Good things still happen on bad days

Remember Eddie? If not, scroll down a bit. He was the homeless volunteer at the pantry. He made chicken noises whenever we got a delivery of frozen chicken. He liked canned mushrooms. He always grinned and waved at me and could never remember my name, but would still sit down and talk with me about whatever random events were going on.

Eddie came in to the pantry on Wednesday. I didn't get a chance to sit and talk with him, and I felt bad about that. As I left work that night, I thought to myself that I was going to make a point to sit and talk with him every time I saw him. Just because he gets overlooked sometimes. Just because sometimes he's slow and he can't carry much, and so impedes better efficiency when he helps unload the truck. Just because he comes out every single week to help even though he's slow and he can't carry much and he can't stay sober and he sleeps in some guy's hallway-- and he still comes to volunteer at the pantry every week.

But I won't get to sit and talk with Eddie again because he was struck by a car and killed between the time he left the pantry Wednesday afternoon and the time I came in to work on Thursday morning. We're all pretty upset about it. Sr. Joellen is helping the family get his death benefits (he was on public aid) and arrange the funeral. She's so sad, but she smiles.

I took Eddie's coat home with me yesterday. He'd left it here a couple weeks ago and kept forgetting to take it. It seemed someone should take care of his things, so I took it home and washed it. I'll give it to his family at the funeral.

There are so many people overlooked and ignored. It's not right. It's not right.

An Open Letter

My friend,

You know this already. It's nothing new to you. You said as much to me last night. But in our line of work, you do what you can, and you do your best. But it will never, ever be enough. It's not you. It's just that there is so very much need out there. There's no way we can take care of it all. We can't fix everything and everybody. We can't take away their suffering. Sometimes the best we can do is just to sit there and listen and feel horrible right along with them.

You said you'd have to be crazy to want to do this. People act as though it's a bad thing. As though reaching out to others despite the costs to yourself is a disorder. They say it's unhealthy. But I meant it when I told you, I'd think you were a right bastard if you could know what you know, and see what you see, and then NOT do what you do. I wouldn't like you. I'd think you were thoughtless at best, heartless at worst.

What sets you and me and those like us apart from the rest is that we are AWARE, truly aware of the poverty and suffering that exists in this world, even in this country. And once you know, you can't turn your back on it. Not if you're human. So maybe it has required us to take steps away from our society. And maybe our friends and family will think we're extreme or they simply won't 'get' what we do. And maybe we'll have days like you've had this week. But we know, and because we know we can't walk away. We can't ever leave it be.

I'm sorry for you, for this week you're having. And I realize too that there are layers in this thing called 'compassion fatigue'. You get overwhelmed because of the suffering you see in others. I had trouble sleeping last night for the suffering I see in you. We must do this together. We must be able to rely on each other to help out, to sit and listen, to rant and rave, to cry, to laugh, to encourage. We must do this because we can.

"Can is not the same as must."
"But when you must and you can, then you have no excuse."

I'm here. Everyday I'm here. Just like when you sat with me last year, and listened to me over an over, a broken record, floundering and sad. This is all part of it. You don't get to be the strong one all the time. It's my turn now. So do what you must with the people you serve. Make the tough decisions and accompany them, and stand strong to help them. Then come sit with me and let it all fall away.

Of course I don't think you're weak. I think you're beautiful.

Peace be upon you,
Kati

The kinder voice

It was one of my first days at the pantry when I heard Sr. Joellen answer the phone. She spoke very slowly and softly and kindly-- much more slowly and softly and kindly than you would expect to hear someone speaking over the phone. In our fast-paced world, it seemed as though someone speaking that slowly and softly and kindly would kind of annoy the person on the other end of the line. I picked up from her end of the conversation that someone was calling about services needed. Sr. Joellen told her to come in.

Not too long after that, a lady appeared at the door. I knew right away that it was the lady Sr. Joellen had spoken with-- something about the bit of anticipation in her eyes just let me know that she was the one who had called ahead. I invited her in. She said she didn't know who she had spoken to, just that the person had been very, very nice to her. She said this in a relieved tone of voice, and it occurred to me how very much crap poor people have to deal with on a daily basis.

I've honed my voice over this past year into one of authority. I guess I don't use that voice all the time, but I've had to use it often enough that I can pull it out anytime. I use it against teenagers that sometimes forget I'm not their peer. I use it when things get out of hand. I use it over the phone so I don't sound like I"m twelve.

Ever since that day, I've been trying to re-hone my voice into something slow and soft and kind. It's my service-voice. Whenever anyone comes into the pantry, I try to use it, even if they speak quickly, even if they are unpleasant in some way. I wasn't sure if it was really making a difference, but this seemed to be an area where I should perhaps try to emulate Sr. Joellen. It seemed the right thing to do.

During one conversation in which I was very consciously using this voice, a lady told me that I was very kind and helpful. I took that as a success. Maybe the voice will annoy some people, or make no difference to all to others. But it's enough for me when I'm able to make someone feel a bit better during a really crappy day of an entirely imperfect life.