Twelve months of HomePDX

Fourteen months ago I was half-heartedly attending a church that, while it was full of amazing, good-hearted people, did not reach me on any impressionable level. Sunday evenings I would find myself sitting there, pretending to partake in the service with those people around me who were genuinely passionate about it, and feeling like there was something seriously wrong with me. Why, when I had the best of intentions, could I never connect in this place? Why didn’t I ever feel like God was moving me in some amazing way, when clearly His spirit was present to those around me?

For about a month there had been mention of something called The Idea Camp, which was going to be hosted there at the church. It would take place over the course of a Friday and a Saturday, and it was totally free. Honestly, I think I had more interest in getting out of work for the day, but whatever my motivation was, I decided to step even further outside my comfort zone and commit myself to attend this workshop.

The first thing that struck me on that Friday morning, as everyone was settling into the main sanctuary with their coffee, waiting for the first speaker to start, was how very retro I felt with my notebook and pen, as every person around me pulled out their MacBooks and iPhones and prepared to annotate electronically. The theme of the workshop was ‘Being Present in Your City’ and I remember the second thing that struck me was how out of place I felt. It seemed as if every person but me was somehow already rooted into some sort of outreach, some mission, some sort of project, whereas I did nothing more than hand the occasional dollar to someone standing on the side of the road.

As the day went on I became more and more discouraged; instead of feeling motivated, I felt guilty for not doing more—no, for not wanting to do more. As I made my way to the next session, which had something to do with homelessness, I debated whether or not I should even stick around, or if I should just go home and feel bad about myself in the comfort of my own apartment.  I settled into a chair, one of maybe 12 which had been placed in a circle and prepared myself to sit awkwardly through another session, completely silent.

I cannot remember who the person leading the session was. I remember that he was from the Seattle area, that he also had tattoos, and that at one point during the discussion he swore, which made me feel  at once more comfortable. Other people in the room shared of their experience reaching out to the homeless community, their ideas, and the things they had done. The one that caught my attention was an older man, with a pure white mohawk and some incredible ink, a leather jacket personalized with patches and combat boots. He spoke of the work his group did, how they strive to create community for their friends outside, build relationships, help give these people back some of their dignity by simply having a conversation with them and acknowledging that they are just that—people.

I remember thinking that I wanted to talk to him more; I wanted to find out about this group, I wanted to get involved. And I had no idea why. At no point in my life have I ever noticed a specific inclination towards the homeless community; I had never felt a particular passion for that community. But listening to him that day, I felt this nudge on my heart and a weird little voice in the back of my head that said “don’t you dare walk away from this moment.”

As we were wrapping up and getting ready to move on to wherever people were going next, I introduced myself. His name was Ken. I told him I wanted to get involved. He gave me a business card and told me to give him a call and we would set up a time to get together and talk.

That little nudge and that little voice kept it up until I finally called him and we made a date to get some coffee. He asked me about myself, who I was, where I came from, where my heart was. I talked to Ken about how I felt this strange pull towards everything he had described in that workshop session, how I wanted to get involved with what they were doing. He laid it out for me very simply: Our friends outside need a commitment from us. They count on us to be there week after week, to show up for them. So if this was something I wanted to do, I had to be willing to commit. Ken told me he would love for me to come downtown on Sunday and help out at HomePDX. He told me he would love to have me come to the core team meeting and meet everyone. He told me he was happy that we had met.

A month later I walked into the basement of Grace Bible Church for the first time. Feeling incredibly out of place, I helped roll forks and spoons in napkins. I helped mix salad, and then serve it. I handed out bottles of water, and finally, Ken told me to just sit down and talk to people. So I did. I couldn’t tell you who I talked to that day or what we talked about, but I remember loving every minute of it. The next week I came back and did it again. And again. And again. And then it became the thing that I looked forward to all week. And then I was hooked.

Falling leaves, falling rain

I have always been a sucker for fall. There is something about this time of year that stirs something new and subtle in me, yet calms me, all at the same time. I've never fully understood why, and I've never really questioned it. Chalk it up to having a birthday in September, being a nerd who loves to buy new school supplies, someone who gets a little too excited about preview week for prime time shows; I love fall.

There are two parts to my love for fall, and it is a direct reflection of my bi-coastal life. There is nothing more beautiful than autumn in New York, when the leaves change and the air gets crisp, and when you look at the hills they almost appear to be on fire with all the reds and oranges and yellows that exist. That doesn't happen here in Portland. Leaves here go from green to yellow to dead, and when someone sees a tree with a little bit of orange or red, they stand in awe of "all the color." Little do they know what a truly pathetic showing of color it really is. You can't blame them; if you have never seen the East Coast in the fall, I'm sure one tree with some red and orange leaves might look pretty. They don't even know that it pales in comparison.


That being said, even though there is a definite lack of color here in Oregon, I love, more than anything, waking up to the sound of rain. Ninety percent of the people I know here will tell me I am crazy, that they hate this time of year when sunny days become a rare occurrence and grey skies settle in. Apparently the fact that we have  rainy days for almost nine months out of each year should make me dread the start, make me cling to the very last rays of sun, willing summer to stay just a few days longer... but see, I already know how much it rains here. And I love Portland for it.

This morning I woke up and all I could hear was the rain hitting the leaves on the tree outside my window. I stretched, smiled, and lied there listening to it for a few minutes before I rolled out of bed. I am excited for next fall, when I'm in New York and get to see my first east coast fall in years. I'm excited to feel the crisp air and drink apple cider and see the hills on fire all around me. But I will miss Portland and the constant rain. I'll be trading my rain gear in for something a little more insulated and warm. I'm a bi-coastal child; my parents have given me a deep appreciation for their respective sides of the country, and I feel pretty thankful for that.

So for now, I will continue to love every morning soundtrack I have of raindrops falling on leaves, and look forward to next year's backdrop of colors galore.

A twenty-six year old baby

I have been sick in bed for the last two and a half days. The reason for the "half" day is because I got up this morning, showered, dressed, went to work, all by 7:15am (on a Sunday, no less!) only to be told by the Commander that I should really go home and get back in bed. I'm not complaining, mind you, I was just really hoping that by going through the motions of getting ready like a healthy person would, I might then start to feel healthy once I got to work. Alas, I am back in my pjs, snuggled in my bed with my amazingly soft fleece Blazers blanket (courtesy of my wonderful roommate for my recent birthday) and once again wishing I had my mom here to take care of me.

There is something about having a mom around that puts me at ease. No matter what the situation, she does it better. I haven't really taken anything since I've been sick, with the exception of some TheraFlu, and even if she were here, there isn't much else she would give me, aside from maybe some zinc couscous in broth. If I made myself couscous and I got myself some zinc, I probably wouldn't feel any better. But if my mom got me zinc and couscous, I bet it would make a world of difference.

As a kid I never got much candy. Easter baskets were the exception, really, because even on Halloween we only handed out Tootsie Rolls, and we didn't go trick-or-treating. But whenever I had a sore throat, it was almost a guarantee that sooner or later I would get a lollipop. I remembered this around 4am this morning when I woke up with a burning throat. The first thing that popped into my head was "I wonder if we have any lollipops in the house." Again, I don't know if it would have helped any, but I bet if my mom had given me one, my throat would have felt fifty times better.

Last week I turned twenty-six. This is a definitive age, I have decided. Twenty-six means that I am no longer in my early twenties. I have officially moved to the "mid-to late-twenties" category. This is decidedly older than someone in their early twenties. In my head, at twenty-six I have officially become an adult. I'm supposed to be older, mature, responsible. I'm a grown up. And yet right now, in my bed, stuffy nose and sore throat, all this grown up really wants is her mom. And I don't think that is something a sick-me will ever really grow out of.