Well, those are very valid reasons for not sleeping, but they aren't the real reasons.

My wheels are turning and the squeaky wheels turning are keeping me awake. Somehow, I can't seem to turn off my brain. I am in a room by myself for the next 72 hours. No transportation, but plenty to eat. I have a can of tuna, a cucumber, jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. Not a gourmet spread but I guess it will do for 3 days.

Bad back go away, I'll see you round some other day. Swollen feet, it's not the first. Do your best, it's not the worst.

I get 72 hours of uninterrupted private time to write, write, write!!!! Woo Hoo!!! Now I did ask God to give me a sign of some sort that we were to continue and trust that people will start generously contributing. I got my sign and we are going back to LA as soon as we can to compete this portion of the trip. I won't give up so close to the end of the journey. Wanna know what the sign was? That $4000 transimisson repair? It only cost us $97 in the grand scheme of things

Pink Mist

2010-07-13T20:30:00.000-07:00

I set out to change the world. Instead, the world has changed me.

I think I may have said that before and I don't apologize for repeating the words for they never seemed truer at this moment than now. I have been spending the last 12 weeks speaking with directors of homeless shelters, food banks, city officials,asking how I can help them along the way. While in California, I have discovered that most directors don't want to talk to me. Fair enough. They all think I'm a bit crazy and I may very well be, but I get a bit discouraged just the same.

Over the last weeks the plans have changed a bit here and there. We began by passing much of the rural areas where there are only mile after mile of fields or beaches. As beautiful as these things are, I am not out here to be on a vacation. This allows me that more time to spend in the urban areas where more and more homeless can be found each day.

Another thing that has changed in California, if the fact that we don't just limit our talks to the directors of the shelters. We talk to the clients as well. One of the things I have learned did not come from the directors however, but from a veteran who had been homeless for than 12 years. We both have several things in common. He has been housed now for several years. His homeless roots are something he will never forget, nor does he care to. He has dedicated the rest of his life to helping the homeless and teaching the community he lives in that homelessness is not just about alcoholism or drug addicts.

When I talked to him about how he feels about the panhandlers he had the following to say:
Why wouldn't you give money to them?

Well, statistics have shown that most of the panhandlers do make a good deal of money and/or they're probably just going to go buy a pint or a fix or something.

And if they do? What business is that of ours? That fix you don't want them to buy may the matter between living or dying to them. Who are you to judge that?

I see what you're saying.

Do you? Do you really?

Maybe not. Why don't you help me to understand?

One of the guys in the recovery program was a Vietnam vet. He and his best friend in the world served together. They were childhood friends. Knew each other since they were still at their mamma's knee. One day they're laying in the grass talking about chicks, the next day they are scared shit less, hiding in the grasses in Nam.

At night, layin in the trenches, Jim and his friend talked about what they'd do when they got home. They only had three weeks left and they were looking forward to going home. The next day, they were ambushed. One minute Jim was talkin to his friend, the next minute, Jim was scraping pieces of his friend off his face. They call it pink mist. When someone blows up like that and there's nothing left but the blood that hangs in the air. Jim has PTSD. He needed the fix to get him through the guilt. Survivors guilt.

We got another guy in the program who's wife and daughter were killed by a burglar. They were murdered for $96.00. Every night he drank himself into oblivion. It helped him to forget that they died because he was late in coming home from work.

So you may think you're helping them by not giving them that dollar, but some of them may really need it, and who are we to cast that first stone?

Is Anybody Out There?

2010-07-12T08:04:00.000-07:00

May I first apologize for the running together of paragraphs. I type them with the proper amount of spacing, yet somehow BLOGSPOT runs them together, sometimes haphazardly as in this case. I know it makes it a bit more difficult to read and for that I apologize. I am trying to figure it out.

Anyway...

There haven't been that many blogs about the shelters lately and for that I am truly sorry. The thing of it is, since Sacramento, there have been only two shelters that have agreed to talk with us and I blogged about one of them yesterday.

So this morning, I think I will talk about you. The person reading this blog. I'd like to know what it means to you to follow this blog. Why do you follow it? Is it because you are a friend and want to know what's going on, how I am?

Are you someone I have met along the way? Have I somehow changed how you think about the homeless? Have I touched you enough that you have gone out and done something about it? Have you volunteered at a shelter? Taken a homeless person out to lunch? Secretly bought groceries for someone who is poor and left them on their doorstep? Have you sat down and talked to a homeless person?

Are you one of the many reporters that has interviewed me? How has this touched your life or have you just gone on your merry way and forgotten all about the crazy lady that sleeps in a van and talks to the homeless all day long?

Maybe you've taken the steps to befriend someone at your church or a neighbor who you know is struggling financially or otherwise. Perhaps you've made other changes that I haven't mentioned here.

I'd like to hear whether or not you agree or disagree with anything I've said. I'd like to know how you think about the homeless now compared to what you used to, and perhaps ideas on what you think I could be doing out here.

I'd like to hear these things. I need to hear these things. You see I am hooked. I can't just stop with these three states. I want to continue this through all 50 states. I may not walk every step of the way. I haven't walked every step of the way here. I have bypassed much of the rural communities so that I may spend more time in the cities where the homeless are in abundance and the shelter directors can use all the help they can get even if it is just someone to vent to.

This trip has been very taxing on me. Physically, emotionally and somewhat spiritually. But it's because of that spirituality, that strong faith in my Lord Jesus Christ, that I dare to hope that I can continue this. So I need to hear whether or not you believe this mission of mine is making a difference so I can make the decision as to whether or not to become an official non-profit. As an individual, I am not eligible for grants or scholarships. As a non-profit I would be.

If I am the only life this mission has made a difference in, then I will continue this journey, going to as many states as possible without the blogs, without the van. Just me and a back pack and a sleeping bag. So I need to hear from you, so I can begin to draw up the rough draft of my future.

But the real reason I do this is for the kids. My kids. Your kids. The future of America. The future of the world. Do you see the picture at the top of the page? These are my kids. Do you know why I didn't post a before picture of them? Because I was homeless for much of their childhood. When you're homeless, you don't think to stop and take pictures so you can remember how they looked when they were little.

But I don't need photographs for me to remember what they looked like in their youth. I won't ever forget what they looked like when we were homeless. They all had the same scared look and sad eyes. I can't ever forget that. I can't ever forget that I was the one who put that look of fear on those beautiful faces.

From left to right, they are Josh. Josh was born in the streets 29 years ago. He is a brilliant artist, a great humanitarian and about to get married. He is an awesome uncle to his four nieces and I know he's going to make a great dad someday.

Dominick. Dom was 3 when we first became homeless. He is about to turn 34. He has a beautiful wife, 3 beautiful daughters and is expecting a fourth child during the holidays. He's a great dad. A kind and loving husband. He has worked in the HVAC business for more than 10 years. 2 years ago he was laid off. With the construction of new homes not being what it was, he no longer does what he loves. He now works as a grocery clerk. He would do anything to keep that roof over his children's heads.

And last but of course not least, Valeria. Val was 5 when I left her dad and turned to a life on the streets. I home schooled her from the front seat of a car. She didn't step into her first classroom until she was 8 years old. She was a straight A student all throughout school. She is now an Escrow officer, a single mom to my fourth adorable granddaughter, and a pretty neat lady.

No mom could ask for better kids than the three I have. They are my life. They are my heart and by the grace of God, even after everything I put them through during our homeless years, they still love me and we are together forever, and always.

Since only a select few homeless shelters have agreed to talk with us, I have decided to share a good deal about my homeless days. Over the next several days you will hear a lot about those kids and everything they went through. You may think less of me. You may think more of me. What matters most is the message behind these stories.

No child deserves a life in the streets. With more than one and a half million homeless kids in the US, perhaps with the telling of these stories, you may think twice before judging the teen with all of the facial piercings, with the sad scary eyes, or the 14 year old obviously with child. Chances are, none of them want to be there. With your help, they don't have to be.

www.change-for-life.org

Who's the BOSS?

2010-07-11T17:55:00.001-07:00

In Berkeley, I was honored to have been asked to participate in a planning meeting for the next days rally to be held in Oakland. The topics were affordable housing and General Assistance benefits.

Those were things I knew nothing about other than by experience. I can tell you that in Oregon if you are single, you do not qualify for benefits. You have to have a child. There in California, the benefits have been there for a short amount of time but were minimal. They started off being about $380 then were cut back to roughly $220 or thereabouts.

The planning committee sitting around the table was made up of 6 women and 7 women. They were clean cut, well dressed, healthy looking men and women. The intelligence in that room was enough to make Einstein duck for cover. But what amazed me was not the intelligence, nor the dedication to this project, nor the fact that they were all impeccably groomed, nor the spirituality that exuded from them all. What took me by surprise was that each and every one of them had at some point, not too long ago been homeless.

They had all fallen on hard times. Some by some form of addiction, some by lack of employment, one because of disability. As we talked and shared and got to know one another I must honestly say that I will be thrilled if any of them decide to keep in touch and would be honored to call each and every one of them friend.

All of them are members of an organization called BOSS. Building Opportunities for Self-Sufficiency. The Boss is more than a name. It's more than a referral program, It is an educational program; an action plan that empowers not enables. BOSS rebuilds lives; gives hope to those who haven't dared to do so for a long time. BOSS works together as a team with the homeless, poverty stricken, and disabled, to give them a better life.

At BOSS, you are not looked upon as 'the poor homeless person.' As they say on their website..."We celebrate people's strength in surviving under difficult conditions." BOSS believes that housing for every person is a human right. Acting upon those beliefs, BOSS acts as an advocate by empowering those in need to speak up for themselves. To strengthen whole communities to be just that...a community. Lastly, they teach individuals to get involved in their own civil rights.

BOSS also assists those wishing to turn their lives around by connecting them with Adult education classes, job search and placement, money management strategies and even job creation when appropriate.

BOSS also advocates for health as well. This mean BOSS not only offers medical referrals but helps to empower each person that walks through their doors to make healthy choices for his or her life.

I cannot tell you exactly how many people were at this rally we participated in. I can tell you that more than 75% of them were homeless.

Look carefully at the pictures above. See all those Navy t-shirts? Graduates from BOSS. Look at the faces. Do they look homeless to you? They look the same to me. Confident, healthy people, living life to the best of their abilities and getting healthier every day.

So who's the BOSS? Everyone!

Today, Tomorrow, Yesterday

2010-07-09T11:09:00.000-07:00

It's a bit harder to blog these days. Not because there is nothing to write about. On the contrary. There is plenty to share with you. The truth of the matter is, the closer I get to Los Angeles, the more my emotions are hanging on by a thread.

When planning this trip, I knew parts of it would be disquieting, but this portion of the journey has turned out to be so much harder than I ever imagined. I am in no way looking forward to Los Angeles. San Francisco was different and was certainly an eye opener, but I wasn't homeless there. It was a different feeling altogether than what I am experiencing now.

I knew there would be some upsetting sentiment attached, simply because I am only a few miles away from where my innocence was lost and my life became a prerequisite for a Stephen King novel. I haven't been back to this area in 30 years and I don't really want to be here now, but I know that I know, that I know, I am doing what is being asked of me.

My heart is pounding so loudly, I am sure the people at the next table can hear it. It's hard to catch my breath sometimes and my mind is racing through the 'What ifs' of life. What if I see those two small children, 3 and 5 years old, standing their crying because their mother drove off without them? What if I see that small hand reach out to hold mine only to find out it is no longer there? What if I hear the cries of hunger that can not be satiated? What if I never see them again?

What if I should walk down the street where it happened? What if that man sitting two tables over to the left is the same man that was never punished for his leadership participation of the crime of some 30 years ago? He could be. He has a scar on his right thumb. But this man is old and wrinkled. But what if it is him. What if he recognizes me? Will he care? Will he do it again?

Of course, I have learned over the years that the 'What ifs' of life can get you into trouble. Today I am afraid, but I remind myself that I survived the actual events once before. I will survive the memory of those circumstances as well, knowing that walking beside me each step of the way is the God who protected me the first time around. Why would he do any less now?

So I write about the pain, I write about the memories, because there are others out there whose today's or tomorrow's may be saved because I shared my yesterdays.

The Cost of Being Homeless

2010-07-08T08:47:00.000-07:00

This journey began 82 days ago. During this short time, the two of us have actually lived like the homeless. Actually we've lived a lot better than the homeless but we've limited ourselves tremendously, being on a very tight budget. To date our expenses are as follows:

$1875 gas

$847 food

$189 laundry

$176 showers

$2275 for car repair

Weekly total not including car repair = $280

Now...if we were truly homeless, we would not have had the money for the laundry. We would have taken advantage of the few shelters that had laundry facilities. We would have only had $400 in food stamps for food, probably wouldn't have needed the gas because we wouldn't have been able to afford the insurance let alone the gas and lastly we would not have been able to repair the care we didn't have.

Now to break it down to our terms.

Gas: Why did we need this much? Well, the rest stops have been few and far between. Mostly we drive 1-2 hours just to find a safe place to sleep. yes we could have slept at the shelters, but we didn't think it would have been fair to There is a lot of backtracking involved and a lot of driving to plan out the next days route. So far we have put just a tad over 10,000 miles on the van.

Laundry: I am a homeless snob and I use sheets. Yes sheets to cover the car seat I sleep in, and although I purposely didn't bring that many clothes and sometimes find myself wearing the same thing for three or four days in a row, we still have about 3 loads of laundry to do each week, which wasn't too bad in Oregon but in California the average load of wash is about $4.25 not including drying.

Showers: trying to find a place that allows showering only is pretty tough. Again, we don't want to take anything away from the homeless, so we limit ourselves to state park campground showers. Unless you are paying for a camp site, ($35 per night, so not in the budget) then you must pay for your shower. This can range anywhere from $1.75 to $5.00 depending on where you are. Let me tell you, you never know how much you miss this luxury until you go without one for 2 weeks. Yes I said two weeks. Yuck. Oh we washed up in gas station sinks, but it's certainly not the same thing!

Food: We have been trying diligently to live on $10 per day between the two of us, but it's hard to do. We have however been sticking to the 99 cent menu on whichever fast food restaurant suits our fancy. None of them suit mine. Being a chef, having a big burger from Carl's Jr. doesn't quite get it, but it's all we have the money for so that's all we have.

We rarely have vegetable unless they are on the 99 cent menu. We rarely have healthy protein unless it's on the 99 cent menu. Vitamins are a luxury and although we started out with them, when we ran out of them about 8 weeks back, we decided the budget couldn't support the luxury of health.

Speaking of which, the cost of homelessness is much more than monetary. Our heath is not failing but waning quickly on this trip. I've blogged about the swollen feet a few times, but I'll say it again just in case you didn't read any of those past blogs. The front seat of a mini van is not conducive to sleeping and our feet cannot be raised. When we wake in the morning our feet are swollen, sometime so badly that we either cannot tie our shoelaces or cannot put the shoes on at all.

Migraines are a constant companion, and can't honestly say whether it's from lack of healthy eating, lack of sleep or a combination of both. Either way, a good nights sleep is about 5 hours, six if we're lucky.

My hair is falling out at least four times as much as what is normal. My once thick crop of hair is thin, scraggly and lacks the luster it used to have. My gums are bleeding, sometimes just because I have bitten into something such as a tuna sandwich, and for no other reason.

What should be a golden tan is actually various shades of blotched brown and so incredibly dry that the cream I use just dissolves as if my skin were a sponge that can't get enough moisture.

I have walked off my callouses and new ones are forming. With the amount of walking though you'd think I would be loosing weight like crazy. Not so much. Not only are we eating non-healthy high fat meals, but we're also nibbling almost constantly. There are rarely places to just stop and take a refreshing afternoon snooze, so snacking is compulsory to get through the day.

Having begun this trip with a bad back, knees and hip, I can say that the calves are solid muscle now; the back's aches and pains have relocated and although still primarily the lower back, my neck is so stiff I cannot seem to hold my head up for any length of time of now; the hip goes out more often than I do these days, but...the knees are taking stairs a bit better than they were 3 months ago. YEAH.

So why am I telling you all of this boring personal information. Well, going through all of this has given me first hand personal experience of homelessness. Although I know there is an end to this, depression has set in a bit and I cannot help but wonder if I am going through all of this after only 82 days, how much more are the feelings of the homeless who cannot see the light at the end of the tunnel.

They spend hours and hours walking each day because they have to not because they are on a mission. Sometime they walk just because they can't find a place to sleep. Others walk to collect things they can recycle in order to earn a few dollars or two.

Finding a place to sleep is a scary thing and more often than not, unless you are one of the lucky few to procure a bed, you're a bit out of luck. Depending on what city you are homeless in, what you eat can be less healthy than our daily bean and cheese burrito. Vitamins are a luxury for them as well and sleeping comes in half hour to hour long increments not the 3-5 we get.

I see these people and being the perpetual mother of the world, I want to take care of them all. I want to nurse them back to health and love them until they can love themselves and yet I know from experience, that is not the answer.

So all I can do is to support the shelters, so when they do reach that bottom, they will have the life preserver to hang on to when they are drowning in their miseries.

And I'm Back

2010-07-08T04:46:00.000-07:00

So...who'da thunk in California there would be MILES of no internet or phone service? Surely not this old lady.

It has been a most unusual week and I will enlighten you as the days go on, but right now I have some blogs to catch up on, so for those of you who were patient enough to stick around, I thank you and I hope the following blogs are worth the wait.

New Directions

2010-06-27T20:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight's blog is short. I couldn't say this any better than these folks so I do hope you will watch.

Often times we run into skeptics. People who think either the homeless are just lazy bums, drug addicts or alcoholics. Every once in a while we run into that skepticism within the administration of of the shelters we visit.

One director of an Oakland shelter actually said "You hit that 5 year mark and there's no hope. There is no turning back. You're in the streets forever. You'll never get out."

Well ladies and gentleman, I am living proof that that, is a load of rubbish. But my story is nothing compared to the video above.

Talk to you all tomorrow.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

2010-06-25T21:33:00.000-07:00

There are things you do when you're homeless that you would never have thought about otherwise. Things you would be ashamed to do in a world of the housed. But there is no room for shame as a homeless person, only survival.

You search through trash for someones left over lunch. It doesn't matter that there may be coffee grounds on the sandwich. you haven't eaten in days so you brush it off and eat it anyway. It doesn't matter what it tastes like. you just need the nourishment.

Without the proper nourishment your hair begins to fall out a bit faster than normal. Your teeth rot. Of course they would, you can't brush them weekly, let alone daily. Your hair is slicked back with the natural oils of unwashed hair. The lice you picked up at one of the flop houses can be seen with the naked eye. There's no money for treatment, so you itch, constantly.

Privacy for the relief of bodily functions is a thing of the past. If you're a man, you don;t think twice about urinating on the nearest bush. A woman, learns to squat behind that same bush or if her knees are bad, you pee in a cup. Bowel movements are another thing. You use any public bathroom you can find. More often than not, you are stared at as you walk through a restaurant, office building, public library.

The abomination of bathing is a luxury that happens but once per week, and even then it is done in the most loathsome fashion. You search for public restrooms that have private family or handicap stalls. You lock the door. Strip off the clothes you have worn and slept in daily for the previous week. The socks are so stiff from sweat all the walking incurred and you must peel them from your feet. You cringe at the sight of your once white undergarments.

You examine yourself for ticks, fleas, any kind of hitchhiking bug. It is then you notice the blazing red yeast infection that covers the folds and creases of your body. You weep at the sight of your once flawless body that has changed not only with age and deprivation.

You turn on the water. Although there is a handle for hot water, it is not connected to anything so you bathe using only cold. It's not as good, but it's better than nothing. Out of your tattered backpack, you pull the sample bottle of shampoo the last mission gave you. There's barely enough in it to get the job done, but you use it anyway. It's all you've got.

You scrub with an old sock you use as a washcloth. The soap in the rest room stings a bit on the open sores but that's a good thing you think. It will help them heal. You're done washing as best you can. You dry yourself with paper towels. When there aren't any, you use the liners for the toilets. They soak up water pretty good. There isn't much to choose from, but you dress in the cleanest clothes you have.

You look at your hands and notice that even with all of the scrubbing, you still have dirt under your fingernails. You look up at the reflection that looks back at you and you wonder what happened? What went wrong? Where did the old you go? The person you see in the mirror is no longer someone you recognize. You pack up your belongings. Walk out of the place for just a moment you could have some privacy and begin your quest for a place to sleep.

In the city, sleeping is done in increments. Sometimes the weather is too cold to sleep at all, but mostly the police move you along. You cannot sleep on a park bench. You cannot sleep in your car if you're lucky enough to have one. You cannot sleep in a tent unless you pay for the privilege in a campground. As a matter of fact, it's illegal to be homeless.

We drove along the California coast the other day, looking for a place to park the van we sleep in, knowing that we had a chance of being asked to leave. The further along the coast we went from San Francisco to Santa Cruz, we knew that we would not be moved along. Along that 40 plus mile stretch of sand we counted 73 cars parked along the side of the road, all bedding down for the night.

We were lucky. We found a nice little nook that had a fabulous view of the ocean, on one side, the California coastal hills on the other. There were wild rabbits in our nook, gulls, lizards and ground squirrels as well, all preparing for bed.

As we watched the most spectacular sunset, I dreamt of being in my own private sanctuary, my own private bed overlooking this panoramic wonder, every night. Wouldn't that be incredible.

And then I came back down to earth and thought of how many of those people parked in their cars along the California Coast dream of preparing for any bed perhaps in a home they can call their own.

You can help. Please, donate the change in your pocket to your nearest homeless shelter.

I Left My Heart in San Francisco

2010-06-24T05:22:00.000-07:00

As I write these words, it is the wee small hours of the morning. The sun is not yet up, nor is my traveling companion, but I have been awake for hours wondering how honest I should really be. Very, I decide. That's what this is about. The good, the bad and the ugly.

I realized quite accidentally yesterday that I have lead a very sheltered life. I was homeless for more than 5 years. I have been shot at, stabbed and beaten to a pulp while on the streets. Doesn't sound very sheltered does it?

I have done volunteer work at various shelters where I live in Portland, Oregon and in cities throughout this journey. But even with all of that, I was never frightened enough to have a full blown panic attack . Yesterday I was.

For the first time since this trip began, I was afraid to get out of my car. I have met several heroin addicts over the years. Those I have met have been in some type of recovery program, therefore clean. I had never met such a hardcore addict so desperate for a fix that when the opportunity arose, they shoot up then and there, not caring of the consequences. I hadn't met one, until yesterday.

As I drove to the beginning of the route I had mapped out for our daily walk, I was frightened at what I saw. Not only were there hundreds of people without homes, but many were drunk, shooting up or physically attacking one another. These are the homeless that the directors of the shelters call hard core. The people who sadly have not yet reached their bottom and only want the hand out, not the hand up. I cannot say if all of them were like that because I did not do yesterday's route.

My heart began to race, the tears began to flow and I could not catch my breath. As I drove past the hordes of homeless through the river of tears I kept saying I'm sorry, I'm sorry, over and over until it was almost a chant. I felt so inadequate, so useless. I was tired, overwhelmed, and couldn't get away fast enough from the scene that looked like something out of a Spielberg concentration camp .

I cannot remember ever crying so hard in my life. Ever. The tears still have not stopped. They have lessened over these last hours, but not stopped.

As I cry, I do not weep for those people, but selfishly for myself. I think "There but by the grace of God go I ." Normally I do not like those words. It is as if I am saying that it could never happen to me. But it did. It did happen to me and it wasn't until I was 3 states, 63 days and 1122 miles into this trip, did I understand that although primarily about the homeless, this journey is about me as well. That sounds arrogant I know because it should never have been about me, but right now, right this moment it very much is.

In obedience to God's calling, I am facing a giant I thought I had long ago killed and buried. My homelessness. I never understood so completely until yesterday, how much in denial I was over my past. How much I clung to that past, for fear of ever going back to that point of no return, of ever becoming 'hard core'. So right this very moment I can say with confidence that it is with God's grace, and only by God's grace that I am at all.

Will this deter me from continuing my quest? Heavens no! It makes me that much more confident that I am doing what God has asked of me.

You see I know what it's like to not have anyone beside you during your hour or years of need. Perhaps none of those people will believe me when I tell them here is a better life, but I will plant the seed. I don't have to stick around for the harvest. I know it will come and I will let God take care of the crop.

You Could Break It (Be Careful with My Heart Part 2)

2010-06-22T09:33:00.001-07:00

August 2, 1982; I watch as my frightened children are taken away by a man they don;t remember. the monster who sent us into the streets to begin with has changed, just as my parents had said. He can now give them all the material things they would need. All I have for them is love and sadly Love is not enough to keep them alive.

As the van disappears out of sight I fall to the ground sobbing uncontrollably. My heart will never be the same. My life will never be the same. What have I done? I am a horrible mother. I loved them so very much. I loved them enough to let them go and have what was left of their childhoods.

I cling to the infant remaining and I take from him now. I take the comfort I should be offering him. But I take, and as I take, I want death to take me, knowing I may never again see the part of my heart that shattered as I watched the first loves of my life go from me forever. But the beat of another heart, a tiny heart filled with love for me is keeping me from ending my life.

June 9th, 2010: It's a pillow. A silly pillow that for one brief moment became my babies at the moment of each of their births.

August 1983: I had gone into a K-mart to buy diapers for my rapidly growing son, peacefully sleeping in the seat of the shopping cart. I walk past the toy section. I pick up a truck. The kind with the barrel on the back that turns and rotates, changing the sand from the playground into mortar for the fort a little boy would play in. I run my finger over the wheels, the crank, the barrel itself and I think about my son that may be playing with this treasure someday.

I continue on my quest. I browse the girls section, looking for just the right dress. I find the one I am looking for. A pretty blue satin, the color of her eyes. It has lace around the pinafore, the sleeves the heart shaped neck.

I must go. I will be late. I toss the dress in the cart and walk as fast as I can to the dressing rooms. I choose the biggest one. It must be big enough to bring the whole cart in. I quietly close the door behind me. I take the truck and the dress in my arms. With my back up against the wall, I slowly sink to the ground. I almost didn't make it before the tears start.

I hold the truck and think of the son who should be playing with it but is no longer here. the son who will never know the fell of his mothers kiss on the scraped knee he received as he slid into home base. I bring the dress to my nose and inhale. I swear I can smell the fragrance of my daughter. The daughter who will never know what it is like to have her mother lovingly brush her hair.

The tears never stop. I walk past a baseball cap and I cry. I walk past a pair of ballet slippers and I cry. I walk past their favorite foods and I cry. I have not been complete for a long time.

He begins to stir. I quickly wipe away the tears. He mustn't know. He mustn't know that although I love him dearly, he isn't enough to fill the hole in my heart. He isn't enough to make me laugh. He isn't enough to make me happy. He isn't enough.

I lay back on the seat that night, with my son, barely walking, cradled on my chest. I hold him tightly as I recall the brother and sister he will never know. The rhythm of my heartbeat lulls him to sleep. It skips a beat now and then as I think of my children being tucked in by another woman. But he sleeps through the irregularities of the pulse.

April 3, 1984; It is the first day since February 2, 1979 that the roof over our head is our very own. It is the first night in a bed in more than 5 years. But we cannot sleep, each for our own reason. The bed is too soft. I have been sleeping in a car seat, a church pew or the ground. It is what I am used to. It is all I know.

Josh does not have the cadence of my heart to fall asleep to. He needs the sound he has grown so accustomed to. He needs the comfort of the arms that held him close for five days shy of three years. Quietly, I lower to the ground, with my sleepy child quieting as he curls his fingers in the security blanket of my hair. We sleep now. Me on the floor, he in my arms again.

It doesn't feel like home yet. It will in time. But not quite yet.

Here's to You Mrs. Robinson

2010-06-19T10:20:00.000-07:00

I was adopted at age two and knew for sure my daddy was going to wait for me to grow up so I could marry him. What I loved most beyond his beautiful smile and belly laugh was his charcoal gray suit and matching Fedora. I love a man in a Fedora.

The elderly couple sitting across from me in Denny's was a sight to behold. He was in a chocolate brown pinstripe suit with matching Fedora. She was dressed in a cream colored suit and matching felt hat covered in satin flowers and pearls.

I don't know why, but I watched them for a while. She was quite demure, prim and proper. Her moves were dainty, refined and pure. He sat, sipping quietly at his coffee, gazing at this woman he was so obviously in love with.

When the waiter brought their bill, I knew I had to say something. I went to their table, smiled and told them what a beautiful couple they were. She beamed. He smiled and took my hand.

"Do you know the Lord," he asked?

"I do."

"I knew it!" He shouted and slapped his open palm on the table. "I knew it." He held my hand for a moment or two longer. "Now, what are you going to sing for me?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You said you know the Lord, now I want you to show me how much."

Well, for those of you who know me, I am a bit of a ham and love to sing. Especially praise songs. I'm not necessarily very good, but I love it. It was an unusual request but I complied. There in the middle of Denny's in Oakland California, I belted out "Precious Lord."

"Hot dog," he shouted. "I knew it. I knew you were a believer. Every been to Arizona?"

"Yes Sir I have."

"I was born there. Moved here, with my mama and daddy when I was a baby. Haven't ever been back. Tell me all about will you? I want to know what it's like."

"Well, I guess it depends on what part of Arizona you're from. It ranges from desert to mountains, to forest."

Slapping his hand on the table again, he says, "I knew it. Well, it doesn't matter. I'll see it when I get to heaven. What's your name?"

"Lynn McPherson"

"I am Pastor Robert Robinson. I have been a pastor for more than 60 years. This is my beautiful bride of 64 years."

I take her hand and the gentleness of her spirit touches my heart instantly. "It's so nice to meet you."

"It's a pleasure to meet you Sister."

"Mrs. Robinson," he addressed his wife. "What's the name of that song I love so much?"

Without hesitation, she replied with a smile. "Till we meet at the feet of Jesus."

"Sing it Mrs. Robinson."

She didn't belt it out like I did, but sing she did and it was obvious that well used voice was worn out singing praise to the Lord she and her husband so obviously loved. The sound was sweet, mellow and although raspy with age, was spot on in tune.

"Well Lynn McPherson," Pastor Robinson takes both of my hands. "The Lord is telling me you are to keep on doing what you are doing. He says you are doing his work and He wants you to keep on going."

I was astounded to hear these words from a total stranger. There was no way he could have possibly known what I was doing nor that I had been struggling as to whether or not to continue after this initial walk. But as he saw the doubt he gave my hands a little squeeze.

"You follow Him and He'll lead you right." He winks, lets go of my hand helps his lovely bride to her feet. As if rehearsed, together, they leave singing.

Through the storm, through the night,

lead me on to the light

take my hand precious lord,

and lead me home.

http://www.change-for-life.org/

Heard it Through the Grapevine

2010-06-18T07:35:00.000-07:00

I always wanted to be famous, but I thought my 15 minutes would come from my writing, not this. Of course the fame that I am receiving has nothing to do with seeing my name up on the big screen as I have wanted since my Radio City Hall days. It doesn't have a whole lot to do with the media either since we haven't received all that much attention.

It does have to do with the grape vine of homeless shelters. Some of them seem to know we are coming. I don't see how since plans have changed tremendously. It never dawned on me in the planning of this trip how much we would change as well.

I get about 5-6 hours sleep per night. Patrick requires much more. He is not a morning person, I definitely am. The moment my feet hit the ground in the morning, I am on the move. It takes him about half an hour before he can think coherently. He is very slow moving, very methodical and exact. I on the other hand am ADHD and ALWAYS on the go. I hate sitting unless I am doing something. I am a fly by the seat of my pants kind of gal. I take chances. ALL the time.

Some of the changes weren't all that bad. Difficult to get used to, a little unhealthy but nothing major, like not being able to cook. The rest areas don't allow it, we surely can't cook in a Safeway parking lot so the idea of healthy affordable meals kind of went out the window. We eat fast food a lot. I know we can do salads at most fast food places, but salads aren't affordable. We are on a very limited budget so we only eat from the cheapskate menu. Nothing much healthy there.

One of the biggest changes for me on this trip was sleeping arrangements. I thought we would be able to have separate tents. Didn't turn out that way. I wimped out and decided I could not just pitch a tent on the side of the road. Rest areas don't allow it and at $35 per night, campgrounds are not in the budget. But God has a sense of humor.

I always thought the next time I would share my sleeping quarters with a man, it would #1 be with my husband and #2, it would be in a bed, not the front seat of a mini van. Sleeping just about literally nose to nose with a virtual stranger is a little unsettling. How can that be I ask myself? I have known him for such a long time.

Patrick and I have been friends for over 25 years. But for more than half of that, our friendship has been via phone. We see each other for about two weeks every other year, but that's it. So this is taking our relationship to an all new level, and as I said, plans change.

Not being able to put our feet up. That's a big one for me. My feet are swollen all the time now, and sometimes so much so that I can not put on my sneakers. But I keep going because that is what God has asked me to do.

Not being able to stay at rest stops anymore. That is the newest change. Not knowing where we are going to sleep on any given night is more than a bit scary. I probably don't get more than 4 hours sleep a night now. I remember keeping my ears tuned into everything before. Old habits are hard to get rid of out here, and now I can just about hear an ant crawl across the dashboard, so every little thing sets me off and I am at full alert with the falling of a leaf. But these are simple changes compared to what has changed with the plan itself.

I committed to walking from Canada to Mexico. After about the second day, I realized not only was Google maps sending me on false roads, or just plain old out of the way time after time, when I was walking in the rural areas, it seemed all I was doing was enjoying the view and communing with nature and the flora and fauna. Well that's all well and good, but I wasn't out here for a vacation.

So I listened to my gut, and plans did change, and the use of the van became more than just a place to rest our weary feet. We began driving past much of the rural area, waving to the cows and bunnies along the way, and spending our much needed time walking through the cities.

Instead of walking step by literal step, where once we would have only spent 4 hours walking through Seattle, we spent three days talking with people we are trying to help. Where once we would have spent 5 hours going through Portland, we spent 3 days talking with the people we were trying to help. Where once we would have spent 4 hours walking through Sacramento we sinstead pent three days talking with the people we are trying to help.

This trip isn't about me. It's about them. It isn't about what I am doing. It's about what can be done. It isn't about the notoriety. It's about speaking up when attention needs to be paid. It's not about being courageous. It's about doing what God has called me to do. It's about helping those who can't or don't know how to help themselves. I have no doubt that these plans from my gut, were plans from God.

Now my gut is telling me something else. "Keep going" it says. Keep going. Don't stop at the border of Mexico. Keep going to every homeless shelter, in every major city, in every state of the US. It is so badly needed.

Is this from God? I don't know. I didn't know if the Canada to Mexico trip was from God but I went anyway. Can I physically do it? I don't know, but I didn't think I could physically do this trip either and although I ache all the time, I am doing it. Can we afford it? I can tell you that if it is from God, he will provide everything we need to continue just as he has. The manna trickles in most of the time but it's always there. Sometimes he comes through at the eleventh hour, sometimes it's twelve 'o' one, but He always comes through.

If it's not from God? Well, He will make that perfectly clear as well and He will give me my next assignment. The grapevine will continue to grow as the word passes from city to city, shelter to shelter, person to person. And as that growth takes place, more and more people that want to do the right thing will join in this campaign. So maybe it supposed to happen, but maybe someone else is supposed to take over where I left off. Who knows?

God does. That's who. I have faith in that. Know why? Because my God is HUGE and He can do mighty things with those vines.

Silence is Not Always Golden

2010-06-17T19:39:00.000-07:00

These were his instructions to them: "The harvest is great, but the workers are few. So pray to the Lord who is in charge of the harvest; ask him to send more workers into his fields. ~ Luke 10:2

As I am sitting in Denny's writing this blog there is a woman entering the restaurant. She enters at the same time each night. She is a slim petite woman but you'd never know it. She wears 4 coats, two sweaters and a few different blouses. She has two pairs of sweatpants, 2 dresses and a pair of jeans. A wool scarf is wrapped around her head, a baseball cap on top of that. Calloused hands push the shopping cart that carries all her worldly belongings.

She walks past the four filled tables including ours. The staff knows she is there. They look the other way as she makes her way to the restroom. It is there I find her constructing a makeshift shower of bottles filled with water, a dirty towel and a half inch piece of soap.

She looks up and sees me. Quickly she gathers her items. I tell her she needn't leave. She stops. She looks at me, opens the door and looks around. She signals for me to use the restroom. She will stand guard. I do what I came to do and as I come out of the stall, she is holding a Styrofoam package with the label Denny's on it. Room service has arrived. It arrives nightly.

I leave and go back to my table. She passes a few minutes later smelling of Irish Spring, carrying her still hot dinner. No one acknowledges her but everyone knows she is leaving. I smile at her but she doesn't see. She looks at no one. I will be back tomorrow evening. I hope she will too.

On thing I don't understand is why more people don't "look the other way" and help. I call them 'Silent Samaritans'. They people that do what is right without anyone knowing they are doing such as the staff at Denny's. They could have asked her to leave. They could ask her that each night, but they don't. She sleeps in the bushes outside the restaurant and although they never asked her name, they are still doing what little they can. Maybe no one else noticed this, but I did and I applaud them. I give them a standing ovation.

The Carrows across the street is collecting ties. Bring in a tie for the homeless Veterans that are trying to look for work and you get a free piece of pie. It isn't much and it may sound silly to you, but it's not silly to the men who receive the ties.

There is a small cafe in Mount Shasta, California that serves hot coffee and freshly baked bread to the homeless that grace their doors. There is never a charge. In fact, there is a table reserved just for them. Not one hiding in the back, but one right in the front window.

A truck stop outside of Sacramento opens its doors to the homeless between 6:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. each and every night. They are charged a dollar for a cup of coffee and a couple of eggs. If they don't have it, they get to eat anyway.

There is a homeless shelter in Eugene, Oregon where the homeless themselves delivers meals to families that can't afford to buy enough groceries for the month. It makes them feel good that they can do for someone else.

There is a church in Hillsboro, Oregon that opens its doors to the last, the lost and the least each and every week. No strings attached, just show up and "let us love on you." That's their motto.

What I want to know is why aren't more people being "Silent Samaritans?" Why can't more people "love on" the last, the lost and the least.

I am a Christian. But homelessness doesn't care what religion you are. It doesn't care what color you are. It does care whether or not you help. So, it shouldn't matter if you are Christian, Jewish, Buddhist, Atheist.

You help because it's the right thing to do.

Sister Act

2010-06-16T12:39:00.000-07:00

Be our Guest. Be our Guest. Put our service to the test.

The services offered by Sister Libby of Loaves and Fishes in Sacramento, CA are in deed put to the test every single day. You'd never know it though. In fact, L&F seems to run so smoothly I expected to see the guests start dancing to choreographed musical number. As much as it seems that way, having formerly served in the armed forces, I know that Sister Libby, works incredibly hard and runs a tight ship.

What impressed me was not the fact that Sister Libby works hard. It wasn't the fact that she makes it look easy. It was the fact that Sister Libby takes the time to greet each guest as often as possible. She knows the majority of her hundreds of guests by name and she is genuinely concerned about each and every one of them.

Be our guest. Be our guest. Get your worries off your chest.

Yet...She took the time to not only meet with me, but she walked with us the 3 miles to one of the many homeless shelters in Sacramento, before heading off to her very full day of running from one portion of the L & F compound to the other.

Mustard Seed school: A free, private school for children 3-15 years where they find a positive nurturing environment, gentle hands and education.

Daily Bread Day Labor: A job and placement referral program which gives guests of L & F the opportunity to learn or participate in a new trade such as construction, landscape or moving.

Sister Nora's Place: A long term, overnight shelter serving chronically homeless and mentally ill women.

Mary House: A daytime shelter for women and children where life goals are assessed and plans put into place to become independent and self-sufficient.

Genesis: This program offers a "new beginning" in the life of those with various mental health issues, including counseling and mental health referrals.

Dining Room: Over 5,000,000 meals have been served possibly the only meal they will have all day, in the L & F Dining Room where 600-800 homeless guests are served each day by volunteers from churches, local businesses, and even former guests themselves.

Guest Health Outreach: Staffed by a Registered Nurse and volunteer doctors this health clinic is possibly the only time many of the L & F guests will receive medical attention all year.

Jail Visitation: Staff and volunteers visit inmates, provide bus passes, clothing vouchers, toiletry kits, backpacks and referrals as needed when released from jail.

Animal Emergency Services: Kennels are available for those guests with pets, so they can eat freely as well as job search, knowing their pets are in good hands.

Sister Libby loves them all, but there's a twinkle in her eye when she talks about Friendship Park. You must be homeless to be able to partake of the wonderful activities and benefits of Friendship Park. You can take a shower, get a hair cut, do a load or two of laundry or just sit and relax in the sun on one of the many park benches.

The needs that must be met to run an organization like this are overwhelming, yet somehow, just and the nemisis Matthew 14:13-21, Loaves and Fishes, God provides. With the overwhelming increase in homeless, more needs must be met daily. Click on Matthew to see a complete list of what items are needed.

I don't know if Sister Libby will ever retire. She loves her job too much, and as you can see, her hands are full, but even full, they are always open to greet the next guest.

Every Blessed Thing

2010-06-15T15:13:00.000-07:00

I apologize for not writing for the last few days. Several reasons really. The most important one being I hadn't taken a day off since I left on April 18th. I took some much needed time to just spend with God, in prayer and contemplation as well as having a bit of relaxing fun.

We drove from San Francisco to Fort Bragg and back, stopping at every little nook and cranny we could. It is truly awe inspiring to watch the Pacific Ocean at various parts of the coast. Sometimes the waves are small, gentle and soothing. Others the waves are thunderous, roaring and angry. It's sort of how I felt before this little diversion.

California has sent very mixed signals. In Redding and Sacramento we were so well received. Everyone we met with was excited that we were doing this and wanted to help us in this endeavor. Right now though, not so much. Mostly we have been met with....Oh, that's nice. Have a good walk, but we have been nixed by just about everyone including the homeless shelters we are trying to help.

It makes it a bit frustrating and I had been wondering whether or not I was doing the right thing. Had I lost sight of God's plan in this? Had I really heard God correctly or was I doing this for some unknown reason that only God knew the answer to. Should I give it up and go home or keep on keepin on? Was I doing anybody any good out here? I know you've heard this a bit before and I may feel the same way again before the end of the trip but for right now, I have new answers. Answers that came in the nooks and crannies of our off the beaten path expedition.

Have you ever watched a sandpiper? They are courageous little buggers, venturing out in search of what sustains them. Trusting their needs will be met, they meander through the newly dampened sand pursuing little treasures the ebbing tide has brought them. The moment the water begins to advance, their tiny little feet scurry as fast as they can go so as not to get dragged under. They know instinctively when to turn and run. When not to follow something that can do them harm.

The seals bask in the sun, knowing when it's time to rest. They too trust that their needs will be provided. They know when it's time for fun and as I watch a mother seal disciplining her cub, it is evident that they too instinctively know what should and shouldn't be done.

Even the plants along the coast know which way to face for their daily sustenance. Towards the sun. Yet in my humanness, I don't always trust my instincts. I often balk at things asked of me and like a child, stubbornly dig in my heels and resist everything my Father is asking of me. Fear takes over, or laziness as the case may be sometimes and I stomp my foot and say "No. I don't wanna!"

Well. In opening my Bible this last weekend I was reminded of men far greater than I, that never saw the results of the actions they took because their heavenly Father asked them too. Abraham, Moses, Noah, Joseph, John the Baptist...the list could go on.

When we left the place we slept at last night, we took a wrong turn and somehow ended up going over the Golden Gate Bridge. Let me just tell you that I dislike driving in cities immensely. (I can promise I will never again complain about Portland traffic after San Francisco.) I intended to go through San Francisco next week, but I was going to walk through it not drive through it.

Thirty minutes later, we got turned around and went back over the Golden Gate bridge and the very first exit was a vista point. Instantly our metropolitan ordeal was forgotten and we were enamored with not only the bridge itself, but the history, the size and technicality of this Herculean scaffold. After snapping 100 or so pictures (One can never have too many pictures of the bridge) on my return walk over the bridge, I ran into the only other walker I had seen and he too was taking photographs.

I smiled and said "I'm glad I'm not the only tourist out here!"

With this awesome English accent he said, "It's Brilliant! You don't walk this daily then? On vacation as we are?" I told him what I was doing and before I could even finish what I was saying, he handed me a $5.00 bill. "Brilliant" he said. "It's a blessed thing you're doing."

It is blessed thing indeed, but not because I am doing this. It is a blessed thing because God is doing this. Because it is His journey, I must thrust that with God's help, it will be far greater than what I can imagine. I may never see the results, but I must trust, that God will nurture those seeds until they produce the fruit He wants. I must trust that He will provide for us all, Patrick, myself and the homeless we meet, whether through grants, donations, an invitation to dinner or even someone from a foreign land offering encouraging words such as "Brilliant!"

HOPE in Eden

2010-06-10T20:48:00.000-07:00

It is early evening. Their quest is just beginning. One by one, they gratefully accept the equipment needed for the evening's event. Silently they move through the streets of Sacramento, diligently moving in procession throughout the hour long trek, never complaining, carrying their nightly existence in a space not much bigger than a bread box. Thirty five to forty more minutes of assembly, then they can rest, but never peacefully.

They sit and talk of better times. They talk of the possibility of a future in Eden. They long for Eden. They fight for Eden. In Eden there is a new beginning. In Eden there is hope. In Eden there is a confidence that will Help Our People Excel.

Morning comes quickly. Overlooking the inviting river view that goes unnoticed, they carefully pack their equipment. Thirty to forty minutes of dis assembly. Silently they move through the streets of Sacramento, diligently moving in procession throughout the hour long trek, never complaining, carrying their nightly existence in a space not much bigger than a bread box. One by one they gratefully return the equipment they will need again for that evening's event.

They work hard for this nightly ritual. They work hard for a place to rest their head. They work hard for a place to call home. They work hard in hopes of Eden.

~~~~~~~~

I'm sorry sir. I know the boys are having fun but you must take down the tent. But it's in my own back yard. I'm sorry sir but to have a tent up for more than 24 hours is illegal. But it's just for the weekend. I'm sorry sir. It's illegal.

Safe Ground is a tent city within the confines of Sacramento. There is more of a sense of community within these 32 tent residents than there is in many of the cities I have traveled through these past 52 days. They work together as a team. They protect their own. They love without question, without judgment. They are a family.

But Safe Ground isn't always that. They have had people spit at them; throw bottles at them; urinate on their tents. Ridicule is a daily ritual. Prejudice and hatred are tossed at them hourly. They try hard to ignore, but it isn't always easy to do.

The rangers for the most part leave them alone, but they must travel to the depths of the state park in order to find sanctuary even for one night. They must move their tent homes each day, for in the state of California, it is illegal to have a tent structure up even in your own back yard.

There is a solution. Eden. It's a piece of land that no one uses on the outskirts of Sacramento. It could become permanent housing for these 32 residents of Safe Ground. A place where they can have a bed, running water, a self-sustaining garden. It could be the safe place to go at night and sleep without fear. It could be home.

You cannot have more than 5 people in a two bedroom apartment sir. It's illegal. But I have four kids. Sorry sir. It's illegal. But I can't afford a bigger place. Sorry sir. It's illegal. The rent would be more than I make. Sorry sir. It's illegal.

You cannot live the way it's affordable sir. It's illegal.

You cannot live in your tent sir. It's illegal.

You cannot sleep in your car sir. It's illegal.

You cannot sleep on the park bench sir. It's illegal.

You cannot be homeless sir. It's illegal.

Everyone deserves the right to an affordable home. Be the change.

http://www.change-for-life.org/

Be Careful With My Heart

2010-06-10T06:07:00.000-07:00

FLASHBACK - A recurring, intensely vivid recollection of a past traumatic experience.

I don't know if the memory that sent me into an hour long crying jag last evening was a traumatic experience, but it was one of utter helplessness. It may be too long and involved to go into here, and although I am not a woman of few words, I will give it the old college try of making it into a Readers Digest Condensed version.

If you have read the excerpt from my book Finding My Way Home, you will already know that when I left my first husband, he was not my husband at all. I had tricked him into a divorce, but yet was still living with him. As I find with many of the women interviewed on this trip, it was fear that kept me there. It was a spur of the moment decision that had me actually walking out the door and I never looked back. Not until I was married to husband #2

Dave was caring and generous to a fault. He made me happy and I hadn't been happy for a long, long time. He was at work the day I found out I was pregnant. Although we weren't married, back then I didn't care. I loved him. He loved me. He was a kind and gracious step dad to Dominick and Val, so why not create a family together.

I had been cooking in one of the few homes we had during our homeless years. We had only been there for a week or two. It was bliss being able to play Susie Homemaker which was all I ever wanted to do besides being a writer. I reached over the stove to the cabinet where we kept the spices. It was then the unthinkable happened to me.

The pressure cooker exploded with such force, it knocked me on my feet. The pain of the steaming food sticking to my stomach was unbearable and my neighbor came running at the sound of my screams. I was rushed to the hospital where it was found I had second degree burns over most of my stomach. The doctors had to surgically remove the elastic waist of my panties that had melted into a small portion of my stomach. X-rays were taken and medication was given for the pain as well as some sort of ointment to spread on the burned area. The following morning, I received the call.

"Miss McPherson. Why didn't you tell us you were pregnant?" I didn't know. I continued to have my period for the first five months of my pregnancy so if it weren't for the protruding belly, I would never have believed them. Because of the x-rays and medication, which I stopped taking immediately, I was told the best thing would be to terminate the pregnancy. The baby could be deformed if carried to term.

When Dave found out I was pregnant, he made the decision to pack up the few belongings we had acquired and head to Woodford, Virginia, population 43, which had been his home since childhood. He had a sister there who was a nurse. If anything happened to the baby she would be close at hand. It sounded logical to me, so we packed up the kids and headed to our new home.

As we began, he thought it would be fun to take our time and see the country. In looking back it was the beginning of the end for us, but I didn't know it then. It was an adventure and it put us on the streets again because hotels were not affordable, but I wasn't afraid this go around because he was by my side.

We would stop every once in a while in some remote town at some remote gas station, 7-11 or the likes. Sometimes we would stop at a church. Dave would tell us to wait in the car. he'd be right back. He was always true to his word, never taking more than a few minutes. He would start the car and we would drive off, continuing on our destination.

It was late November when we arrived. The cold winter had set in early. But the dregs of autumn were still clinging to the trees and it was a sight to behold. But even the beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains could not have prepared me for what was waiting for us in Virginia.

Although we were welcomed with open arms, there was an underlying mistrust that I did not understand for years. It turned out they knew what Dave was like and thought perhaps I was the same. They had to learn for themselves that I was not and in time, they came to love me as one of their own. I had to learn what my husband was really like.

Anne, Dave's nurse sister insisted I go to the doctor. It would make her rest easier knowing the baby was okay. Hazel, Fran, Anne and Jody, Dave's mom and sisters, all pitched in the $15 it took to go to the doctor for my first prenatal visit. I was 5 1/2 months along by now. The doctor was not the bearer of good news. In fact he suggested that there may be difficulties with the birth. The baby was large and although he could not diagnose it right then and there, he felt there was something wrong with the baby. It would cost more money for the testing, which of course we had none so the tests were not performed.

A week past my due date, I woke to find Dave had gone. He left a note on my pillow explaining he had just gotten a truck driving job in Springfield, Missouri with a company called Prime. He left me with $100. He would send more when he could. I was devastated. He never said a word just up and left me with his family who although nice, treated me as a foreigner. I was to find out much later, that they knew what Dave was and thought I was the same.

I used that much coveted money to rent a car to take my kids and I to Missouri. I didn't really know how far it was. I didn't really care. I just knew I didn't want to be alone when the baby was born. In my naivete I thought it would only take a few hours to get to Missouri, not a few days. But arrive we did, much to the dismay of my husband.

Two days later, in this strange town, my water breaks. Within 30 minutes my contractions were 3 minutes apart. We go to the nearest hospital which turns out to be Osteopathic. I am told I may die. The baby is large and breech. A C-section is not an option in this Osteopathic center.

Nine hours later, the doctor finally put his whole arm inside of me and turns the baby around.

I push and he says stop. The umbilical cord is wrapped around his neck. If I push, I will kill him. the pain is unbearable but finally after an incredibly painful delivery, 27 stitches later without the aide of Novocaine I am holding my 10 pound 14 ounce baby boy in my arms. There is no outward deformity.

The joy is short lived however. I am released 6 hours later. Dave picks us up. Loving father, caring step father. Everything we own is in the van.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"I don't know. But I just think this isn't the place for me."

We leave Missouri and 100 miles down the road, Dave opens his wallet which is filled with 20's, 10's and 5 dollar bills. He had just robbed a gas station.

Flashforward: June 9th, 2010.

We can no longer stay at rest stops. Due to budget cuts, the rest areas south of Sacramento are closed. An LDS church has graciously allowed us to park the van we sleep in in their lot. It is dark here. No street lights to keep us awake until exhaustion has set in. It is quiet here. A gentle breeze is flowing through the open window. The crickets and frogs sing their nightly aria. The stars are in abundance in the dark. It is so peaceful.

I lay back in the seat of the van that has been my bed for these last 50 days. The mini travel pillow I sleep with is cradled on my chest instead of beneath my head. I find myself gently, tenderly, lovingly caressing this pillow. It is then I start to cry.

I flashed on that day 29 years ago when my small baby boy, born while homeless lies on my chest, cradled in my arms. I cling to him, regretting at that time that I allowed him to be born into such a life. I caress his tiny form knowing that I have brought him a life of pain. What have I done? I am a horrible mother. I have three children now that I adore and can not provide for. Will this little one go hungry to? No. He is lucky for I can provide the nourishment he needs with my own body. I cannot do the same for Dominick and Val.

It is then, while caressing this tiny being so dependent on me that I decide that I must do what is right for my children. It is then I decide I love my children too much to continue giving them this nomad life. It is that night, on what should have been such a joyous occasion, that I my heart begins to shatter.

August 2nd, 1982; I watch as my frightened children are taken away by a man they don't remember. The monster who sent us into the streets to begin with has changed, just as my parents had said. He can now give them everything they need. He will can give them a roof over their heads, food in their bellies and an education. All I have for them is love and sadly love is not enough to keep them alive.

I cling to this infant and take from him. I take the comfort I should be offering him. But I take, and as I take, I want death to take me, knowing I may never again see the part of my heart that shattered as I watched the first loves of my life go from me forever. But the beat of another heart, a tiny heart filled with love is keeping me from ending my life.

June 9th, 2010: It's just a pillow. A silly pillow. A pillow, that for one very brief moment became my babies at the moment of each of their births. The babies that I loved enough to give them a better life. The babies that somehow through the grace of God, I was reunited with seven years later, and who have never left my side to this day.

God is a God of comfort, and I thank him for believing in me when I did not believe in Him.

It's a Numbers Game

2010-06-09T18:53:00.000-07:00

To qualify for financial aid in California you must meet the following maximum requirements:

A single parent with one child - $10,800 per year or $900 per month.

A family of 3 - $13,440 per year or $1150 per month.

How about a family of 5 - $18,360 per year or $1530 per month.

I am here in California and I check the local papers on rental units daily. I have yet to see a bedroom large enough for a family of 5 for less than what they are allowed to earn each month.

And we wonder why there are so many homeless families.

I am sitting in a park right this very moment writing this blog and there is a family of 4 living in a camper over their pick up. That is two adults and two children living in less than 100 square feet of space. They are lucky. It was a gift from his parents so it is paid for. No one can take this home away from them.

Now lets move on a bit.

The population in America is 309,457,000. That's a lot of people. There are 39,100,000 people in America living below the poverty level. Where do all those people sleep? Well...I can assure you it's not in homeless shelters. There are less than 42,000 spaces available for families across the entire country.

Interesting fact this:

There are 29,707,872 millionaires in America. Almost as many millionaires as there are poverty level people. So what I want to know is why there are so many in the poverty level? Why are there so many people homeless.

The bible tells us to tithe. 10% of our earnings. Take it one step forward and the bible tells us to make offerings to those who need it. Even famous Dave Ramsey says to live on 80%, tithe 10% and donate 10%. So let's take those numbers.

If 10% of all of the millionaires (2,970,787 millionaires) made an offering of 10% of $1,000,000 ($100,000) that would be $297,078,700,000. Did you read that right? It took me a few tries to wrap my head around that one. The magic number is two hundred ninety seven BILLION seventy eight MILLION seven hundred thousand dollars. Go ahead. Do the math yourself. I'll wait.

Da da da da.. Da da da. Da da da da Dum de da da da da. (Insert Jeopardy theme song here)

Came out with same numbers didn't you? Tried it a few times before you believed what you were seeing didn't you?

So...let's go back to those 2,970,787 millionaires. That is an average of 59,415 millionaires per state. If those millionaires per state pooled their money together to build housing first transitional houses, that would be an average of $5,941,500,000.00 dollars per state. Close to six billion dollars per state. Gee, I wonder how many affordable homes could be built for that?

Now the chances are pretty slim that these millionaires are going to part with that money so let's put it on you and me terms.

I am asking for 1 penny per mile. That is $18.63 cents total, to your nearest homeless shelter. If 10% of the population in America pitched in that amount it may not be as much as the millionaires can do, but it is still $576,518,391 or $11,530,367 per state. Come on America. We can do it!!!

What if you can't afford that? Let's do this. How many of you buy a cup of coffee from the jolly green giant at least once per year. Let's be honest now. Maybe it's not coffee but you've bought something there, right? For arguments sake let's just say every body does. So if everybody in the U.S. contributed the cost of a venti latte once per year, we would have raised $1,203,787,730 or an average of more than 24 million dollars per state.

Now not everyone is a Brad or Angelina. Speaking of which. I think it's great they are one of the first people to step up to the plate and donate $1,000,000 to the victims of international or national emergencies. What about some of those other people that entertain us in many ways that are now millionaires. Have they all donated to these international or national disasters? Probably not or the media would have glorified them in their moments of generosity.

Look, I know Brand and Angelina have done amazing things and I am not trying to single them out, but they are the names that are first and foremost in the media so they are the ones that come to mind. There are many famous people who do wonderful things for third world countries and people who stepped up to the plate when Katrina hit, but why??? Why does it have to take a national disaster for someone to help?

How many of those famous people have forgotten their roots? Click on the pictures above to get a larger view of those we all know and love who were once homeless.

What about the 3,900,000 homeless people here in the US. Doesn't that constitute as a national emergency?

What about the 300,000 veterans that risked their lives for us. What are we risking for them?

Remember all those kids you are saving in other countries as well you should!!!! Don't forget about the 1,600,000+ kids here that need your help too.

I don't know if what I am doing here is making any difference or not. I don't if my words will fall on deaf ears. I do know however that in order for this to work, I need every one's help . It has to go viral or it won't make a difference. So PLEASE. If you want to help. Give up that latte just once and then send this blog to everyone you know.

I will know when this goes viral when the Brad and Angelina's of the world donate $1,000,000 to their nearest shelter.

http://www.change-for-life.org/

Sister Sister

2010-06-08T08:22:00.001-07:00

So many sisters! So many wonderful, beautiful, unique sisters at Sister Nora's Place in Sacramento, California.

Sisters, Sisters

There were never such devoted sisters,

All kinds of weather, we stick together

The same in the rain and sun.

Two different faces, but in tight places

We think and we act as one.

No truer words were ever written than those, when it comes to Lizzie and Deborah, two very special residents of Sister Norah's Place. Women who stay behind the doors of this sanctuary can stay for as long as they need. Forever is just fine with Sister Libby who runs Sister Norah's and more, but we'll go into that another day. Right now, I want to share about these two beautiful ladies.

Lizzie married young had kids young and became a heroine addict young. She did many things she wasn't proud of during her addiction, including loosing her three children. Some of those things landed her in prison. Several times. She would have done anything to support her habit. She would have done anything to kick the habit too, but she just didn't have the strength to do it alone.

"I was just plum wore out when I went to prison the last time. It was third strike you're out and I thought I was gonna be behind bars forever. But then a miracle happened."

With California's Proposition 36 - treatment, not jail program - Lizzie was given a final chance at life. Life without drugs, life without fear and life with her children that were adopted out years previously. With tears in her eyes she talks about the reunion with her children after more than 15 years apart. One child has been in prison for 12 of those years, but through perseverance and a lot of hootspah, Lizzie was able to get a special pass to see him.

"I saw my boy again," Lizzie said with tears in her eyes. I never thought I'd see that day, and the good Lord willing I'll hug him again someday too."

Lizzie has been drug free for 5 1/2 years now. That may not seem like a long time to you or I but to Lizzie that's forever and she is rightly proud of all of her hard work. She doesn't take all the credit though.

"It's the Lord Jesus that done it for me. I never coulda done it alone."

Lizzie helps other women at Sister Norah's. She takes them under her wing and loves them back to health the same way other women did for her. She mentors many including her closest friend whom she calls sister, Deborah.

Deborah was 13 when her parents forced her to marry. It was an abusive relationship and carries the proof with her every day. A 7" scar along the side of her head was given as a wedding present. Having been raised in a household where beatings were the norm, Deborah didn't think to call the police, or if she did, she thought better of it, thinking the beating would be worse.

After 3 years of almost daily beatings, she decided to end her marriage. Her husband came home drunk one day and passed out on the bed. Deborah tied him to the bed and beat him with a cast iron skillet until what was left of him was unrecognizable. She then had the first stiff drink she ever had in her life, picked up the phone and called the police.

"I just killed my husband," she told the dispatcher. "Come get me." She sat calmly and waited for the police to arrive. Apparently the scar on Deborah's head wasn't enough proof for the courts that he beat her, and she was found guilty of murder and sentenced to life.

Deborah was released after serving 17 years. Having no family that wanted her, no friends that remembered her and no place for a murderer to go, Deborah turned to the streets. It was in the streets, she turned to drugs.

"They made me forget. Forget that I was unlovable," says Deborah.

Prostitution was what she turned to next. She had to have a way to support her drug habit and it was the only thing she knew she could do.

Somewhere in all of this, she met a man. A man that adored her in spite of her. A man that loved her enough to get her out of hell and give her the life that she so wanted. She married this man and spent the next 12 year in bliss. It was during those years she found God. It was after her husband died, she lost him.

"I didn't want to know nothin. My man I adored and adored me was gone and I had nothin again. I went back out into the streets, to the drugs and to the sex. I didn't care what happened anymore."

It was the love of Lizzie that brought Deborah out pf her self-destruct mode. She came into Mary's house which is a day shelter for women who just want a bit of privacy. Lizzie and Deborah hit it off instantly and with a bit of help from Lizzie and a lot of string pulling and hard work, Deborah was rewarded with a room of her own at Sister Norah's

It is here, through the love of Lizzie that Deborah found God again. She talks of Christ as the only man who loves her more than her husband. She talks of Him as other best friend along with Lizze.

Lizzie and Deborah spend their days knitting, painting, singing, doing each others hair. All the girlie stuff they never got to do before. Although the creative part is fun for them, it means business too. The blankets they knit are all for babies and are donated to local shelters, hospitals, and people who have no money and wouldn't otherwise have them.

The drawings they do often get transferred to t-shirts which are also donated to the Mustard Seed* kids and the clothing closet at Loaves and Fishes.** Deborah's artwork can be seen at the top of this page.

These two women who have been through hell and back live their lives fully now and each day is a wondrous delight for them both. They adore each other and although they may not share the same blood, the same blood runs through their hearts.

Sisters, Sisters

there were never such devoted sisters.

* & ** will be written about in the near future, so please stay tuned.

http://www.change-for-life.org/

Feet, Do Your Thing

2010-06-08T07:42:00.000-07:00

979 miles. That's how far we have come to date. Doesn't sound like very far for 49 days of travel does it? Actually it is. That's an average of 19.97 miles per day. In Chico California, I have met several men who walk twice that in any given day.

Women can stay at the Sabbath house in Chico, for as long as they need to, no questions asked. They have few requirements. They must be clean and sober, drug free and willing to work on getting out of their situation. Goals are set for each woman and through care and one and one counseling, are able to change the direction their lives have been going in.

Chico does not however have a shelter for men. I find that typically opposite of what we have found to be the norm. But the men take it in their stride. They know that at the Jesus Center, during the day, they can get a hot meal or two, a hot shower and a respite from the cold.

What this means however is that they way. They walk a lot. They walk holes in their shoes, holes in their socks and often walk holes in their feet. Blisters are an every day occurrence for most homeless people. They can be caused by many things also indigenous to homelessness. Walking too much, improper socks and improper shoes.

There is nothing the Jesus Center can do about the walking too much. In order to build a men's shelter they need hundreds of thousands of dollar just to build. That figure does not include the upkeep and staff to support the shelter.

The Jesus Center does have a store for the homeless and low-income families. Anyone can go into this store and get all the clothing they need, including shoes. What about socks? Well that's a different matter. They keep running out due to the amount of miles put in on a daily basis by the homeless men of Chico.

When I asked the Jesus Center what they needed, they could have asked for the astronomical amount needed for the men's shelter, but they didn't. To them there was something much more important for their men.

Socks.

Please donate or send socks to:

The Jesus Center

1297 Park Avenue

Chico, Ca 95928

http://www.change-for-life.org/

Help or Get Out of her Way

2010-06-06T11:27:00.000-07:00

By now, everyone who has read my blog knows that I ended up living in the streets because of domestic violence. When I was married there were no laws to protect battered women. The laws didn't change until 1984. There were no shelters to be safe in, no agencies that advocate on your behalf. Seems pretty sad to me that we have come so far as a nation but yet these laws were only passed just over a quarter of a century ago.

What I have discovered on this trip however is that it doesn't matter how many laws are passed to protect women, they still get battered. Restraining orders are often worth nothing more than the piece of paper they are written on.

I have talked about what it's like to be in the streets or what it's like to sleep in the front seat of a car or even how it feels to sleep in the same room with a hundred other men or women. What I haven't talked about yet is what it's like to go from hopeless to home.

In 1984, when I finally transitioned into a small, and I do mean small apartment in San Jose, California, it actually took months for me to be able to sleep in a bed. I got so used to sleeping on the ground or on a church pew or when I was lucky in the front seat of a car that being in a bed was actually overwhelming. I still ate things you didn't have to cook because that was simpler.

The biggest transition was people. You get used to being by yourself; doing everything alone and sometimes even talking to yourself for you are your only companion. Different degrees of paranoia set in and when you transition back into society, it takes a lot for you to even say hello. You get so used to looking over your shoulder that trust is no longer an option.

You move into a home and suddenly you have people in your life that just a few short days ago did not know you existed. Do you trust them? You are friendly to them but you don't trust them, so the wall goes up. They may not see it, but it's there like this invisible force field that no one can penetrate.

I sleep with my doors unlocked. Always. Windows are open. Always. I know it frightens many of my friends that I do this. Knowing the reason behind it doesn't make them any less uneasy for my safety. For me, and many of the women I have met over the years who do the same thing, it is actually a safety mechanism. If he starts hitting, I can't always get out if the doors are locked. It takes a few seconds, sometimes more to open a locked door and at times that extra second can make a difference between safety and a broken jaw.

The most difficult transition however is a combination of street and domestic violence gut reaction. You either don't trust men at all or you are so desperate for love, for human touch, that you trust them too much.

I met Patrick, my traveling companion, 11 months after I got out of the street. It took me close to 10 of our 25 year friendship to trust him. Patrick has always said when it comes to me, "You either help or get out of her way." Sadly, right this very moment it's often get out of my way. I am discovering on this trip that in some respects I still don't trust him. We have talked about this and although he understands, I think it still hurts him.

I didn't know how much of an issue men still were until this trip began. Let's get real here. Although I am a very strong women in so many respects, when it comes to relationships, not so much, especially with men. I know, that I know, that I know he would never hurt me. He loves me and yet, I want to be with anyone else, anywhere else, but here with him. He graciously gives me the space I need which in this van is hard to do, but he finds a way.

We are in California. An area where I spent more than half of my homeless days. An area where at different times in those 3 years, I was shot at, stabbed, raped, and beaten and left in the road for dead. I am frightened to be here in this state and I am not even in the area that these events happened. It is because of those events of my past that today I cannot sleep near Patrick without hating what he represents to me. I am frightened to be so close day in and day out with this man I have known and been friends with for years.

With so much violence in our world today, rape seems to have so little meaning. I hate the word. It seems to be used so casually. Most people think it's about sex, but they are wrong. It's about control, shame, violence and terror. It is because of the many homeless women who choose the streets because of those violent acts, that I choose now, today, this moment to share this part of my story.

I wrote this letter about 20 years ago and I don't think of it often, but every once in a while I do. Today I am.

I write this letter to you so that you will remember me always because I think of you every day of my life.

I could go into all the gory details of what happened but I won't because you were there so you already know what you did to me. You used sex as a violent weapon when sex was meant as an act of love.

Words cannot begin to express to you the pain, the degradation and humility I felt while you were raping me. You were turned on by it. I wanted to die. You denied me any rights as a person. By the time all of you were through with me, I was a very different person than I had been a few hours earlier.

I had always been one to trust people and you took that away from me too. Each of you who took a turn at violating my body, violated every aspect of my life. You turned my world inside out in less time than it takes to take a bath.

The permanent damage you did was not to my body but to my mind, to my life. You didn't just savage a woman's body. You savaged a whole person and everyone I am close to. You took away my dignity; you took away my freedom of choice; you took away my soul and left in its place a shattered scrap of relationships and feelings that came before you and have come since.

The people who knew me and loved me no longer know who I am. My friends, who knew of what you did cannot look me in the eye. When they do sneak a quick look, it's one of pity. My parents have never been able to accept what happened. They refuse to talk about it.

I have three children. Because of you, they have never known the freedom of confidence because I have none. They have all grown up cynical and unable to trust because I have passed on to them what you forced upon me. You deprived them of the carefree happy childhood they deserved.

How long will I be a person who is withdrawn, distrustful and always stays in safe places, even now? I loved once. Before you, I could express that freely. You have stifled that.

For years I have not been able to have a sexual relationship. I may never have one again because with the mere act of being naked, every moment of that brutality is brought back. I cannot look in the mirror without shame. Every time I shower I am reminded when I would scrub my flesh until I drew blood and even then I could still feel your slime on me. I can still smell the foul odors of your bodily fluids. You haunt my dreams at night. I cannot get rid of you.

I could tell you about the fact that you will never be punished for what you did, but you already know that too. If there had been a trial, you would have had time to prepare and defend yourself. I wasn't given that opportunity. I have been through a lot of pain in my life, but nothing, none of my experiences prepared me to deal with how you violated me.

I am sure you are just aching to know how I am doing after all these years. I'm not doing well but then again I don't expect to do really well ever again. My life is going on but thanks to you it will never be the same again.

I share these thoughts publicly not for sympathy, because I fully accept what happened to me and know that the events of my past are what have prepared me for my life's calling. I share them knowing full well, there may be even one woman out there who needs to hear that they are not alone and there is hope.

These words may not reflect that, and you may not yet feel it, but believe me, there is a God out there watching over you and his name is called love.

Random Acts of Love

2010-06-05T08:23:00.000-07:00

For everyone of us that succeeds, its because there's somebody out there to show you the way out ~ Oprah Winfrey

In Ashland every Wednesday under a tree in Lithia Park, you will find three very large boxes filled with random items. Everything from diapers to toothbrushes; shampoo to clothing; phone cards and food. These have been left for the homeless. They know it's there. If they need something they can take it. If they have something to leave behind they do. They are never greedy and like the Buddhists who left the boxes behind they share with love.

History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people. ~ Martin Luther King

49er truck stop in Sacramento, California offers sanctuary to the homeless every night. There are no beds, but there is hot food and a place out of the cold or heat.

Let everyone regulate his conduct by the golden rule of doing to others as in similar circumstances we would have them do to us and the path of duty will be clear before him ~ William Wilberforce

A little second grade boy runs in slow motion so the little girl with Downs Syndrome can 'tag' him during recess.

I am the conscience of all those who knew something, but did nothing ~ Oskar Schindler

A teenager gives his brand new Christmas coat to the homeless person and doesn't stick around long enough to hear the words 'thank you.'

For attractive lips, speak words of kindness

For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people

For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry

For beautiful hair, let a child run his fingers through it once a day

For poise, walk with the knowledge you'll never walk alone

~Audrey Hepburn~

An elderly couple leaves behind a $100 tip for their harried waitress. Their bill came to $1.49

I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented ~ Elie Wiesel

A homeless man puts down his sign asking for help, to offer it to a woman with a stalled vehicle.

Life's most persistent and urgent question is, "What are you doing for others?" ~ Martin Luther King Jr.

A six year old gives up her favorite 'Hello Kitty' lunchbox to the homeless man because his sign says he hasn't eaten in days.

The truth of the matter is that you always know the right thing to do. the hard part is doing it. ~ General H. Norman Schwarzkopf ~

Manna from heaven continues to come to us daily from unknown angels who offer random acts of love:

In Tacoma, the homeless pooled their pennies nickels and dimes together and proudly presented us with a gift of $37.00. They were thankful for what we are doing. We were thankful for this act of kindness and generosity that come from those who have nothing to begin with.

In every town we have passed through the YMCA's have offered us free showers instead of charging the traditional $2.00 per person. They we honored that we came to them. We were honored by their simple act of kindness.

In Olympia the mechanic repaired our broken van for much less than he could have because he believed in what we are doing.

In Grants Pass the manager at Denny's made sure we were well taken care of by personally serving us. He has never charged us for our final meal. He believed in what we are doing.

In Portland we were given a standing ovation from more than 100 homeless men and were honored when they and 47 homeless women joined us in our walk through my hometown.

In Redding, someone gave us a small coin purse. It was filled with $30.00 in golden dollars. I carry that small purse everywhere.

Two days ago we were given an envelope in Sacramento and told it held a bit of gas money. Inside was a $100 bill.

We pay $59.99 per month for our wireless Internet service to be able to blog. We weren't told that there was a 5 gigabyte limit to how much we can use that service and our bill had an unexpected $57.63 charge we can't afford.

I spoke to a supervisor named Angie to tell her what we were doing and explained that we couldn't afford this charge each month. How much would it cost to upgrade to 10 gigabytes. $250 per month. I thanked her and told her it was something we couldn't do, we would just have to watch our usage. She asked if I could hold on for a moment. She came back 11 minutes later with an incredible surprise.

Unlimited usage is not something Sprint provides but because we are trying to make difference, they are giving us just that. The supervisors supervisor was able to override the system and now we are receiving unlimited usage which if offered to the public would be at over $500 per month.

Manna from heaven comes in random acts of love every day.

A man who was completely innocent, offered himself as a sacrifice for the good of others, including his enemies and became the ransom for the world. It was a perfect act. ~ Gandhi~

What will your random act of love be today?

www.change-for-life.org

Tell Me Why

2010-06-04T07:51:00.000-07:00

I never really know what it is you, my readers, want to know about. I journal a lot more than what I write in these blogs. Do you want to hear about the trip itself, meaning step by step, we're in this city or that state and this is what it looks like? These are the beautiful places and theses are the places to avoid?

Perhaps you'd like to hear the 'Woe is me's.' The nitty gritty about the pain I have every day. The bad back, arthritic knees, the once broken foot that feels like it has re-broken from stress, and the hip that goes out more than I do. But with all the pain and I do down 4 Tylenol at a time sometimes 3 or 4 times a day, my woes are insignificant compared to the woes I hear from those I am here to serve.

Maybe you'd like to hear about the comparisons between my experiences of 30 years ago and what life is like for this homeless gal in the streets today. I can assure you both experiences are worth writing about. Both very different and both mind boggling.

Should I continue telling you about the incredible things Patrick and I see on a daily basis? Stories where the impossible happens; where people who were once poorer than a church mouse are now millionaires and spend every dime on people they don't know; stories about millionaires who are now living under bridges; stories of miracles that happen every day; and the miracle that are yet to come.

How about the story of the murderess who is now teaching kids the meaning of the hidden artistic abilities they hold within themselves. The basketball coach who gave up his job to live in the streets so he could watch over the homeless teens.

For now I will keep on doing what I am doing and whatever the spirit leads me to write about, I will. This evening will be no different.

I try to write what every person that will stop and have a conversation with me says. I find the diversity of responses to my question "If you had the power to stop homelessness, how would you do it?"

I have to write about the two answers that kind of caught me off guard. They didn't really answer the question, but instead asked one of me instead. The same questions I ask God almost every day.

*****

One man gave up his lifelong corporate executive career to be part of the end of homelessness. He now works as fundraiser for a large street to home organization in Sacramento. He has photos of teens on the shelf behind his desk. These kids were throw away kids. Now they are his.

I told him this story. "This woman from Russia who has lived here for 30 years, been married to the same man, and given birth to 2 children suddenly find herself homeless. She and her husband owned a business and then he had the nerve to go and die. Now America tells her because somehow she fell through the crack and never got her green card, she is not eligible for financial aide. America says we're not going to help you, we don't want you now you're on your own."

Bill finished my thoughts. "What I really want to know is where are her two kids? They are grown and their mom is living in a homeless shelter. I don't understand it. Why aren't more families helping? Tell me why"

*******

David was retired and about to move out of the state with his beautiful wife. But an opportunity opened up and God made him an offer he couldn't refuse. Two sometimes three days a week he and his wife bring hope to Sacramento tent cities.

He and I talked about the lack of participation from the community. I don't remember how, but we got on the topic of faith.

"I am a Christian," I said, "and sometimes I get angry because too many churches are not Christ like at all. I don't understand why each and every church in America isn't stepping up to the plate and taking in their neighbors who are less fortunate."

He didn't say much. Just listened to what I had to say. I apologized for being on my faith based political soap box. The words came quietly and I had to strain to hear him.

"Those of us who are strong and able in faith need to step in and lend a hand to those who falter, and not just do what is most convenient for us. Strength is for service, not status. Each one of us needs to look after the good of the people around us, asking ourselves, 'How can I help?" Romans 15

"I was a Methodist minister for more years than I can remember and today I can say, sometimes I am ashamed to be called a Christian because you're right. Many churches are not Christ like at all."

"So what do you do? What can I do to change that?" I asked him.

"You're doing it. I am doing it. We are doing what we know God has called us to do. When these other churches are ready, they will hear the voice of God say to them 'Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.' Matthew 25:40"

The Heart of Medford

2010-06-02T17:56:00.000-07:00

If you build it they will come. That's what Kevin Lamson, founder of Hearts with a Mission in Medford Oregon believed. He knew God was telling him that he, Kevin Lamson, was destined to be the change for teens in Southern Oregon.

The community provides shelter and services for adults, but often homeless and at risk youth are overlooked. Some lose hope and turn to drugs and alcohol or end up in a life on the streets. Homeless students represent almost 9% of the Medford School District's student body, compared to the statewide average of 2.8%.

"We needed $45,000 for plumbing for the renovations. We had $7,000. I just thought if this was meant to be then God would provide. When he did, my friends knew that there was no question whose baby this really was."

Kevin is a man who believes whole heartedly in what he is doing. He did build it and they did come. Hearts with a Mission opened the end of December 2009. Just a few short months ago and with an open heart and a faith that was without question, the kids began to come.

The stories are gut wrenching and Kevin could not tell them without tears in his eyes. Some of the kids that have come through the doors into the safe haven at the newly remodeled Hearts with a Mission, have been brought by their parents wanting to give them something more than they are able at that time.

"My heart goers out to the dads that have dropped off their child believing they had failed as a parent, when the truth is, to give up your child because you love him/her is an absolute act of sacrifice," says Kevin.

One story stood out more than any of the many Kevin had for us. I tell it here with names omitted because the girl is still in the streets as far as it is known.

"This 14 year old kept digging int her arm with the eraser part of a pencil. She did this till she drew blood. She never reacted from the pain. She never cried and she never stopped what she was doing. She then took a lighter out of her pocket and set this newly self-inflicted wound on fire. I cringed, and when I asked her why she did it, she said, 'I hurt myself because the pain I feel in my arm, takes away the pain I feel in my heart. At least this pain is real.'

"It's because of these kids that I do this. They don't believe anyone cares and we must show them that we do. " Kevin tells me these stories, trying not to show his emotions, but he's not very good at being a tough guy. Nope. He's a teddy bear and the kids love him just as much as he loves them.

I could continue telling the stories that Kevin told me, but I won't. I wouldn't do him justice. Instead, I will let Kevin and a few of his clients tell you their stories themselves. Please watch the video above, but keep the kleenex handy.

To contact Kevin or to make a badly needed donation, please click on any Hearts with a Mission name.

www.change-for-life.org

The $64 question

2010-06-01T09:25:00.000-07:00

Over these last 41 days, we have spoken with thousands of people. We have met with more than 50 directors of shelters, transitional housings, city officials and food banks. I keep using the word amazing and perhaps I overuse it, but it is so fitting that I will continue to do so. This trip has been amazing. I set out to be the change in the world and instead, the world has been a change in me. It's amazing.

I could never do their job. Many of them wear their heart on their sleeve as they must in the position they are in, but yet they have to have surrounded that heart in a coat of armor.

You cry yourself to sleep because a family was turned away due to lack of funding; you have a knot in your stomach because you need to tell the 30 families your community supports, that at the end of the month they will have to find new homes. Theirs is being closed due to lack because the money isn't there; To listen to the story of a young girl who cuts her wrists repeatedly so the pain she feels in her arm will take away from the pain she feels in her heart.

I could not do it. So when I come to them and ask "What can I do for you? What message would you like me to bring?" Well...at first they think I am some crazy lady, but when they realize I am serious, they all get tears in their eyes. They tell me what the homeless need the most first and foremost, then and only then do they tell me how the shelter is faltering or the food bank has run out of funding for the 60 gallons of milk needed for the teen and family shelters.

Each visit is always ended with these directors asking me only one question and that question always amazes me.

"How can I help you?"

We are doing this for them and expect nothing in return from them, but yet they offer. One of the directors took a cut in pay to be able to provide two or three more beds per year and here he was asking how he could help.

I decided to write today's blog after much prayer and consideration. It is with a very humble heart that I do ask for help. Not from those I am serving but from those who feel led to be a servant as well.

The need is so vast, I cannot do it by myself, nor can I do it in 4 short months.

I do the best I can. I write a story reflecting the importance of what has been done and what needs have yet to be met but are so very important. My stories may not do the justice that is so deserving to these supporting people, but it's all I know how to do.

These stories may not help, but I know they won't unless you all help. The stories need to get out to the public if the public is going to help. Help will still come, but it may not come in time to those who are struggling the most.

I began this journey as a step of faith, being fairly ignorant of where to begin or what to do next. I have just been putting one foot in front of the other, trusting that God would guide my every step and He has done so faithfully. I know that I know, that I know, that God has lead me down every path he has meant for me to take and put me in contact with each person I am meant to speak to.

With that said and with the urgency of this situation, I am putting more faith in the God who saved my life so many years ago. One of the things I have discovered on this trip is that things change on a daily basis. The plans I mapped out weeks ago, were just the rough draft in God's blueprints and like any good contractor, i must follow those blueprints to a tee or the house will not come together.

My website will be updated this evening to reflect the new changes, but in the mean time, I will tell you that at the moment I am in Sacramento. I will be here for three days, then we head to the Bay Area. From there we will go along the coast line into LA, San Diego and then by the first week in August, I will cross into Mexico.

From there, I am extending this trip to mid November. From Mexico, the route will be Bakersfield, Fresno, Modesto and Stockton followed by the Eastern Oregon and Washington cities. I cannot say no to what God has asked me to do. This is His trip and I must follow His map and trust that He will lead us and will provide the manna needed to complete this trip.

He has provided our needs each step along the way. Sometimes the mannah has trickled in with a free cup of coffee or a sandwich provided by a stranger. When manna hasn't been there, my traveling companion has felt this was important enough to dust off his credit card. He is even willing to take out a loan to provide a small RV so we can finally put our feet up, to allow the swelling that is constantly htere to go down and to allow this walk to continue.

"How can I help'" you ask? You can help by treating us just the same way you would or in some cases should, treat the homeless. Don't give us money. Save that for those who need it.

Invite us to break bread with you. We want to hear your stories too.

Allow us to shower or do a load of laundry.

Let us park the van in your driveway so we can feel safe at night.

Maybe buy a tank of gas or a new pair of shoes

We are both loosing weight on this trip and can use some clothes that fit.

The air conditioning is broken in the van and we are coming into hot weather.

One of our two computers is broken and needs repair, the other is prehistoric and is on its way out.

There are so many ways you can help, but if it comes to helping us or helping the homeless, PLEASE help the homeless, because mostly, we want you to just drop a word of encouragement our way and send this message to everyone you know and ask them to do the same.

Thank you to all who pray for us and for those who have listened and have bcome the change.

Cause He Just Keeps Rollin Along

2010-05-31T09:58:00.000-07:00

Please be patient with the video. It takes a while to load.

Ol' man river.
That ol' man river.
He don't say nothin'
But he must know somethin'
Cause he just keeps rollin along

This past weekend we had the most incredible experience standing in a small stream, the headwaters in the heart of Shasta, California. It may not be a well known tourist attraction but with many of the locals, standing in this stream is not only an every day occurrence, but an every day ritual.

Graelle was on a spiritual mission. She stood on the rocks at the head of this stream and sang a song. She sang quietly so the words were not clear, but the look on her face was the same I wear when singing praise songs to Christ on Sundays. I knew her words were heartfelt even without hearing them. She ended the song by scooping up a few handfuls of water and sprinkling different parts of her anatomy. When she completed this ritual she smiled and waved at us.

"Good morning," I said. "May I ask what you were doing?"

"Sure! I was thanking the mountain for giving us these tears of joys she sheds and wishing the tears to touch the lives of others in her journey."

In doing my research, it seems this is a Native American tradition. One that many spiritualists, Native American or not have found beautiful and adapted them to their own way of life. Graelle continued to explain that these waters have changed her life and so to give back to the mountain, she fills water bottles for those passing through.

As she took our bottles and filled them, my mind began to race. I had never thought about the life of a river but here I was standing in this tiny pool of water, and through the journey of these tears of joy, I knew I was supposed to be here at this moment to hear of this ritual and how it correlates to this journey of mine.

This is where it begins. With something small. Something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. As the water trickles down and sets out on its passage, it gathers strength in those tributaries it meets along the way.

A trickle.
A trickle that meets with other trickles that helps it to become a stream.
A stream meets with other trickles that have become streams themselves.
Those other streams help it to become a creek.
A creek that meets with other trickles that have become streams that have become creeks themselves.
Those other creeks help it to become a river.
A river that meets with other trickles that have become streams that have become creeks that have become rivers themselves.
This river that met with other trickles, that became streams, that became creeks, that became rivers has now become a sign of hope for all those who partake of its powers.
This river that was once a creek, that was once a stream that began as a trickle is now known as the Sacramento River.

Twelve inches. That's all it is. An opening only twelve inches wide brings forth such power, such might, such ambition, such dreams.

I knew within the first month of my journey that it would not end when I cross into Mexico. There is such a need out there. Much more than I never knew was possible. I set out to be a change in the world. Instead the world has been a change in me.

When I speak to the directors of shelters, transitional housings, and food banks, I hear the same thing. No matter what state, what city, what type of foundation I am at, this is what I hear and the order I hear it in.

"Listen. When you listen it shows you care."
"Spread the word. If more people thought of the homeless as a neighbor down on their luck and not someone who, drunk or high, or is lazy and just needs to get a job then we would have less of a homeless problem."
"Donate. Even if you only have 50 cents, that 50 cents could buy a pair of socks for someone who has none."

Notice money is always last. It isn't that it isn't important because it always is. But a kind look, a kind touch, a kind thought means more than all the money in the world.

I am only one person. I can not do this alone. They all need your help. In order for this journey to work, it needs to go viral. In order for it to go viral, I need your help. If I share the purpose of this journey with 10 people, and those 10 people share it with 10 other people and those 10 people share it with 10 other people. Well the possibilities are endless.

1 person
1 person shares with 10 other people
1 person shares with 10 other people, who share it with 10 more people = 100
1 person shares with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 more people = 1000
1 person shares with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 more people = 10,000
1 person shares with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 more people = 100,000
1 person shares with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share with 10 more people = 1,000,000

I am one voice and with your help as the streams and creeks and rivers join in this journey, we could become the chorus that ends homelessness. Be a tributary. Pass this blog, video and website to everyone you know. Be the change.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHCXjBZKmMM

http://www.change-for-life.org/

http://www.walking4change.blogspot.com/

And the Winner Is

2010-05-27T12:53:00.000-07:00

I cannot tell you how my sisters raised their children. I don't know if it was with an iron fist as my parents raised us or like me, did they go in the opposite direction and rarely discipline. When I did punish however it was harsh, but rarely and I do mean rarely, physically. I think I can count on one hand the amount of times I struck my children.

At some point in my life, I cannot remember when, I wondered what had happened to my parents in their childhoods that had made them the way they were. What horrible things were done to them to make them punish us with such cruelty. Someone once told me 'It's your parent's fault you are the way you are. It's your fault if you stay that way.' I don't know if that is true, but I do believe we all have the ability to change. For some, all it takes is a chance.

First Place Family Development Center is that chance. Here, people who are in transition due to homelessness, job loss, health issues or other critical problems, can receive assistance as well as the tools to promote self-sufficiency. It is here, they find a sanctuary, a respite from the storm of life that has rained upon them.

At first glance, I did not see a commanding nor powerful presence. His stature is not great in size but his affection is colossal. His energy seems limitless, his dreams avant-garde, and his methods extraordinary. He lives up to his name in every way shape and form. Wise.

With a dream in place, William Wise set out to be part of the change and he has done that and more. When given the opportunity to change everything about Eugene's family day shelter First Place, William ran with the chance. He fired the entire crew because, although good people, they did not exude hope. He spent weeks searching and interviewing person after person, until he had a crew that shared his same line of thinking. It's a little unorthodox, but it shouldn't be. Let me see if I can do him justice.

We all do the best we are able to do in life. Everyone. Always. If we abuse our children, it isn't that we are truly mean or cruel. It is the best we can do, because it was the best of our parents that was passed on to us. More than likely we emulate those who raised us. For many of us whose childhoods were filled with anger and physical discipline, we too act accordingly. Hopefully, we act with less severity than was done to us.

We all have within us the ability to do more than the best we can, and here at First Place, children and adults alike are taught there is a better, much kinder way than what they may know.

Kids aged 2.5 to 5 are taught through love and therapeutic teaching methods that teach better ways to solve problems than with your fists or temper melt-downs. At the state certified preschool First Place Children's Center, children are never told no. Instead they are given options. As Jake Spavins, the director of the kids center explains...

"If a child is standing on the table, we do not say 'No you can't do that. Get down.' Instead, we help them to decide what better choices can be made. 'Johnny, is standing on the table the right thing to do? Can you think of a better way to jump up and down than on the table?'

This way of teaching, allows them the opportunity to make choices for themselves. They are already living in a chaotic world and by teaching them and allowing them to make these choices for themselves, gives them a bit of self worth. It teaches them they are valuable and what they think matters. What's more important, it teaches them that they matter."

"When most people come here, they are in fight, flight or freeze mode. At First Place, we take them as they are. We love them as they are.," says William.

First Place offers so much to their clients. It is here they can choose, without judgment what to do with their lives. They can choose to be more self-sufficient and look for jobs, take parenting classes, even a group therapy type session. Once in, they are usually hooked and the success rate is high.

One of the many things I found interesting was the Interfaith Emergency Shelter System in place at First Place. The shelter is small and cannot house the families they see during the day, but they are not left to fend for themselves. The IESS is a consortium of more than 30 faith communities offering night shelter, food, recreational activities and comfort throughout the school year. Congregational hosts sign up for one to two weeks each year. More than 1,500 volunteers make this outreach possible.

Open 365 days per year from 8-5 p.m., in First Place you find hope. Hope that someone cares. Hope that there is help. Hope that you will find a way home. Hope that your life will get better. One such young man is single dad Nathan. I won't tell you about Nathan. I will let you tell his story himself. Just click on Nathan's name.

In closing, let me tell you that there is a sign at the front desk that frightens me terribly. "Only 4 weeks remaining in Night Shelter. What are you going to do?"

William said to me "We have night shelter facilities from all types of faith communities. Churches, synagogues, temples. But the shelters only go through the school year. There are no shelters for these folks during the summer months. They are on their own again. What I don't understand is why more churches aren't involved. "

That's the question isn't it? I don't wonder why more churches aren't involved. I wonder why ALL of the churches aren't involved. After all, isn't that what Christ called us to do?

"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'

"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of these brothers of mine, you did for me.' Matthew 25:37-40

Watch Nathan's story here. NATHAN

Good News! It's a Wonderful Life!

2010-05-26T18:04:00.001-07:00

Forty six years ago, a pastor took a step in faith. After a message from God came through in an unorthodox fashion, the first rescue mission was started in the Redding area.

This past year Good News Gospel Mission served 237,343 meals to those in need as well as more than 11,000 bags of groceries. I was hungry and you gave me something to eat. With a first Corinthian approach to recovery, hope, faith and love were given freely. I was thirsty and you gave me drink. Those without beds received 76,000 nights of shelter, no questions asked. I was a stranger and you invited me in.

People had trusted George Bailey to do the right thing with their hard earned money. Through no fault of his, the money was no longer there. Feeling as if he had failed his friends, he wished he had never been born. George was given the rare opportunity to live life over again.

With the wingless angel Clarence by his side, he went through town running into people who he had known his whole life. He was a humble and simple man who loved all who crossed his path. He accepted these people just the way they were, no questions asked. A handshake was all that was needed to ensure the trust of George Bailey, and now because his wish had been granted, no one knew him at all.

Oh how he missed his old life. The one where friends would have loved him even if all he had ever offered was his heart. By the end of one of the greatest Christmas movies of all time, It's a Wonderful Life, of course we all know that those people whose lives had been touched by his selfless generosity, came forward to help him in his hour of need and to herald the event, a bell rung brightly as George's angel got his wings.

This is that hour folks. The Good News Rescue Mission is in trouble. They need funding to be able to do the good work begun in the small home in Redding so many years ago, and they need it now. Monday is the end of their fiscal year and they are in a deficit of close to $100,000. A miracle is needed.

All it takes is one person to make a difference in a little portion of the world. Please make a difference in yours. Be that miracle. Help the Good News keep the wings it has earned over these past decades. Ring that bell. Call today with your pledge. 530-242-5920

Good News Videos!

Good News Message!

www.change-for-life.org

Animal House

2010-05-25T12:40:00.000-07:00

Almost everyone knows of the movie Animal House. A group of madcap boys trying to be worthy of "THE" fraternity, wreak havoc trying to fit in. Short of burning the house down (although if memory serves me correctly, they almost did) they did just about everything, to prove they were worthy of being part of this elite club.

Here in Eugene, the 'Animal House' house, went on to become the first home for the clients of ShelterCare, the biggest difference being, the men and women who choose to be part of this program will discover they don't have to do anything to prove themselves worthy. They are accepted just the way they are. There is no judgment, no criticism, just shelter, care and hope for those who suffer from mental illness and for families in crisis.

Many of the ShelterCare clients have known a life of rejection. With the Carter Administration's Mental Health Systems Act of 1980, the shift from inpatient services to outpatient was meant to help coordinate many services provided by community mental health systems such as halfway houses, and family and group homes. For a while it did. This act allowed those with mental illnesses to remain in their home communities with minimal hospitalization.

The system failed with the lack of support from the Regan Administration which left the funding in the hands of the individual states, and for decades caused concern with good reason. The hospitals of yesterday have become today's shelters, train stations, rest stops and more. What Regan neglected to take realistically into consideration was where would the funding come from? Not the financially struggling states. Where would they go once released back into society?

More than 300,000 mentally ill are being housed and treated in jail instead of hospitals. I find that ironic since back in 1842, Dorothea Dix founded the first mental health institution because she was sickened by the dehumanizing treatment of the mentally ill in prisons. So we have come full circle and are right back to the beginning. Many of the mentally ill are either homeless (the third largest cause of homelessness is mental illness) or in jail.

As I pass through Washington and Oregon and am about to enter California, one of the things I hear the most when I ask a shelter or service provider such as ShelterCare, "What can I do for you? What message would you like me to get out there?" I hear the same answer time after time.

"Look at them. Smile at them. Listen to them. They want to know that they are not worthless. They want to know that they have value because in their minds they have none."

ShelterCare may not be the end to homelessness for the mentally ill in Eugene, but they certainly are a huge part of the solution.

www.change-for-life.org

The Master Artist

2010-05-24T21:02:00.000-07:00

Today's blog is short & sweet. As we travel through the Siskiyou mountains, I find daily, confirmation that the master knew what He was doing in those 6 days. He had a plan that leaves me in awe each time the sun rises.

Stunning to look at, with snow capped hills reaching to capture a cloud; the air, crisp with winter frost filled with the scent of purity; the robins and sparrows sing sweetly in the orchestra of spring, with geese returning home to herald the coming of a new season. A new adventure uncovering the sweet smelling mysteries mother nature has to offer.

As the mystery of our travels unfold, we must forewarn you that over this next week, the mountain may insist I take a break from blogging, by not allowing our signals to get through. I will try daily although I am finding the closer we get to California, the less signal I can find. So if it seems I stopped in mid blog, I probably di

www.change-for-life.org

A Little Whine Goes A Long Way

2010-05-23T20:12:00.000-07:00

It was 37 degrees this morning. It was cold. Whine. What little blankets we had weren't warm enough. Whine. I reached over and turned on the heat. I looked at the clock. It was 5:05 in the morning. Whine. We hadn't gone to sleep until way after midnight. Less than 5 hours sleep for the fourth day in a row. Whine.

My back hurt, my feet were swollen, I ached from shivering. Whine. there was too much traffic that kept going by all night. Whine. The lights at this rest stop are too bright. Whine. I can't sleep unless it's dark. Whine.

I don't see the little pink buds bursting through the frost. I don't see the deer grazing in the meadow along side the river nearby. I only see my sorrows as they begin to overflow.

I am out of money before I am out of month. Whine. I have food, but not what I really like to have for breakfast. Whine. I miss my kitchen where I can brew a fresh pot of coffee. Whine. I miss the fragrance of freshly baked bread wafting from the oven. Whine.

I have a lot to do today. Guess I had better get going. I put on my shoes, unwrap myself from my cocoon of blankets and brave the cold. Whine. I grab my change of clothing and while dressing I think of the cereal and banana I will have instead of hot oatmeal and fresh fruit I want. Whine.

I rush. The sooner I get back to the car, the sooner I can get warm. It starts to drizzle. Whine. No wait, it's a mix of rain & snow. Oh this cannot be happening. Whine.

That's when I see him. Huddled in a corner, wearing a torn army jacket is a man. He is dirty, but I don't really see that. All I see is blue.

Piercing blue eyes that seem empty and sad. Blue lips, that conceal chattering teeth. Blue fingers that curl into a fist to pound on anything nearby to get the blood circulating again.

He has a sign, but he doesn't ask. Instead he smiles, nods, and goes back to his corner . I wonder how I can help. I have no money; no room in the van. I can feed him but I have so little to offer.

I give him a choice. "Egg salad sandwich would do me just fine. Thank you ma am."

I bring him his sandwich; a bag of trail mix, a dozen boiled eggs, peanut butter, bread, and breakfast bars. His eyes glisten as they fill with water. He hadn't eaten in three days. He was ever so grateful.

His hands are shaking so badly from the cold he cannot hold his sandwich. Quickly, I wrap our thickest blanket around him and kiss his cheek.

"Good luck sweetie and may God bless you." I turn quickly so he won't see the tears. "Dear God," I pray. "No more whine. I've had enough."

Through his own tears, I hear him cry out, "He already has ma am. He already has."

Dino Was a Hit Today

2010-05-22T20:27:00.000-07:00

Last year at this time, 96 degree weather prevailed. Not today! It surely wasn't something we were expecting on the 22nd of May. It wasn't even something we were prepared for. In fact we had given away our down filled comforter almost 10 days ago, so when we woke to cold noses, frozen toes, and morning breath that was seen before it was smelt, we knew our actions had probably been premature.

We had been thinking that with the 70 plus degree we had been in while in Portland, and our upcoming trip south, the heavy bedding would no longer be needed. We were wrong. To the surprise of many of us today, plans were changed, reservations cancelled and the best was made of a "sticky" situation. With eyebrows raised, we donned sweaters, bathrobes and extra socks to frolic in the newly fallen white blanket of snow.

A bit too old and to creaky to make snow angels, we explored trails and pathways that led us to a North Pole here in southern Oregon. Breathing in crisp clean air with the scent of ice had us reminiscing of childhoods past and for the first time in a while we had belly laughs of fun.

With the heater turned on full blast, and hot chocolate warm in our tummy's, we drove away from our late spring wonderland with smiles on our faces, pictures in the camera and the immortal words of Dean Martin embedded in our minds.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow.

Eugene's Rabbit Hole

2010-05-21T20:44:00.001-07:00

Have you ever met a child who didn't wonder what it would be like to go through the looking glass? I wonder if they realize that Alice's life was not all magical singing flowers, talking rabbits and purple cats that faded, leaving nothing behind but a smile.

Mad hatters celebrated birthdays that didn't exist; you could shrink and blend into a world where no one could see you, or you can grow so large that you are scarier than every other person you know.

There are kids in the Eugene area who have a Looking Glass they can go to and know that they will be safe. There will be no Queens shouting off with their heads. There will be no dark and scary places, for at the Looking Glass in Eugene it is a safe haven especially for them. There are no mommy's on meth, no daddy's that use their fists. No brothers, uncles, step parents that molest. No families that leave them behind or throw them away.

The only adults at Looking Glass Station 7 are the few staff members who take them under their protective wing, love and nurture them back to health and teach them to fly. The Looking Glass, takes their tattered chaotic lives and give them stability, self-esteem and most importantly love.

"Runaway and homeless youth exposed to perilous situations on the "streets" find safety and assistance through crisis counseling and emergency shelter. These services help youth get their lives back on track and provide the chance to reunite with their families. Older homeless youth without families can prepare to live on their own. Services offered include housing assistance, education and basic life skills training."

More than one million six hundred thousand children under the age of 18 are homeless in any given year. That is triple the population of the capital of our great country itself. Of those 784,000 have been physically abused and 275,000 have been sexually abused. Of those, more than one third find themselves without beds because shelter space is limited.

The Looking Glass can only do so much, and they need help to perform the miracles they do. To find out more, please click on any "Looking Glass" word and help make a better wonderland for child who has fallen into a hole he or she can not get out of.

For more information on runaway and "throw away" youth please click on the word youth.

I Am a Recovering Pharisee

2010-05-21T08:05:00.000-07:00

Judge not and ye shall not be judged; condemn and ye shall not be condemned; forgive and ye shall be forgiven. ~ Luke 6:37

In my 22 year walk with God by my side, I realize that more often that not I try to "fix" things. I have a strong sense of justice which so many of us do. My sense though may not be all that common.

My appetite to right the world of its wrongs, heal every wound, point out every injustice, has at times, gotten me into trouble; once in a blue moon caused great physical harm; and upon occasion cost me a friend.

Once upon a time in my youth, I would think nothing of coming between a woman and a crow bar wielding angry man; a Rottweiler and a mini poodle; a son and his fist brandishing father. Being much older, heavier and wiser (?) I may no longer run after the villains of the world, but I do still take them on. Poverty is the marauder I fight today.

I am discovering on this journey nonetheless, that in my zealousness to set the world right, I am powerless to do so. In my arrogance, I thought I had all of the answers. I was wrong.

I remember well what it was like to have someone look down on you and to be accused of a falsehood. It felt horrible and me fee that much more alone. that much more worthless.

I am out here on this walk to do the right thing for the homeless, yet I have made a grievous error. I was informed yesterday that something I thought was a lie and wrote about in Wednesday's blog, turned out to be the truth. I spent a sleepless night last evening, for my spirit would not allow me to rest until I corrected this wrong, that I have committed.

As the conversation of three nights past turned to the macabre, I turned to judgment. For this I must apologize and beg forgiveness. To the horrific discovery of family and friends, someone did in fact take his life at the rest stop I had been staying. So as was pointed out so graciously by another total stranger but one who I must believe, the "creepy guy" may not have been so creepy at all.

It is my sincere hopes that I run into this man again, for although I have already deleted the blog in which I judged him openly and harshly, I do believe apologies must be given face to face. In the mean time, I hope those of you who read this blog faithfully will continue to do so. This trip is a learning experience for all and I would hate to think that my insensitive actions have caused any of you harm.

After 22 years, I am thankful that I have a God who loves me enough to teach me through the gentle admonishment of others that I am still a recovering Pharisee.

Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone. ~ John 8:7

If It's Tuesday It Must Be Eugene

2010-05-19T12:21:00.000-07:00

Oh. Wait. It's Thursday isn't it? Hmmm. My days are obviously blending together. Let's see what have I done for the past two days? Oh yes! Believe me I may forget what day it is, but I will NEVER forget the last 72 hours in Eugene. Let me just say that the mayor of Eugene should be very proud. Kitty, I hope you read this. There is so much to tell that I will do this in two or three blogs so I do hope you will all read on.

Our days started with a grand tour from Patrick's friend Bob. Although he had not been to any of the locations I had on my extensive list, he was a trooper and drove, walked, jogged right along with us from place to place. He made sure we were well fueled with our daily stimulant from the local jolly green giant; well rested by offering a place to lay our heads (although you know if you read yesterday's blog that I did not partake of that very nice offer) and well fed, by cooking us a marvelous meal of salmon, blackened chicken Alfredo, potatoes and broccoli. Believe me we were stuffed.

Our first stop on this magical mystery tour was Food for Lane County. All I can say is WOW, and believe you me, that does not begin to cover it. The words in italics are direct quotes from either the Food for Lane County website and their newsletter.

FFLC may be second only to the Oregon Food Bank in Portland in size, but their compassion and selfless acts of love make them #1 to tens of thousands of families that are blessed by their efforts each year. One of the most amazing things to me was the fact that 66,000 volunteers are needed annually and they come ready to roll up their sleeves and get cooking. Literally.

Next through extensive efforts and smooth communication between FFLC and its many donors, more than 7.1 million pounds of food are collected annually. Through the efforts of the hard working volunteers and few employees, over 3000 hot meals are made and distributed daily throughout Lane County which ranges from Florence to McKenzie Bridge with a population of 351,109; 6.5 million pounds of food are distributed throughout the county yearly; 200 - 485 families are given hots meal daily.

FFLC operates many different venues for emergency food services such as:
a) Food Distribution Network
b) Cereal for Youth
c) Children's Weekend Snack Packs
d) Emergency Food Pantry System
e) Extra Helping
f) Family Dinner Program
g) Food Rescue Express
h) Community Gardens
i) Rural Delivery
j) Summer Food Program

Hopefully I did not forget anything. I cannot begin to tell you all the things they are able to do. I can tell you however that they can do what others can not, and even then they go above and beyond. If there is food that is spoiled it goes into their worm farm. From there, the soil is distributed to the three large community gardens throughout the city of Eugene which provides families with not only fresh from the earth produce but even teaches them to garden and supply their own produce when possible. So nothing and I mean nothing goes to waste at FFLC, even the waste.

Now down to numbers and how you can help.

FFLC works on a small budget of $3,000,000 per year plus in-kind donations. Last year the United States Post Office in Lane County collected and delivered 150,000 pounds of food from one day's collection. Lane County Walmart's donate more than 44,000 pounds of produce; 658,000 pounds of food are collected from grocery stores; I can not give you the numbers on what is provided by the government but it's a lot. It's just not enough. Not nearly enough.

With an increase of 4% last year of people who needed to partake of these offerings and an increase of 11% of people entering the poverty level, the donations they receive are minimal compared to what is truly needed. So many people run out of money before they run out of month. You never know who those people are. It could be your next door neighbor. A family member who is too ashamed to say anything. you could be the next person that needs the help. Please help. To donate to Food for Lane County just click on the word donations.

Below is a list of just a few other ways you can help FFLC or other food banks in your area.
Plant a garden
Donate food
Tell your elected officials about hunger
Share a meal with some one
Teach your children about hunger
Organize a food drive
Donate food from your garden
Donate services. Volunteers are always needed
Support summer food programs
Start a community garden or participate in one

Thank you Dawn for taking the time to meet with us at the last minute; taking almost 2 hours of your day to show us what wonderful, amazing things are going on at FFLC and for caring so much about the people you and your organization care for.

Battle Scars

2010-05-17T11:15:00.000-07:00

Today was shower day. We tried to plan showering on Monday's and Friday's, but it doesn't always happen the way we want it to. The local YMCA is always willing to lend a hand and waived the $2-$5 charge for the use if hot water.

We have discovered there are a lot less people in the morning's. Those that go in the morning seem to have the same middle aged spread that I have, compared to the taught, jiggle free bodies of the evening work out fanatics so you can more than likely determine for yourself which time we choose to bare our all. For those of you who know us, that is probably not the picture you want embedded in your mind right now. Sorry.

Although I quite fit in with the sea of sagging breasts, and droopy buttocks of the over the hill club, I still feel very much ill at ease undressing in front of anyone. I've got the same spare tire and set of love handles as the rest of the club members, but I still keep under wraps as much, and as long as possible.

It's not the extra weight I carry with me, but the baggage I come with that has me being mortifyingly shy when it comes to my body. It's the emotional scars that keep me from revealing the physical ones. There are some scars I bear proudly; those of motherhood three times over. There are some from birth defect corrections; I was born with a cleft palate, which took 11 surgeries I believe to give me the jaw line I have now. There are even a couple from work related injuries and automobile accidents.

The scars I hide behind three quarter length sleeves, and long pants, no matter how hot it is, are those given by others. Those who proposed to have loved me. Many have faded from visibility, but none of them have faded from my memory. Log on to the following link to read a bit more about what led me to the streets. Finding My Way Home.

What's the saying? Love never hurts. We all hurt our loved ones once in a while, but with anger, words, actions or lack thereof. Love should NEVER, NEVER hurt physically. If it does, please, tell someone. Call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or log on to http://www.ndvh.org/ . There is help out there for you.