Glimpses from September

I know I tell a lot of stories about people I meet here in Philly on this blog, but I have someone else I want you all to meet.

This is Bruce (& the Philadelphia Museum of Art).

Bruce is a 10-speed, 1970's era Huffy. He is my road bike, my trusty steed, if you will.

We travel together to and from work everyday (except when it rains.)

We also go on a number of trips together outside of work.

We've been exploring Philadelphia together- I've been taking plenty of pictures (you know how I do) and Bruce, he's been beneath me the entire time (he's not much of a photographer).

For the last month, I've been out and about seeing and settling into life in the city of brotherly love. I hope to make photos a regular (see: hopefully once a month, if not more often) feature of this blog. Some will be explained, others will speak for themselves, some will do both, and even more, I would hope, will take on their own voice and vision.

Below are glimpses from September, from Cape May on Labor Day to sights from Kensington & grand tours of Philly with Bruce. May they show you what I have seen and reveal what your eyes are meant to see.

Gabi celebrating Mexican Independence Day

@ Penn's Landing

SSJ MCVs leaving our mark on Independence Hall

Oh what tourists we are.

Visitation rising from Kensington

The vision of Visitation that takes me back to Manila

We Can Only Do So Much.

Originally, I didn't know how to start this post. Then my phone went off at 6:42 this morning and again at 7:51 AM. It was Sam.

Sam is a man I helped exactly a month ago. How do I know it was one month to the day? Because this morning, Sam called to see if I could renew his voucher. You see, the furniture vouchers that I give out for the St. Vincent de Paul Society are only good for one month from the date of issue.

Thirty days gives clients enough time to arrange transportation to and from the Vincent de Paul Warehouse with furniture en tow (a daunting and time consuming task in a neighborhood where a car, let alone a truck or moving van, is hard to come by.) It is only on rare occassions that I am able/permitted to help move the clients I help. Even to do that is a complicated process, which includes borrowing a local nonprofit's van, getting volunteers to help move, and taking the time and effort to move bulky pieces of furniture across town and into new homes. For this reason, I only help move women who are moving out of the transitional housing program attached to the community center as a means of helping them to get on their feet as they take their first steps into independent living. At times it can be heartbreaking to tell someone who you know is new to this country and who is sleeping on the floor because they have no furniture whatsoever in their house that they need to locate a van or truck in order to get the assistance you are giving them. Yet, they manage.

Friends, family, new neighbors- it seems that no matter how rough your neighborhood or how impoverished those around you are, there is always something that can be spared or someone who knows someone who might be able to get a van big enough to hold a sofa. I cannot physically furnish every house I go into; I can simply provide the tools for people to be able to help themselves. Ultimately, there must be an effort on their part; otherwise, the social services I provide feed into a vicious cycle of charitable dependence rather than empowered independence. I can lead you to water (give you a voucher) but it is your choice to drink (be there for my home visit and/or redeem your voucher.)

Sam was a thirsty soul. He came to me at the beginning of September having come into the community center without a referral looking for assistance. The recent victim of a fire, he was without furniture and seeking to regain some normalcy in his life. He also suffers from health problems and is currently on the waiting list for a kidney transplant. Having made the effort to actually come into the center from his home in Frankford (a neighborhood three miles north of Kensington), I agreed to visit his home during my round of home visits that afternoon.

His house was the last stop on my long tour of homes that day. I met Sam and his girlfriend (/friend/hoe/whatever) in the lobby of his apartment building. To give you a sense of the place, it had a 1920's apartment complex feel to it, kind of how I imagine the Honeymooners apartment building, if only that complex were well lived in and semi-preserved for 2010. Victorian couches dotted the little lobby and the staircase was made of a sturdy, dark wood- a gem to be found in Frankford. To give you a sense of Sam, he gave off the feeling of a used car salesman- gravely voice, deceptively genuine, well worn from a hard life, and tempered with a healthy dose of skeevy.

Leaving his friend in the lobby, we climbed the stairs to his third floor apartment. The aged and worn charm of the building did not translate to Sam's little apartment, which was more a reflection of its inhabitant than the building it was a part of. Mainly the living room had been damaged by the fire, so I marked down an arm chair, small sofa, armoire, and coffee table on his voucher. As is sometimes the case, upon realizing the great deal that I was offering (see: free furniture), Sam began asking for other things. Some requests I was able to oblige, like silverware, plates, pots, and pans. Others I would not and could not honor. (see: sorry, the VdP Society does not give out electronics or appliances, no matter if you make me list them on your voucher or not.)

For the duration of our visit I stayed near the open front door, not liking the overall sense I got from Sam, a feeling that was confirmed when he excused himself to use the restroom, only to go into the bathroom behind a wall of the adjointing bedroom and peed with the door open (no worries, only sounds no sights.) Returning back to the lobby, I issued Sam his voucher, shook his hand, and bid him a good day, glad to be on my way and done with home visits for the day.

Having filed Sam's case away in my database of visits, I had forgotten about Sam until this morning at 6:42 AM when my phone began to ring. You see, in the rush of that busy September day, I had given Sam my cell phone number in case I got lost or if he wasn't going to be home (rookie mistake, I know, but I'd only been on the job two weeks!) Not recognizing the number, only its (215) zip code, I didn't pick up, but soon I had a voicemail, which I promptly and grogily listened to in my bed.

Suddenly, Sam came flooding back into my mind but, loving my sleep, I resigned that I was going back to bed until I needed to be up. The roosters out back thought otherwise, lauching into a chorus equivalent to Handel's Messiah (you know if roosters, especially Kensington roosters, knew who Handel was.) As soon as I was able to settle back into sleep, it was 7:51 and my phone was ringing again. Sam. Another voicemail. And with that, I was out of bed and off to quite a start for my day.

I went to 8:30 Mass par usual & Sam was with me throughout. A Gospel on who and when I must open my door to help- the lesson that persistence will persevere- was just what I needed (I say sarcastically). As I left Mass, I wondered what I was supposed to do. I had yet to call Sam back and I knew that in no time my phone would ring again.

Last week, when I had had a bad outing of home visits (3 out of 4 people weren't home for our scheduled appointments), Sister Linda reinterated to me that we can only do so much. If the people who come to us for help aren't able to be at their homes at a prearranged and agreed upon time, then maybe they don't need the furniture as badly as they say they do.

This morning as I walked up Lehigh Ave. to the community center, I wondered what I was supposed to do with Sam. He had had a month to go to the warehouse and hadn't. I had led him to water but he didn't drink.

That puts us where I began this post from.

Somewhere along the way in my religious education and spiritual psyche I came to believe that God helps those who help themselves. That is to say that, while God can do momentous things for us, if there is a something in our lives that needs to be done that we are perfectly capable of doing, it is our job to use the spiritual and physical gifts we have been given to achieve that end. In a way, this idea borrows from the Catholic Social Teaching of subsidiarity; if the individual or the local community has the ability to act and affect change then the course of action should be left to them and not handled by a power more distant from the reality of the situation. In another way, it is borrowed from the American belief in a meritocracy- if you work hard enough you can and will achieve great things, slowly but surely working your way up the ladder of social wellbeing.

Having this notion implanted on my consciousness certainly leads to a number of problems. It may explain why the concept of grace blew my mind the first time I heard it explained in layman's terms. Revealed like a splash of glorious color across the sky of my being, Grace as God's love freely given without condition and without merit, unable to be won or lost, not curried like favor but forever held in each one of us and shared throughout the world as a sign of God's love, was simply amazing. Cue awe, amazement, happiness, joy, and tranquility. Such a blessed revelation may not seem like a problem (and really, it isn't), but the basis from which it came, the notion I've mysteriously had bound in me, is.

The belief that God helps she who is able to help herself explains my own struggle with surrender. My difficulty in relinquishing control and admitting that what must be done cannot be done on my own comes from this assumed notion. It is a recurring pock mark on my spiritual journey. Yet, I recognize that it is there. By actively acknowledging it, I am able to consciously move beyond it, trust in faith, and find new life in the many graces God bestows. Ultimately, being able to do so is why I am so deeply drawn and attached to "Amazing Grace".

Nonetheless, the idea that God provides for those who strive to provide for themselves, their family, their community sticks with me. Faith calls upon us to strive in Christ, to believe that God will provide. That belief, though, does not permit us to sit idly by. It may mean allowing God to provide through our actions, to allow God to work wonders through the not-so-simple commitment to try, and, in some cases, to admit that try as we may, it is our duty to surrender to the help of others, to become vulnerable and honest enough to admit we need help. In all of that, God provides.

And so, I am torn. I must surrender but I must also strive; I know there is truth for me in the belief that I must act for God to act in me, yet I cannot say that this is always the case. God will provide in every time and every age; God will even provide for those that don't strive to help themselves. And that is where I am most torn. That is where I meet Sam.

I wonder to what extent I must help him. Does following Christ's call to service mean showing mercy and extending the date on Sam's voucher? Does it mean offering to move those who could not possibly move themselves? Does it mean figuring out how to pay the bills my neighbors can't manage to? or Does it mean giving them vouchers and holding to the standard of that act, not bending the rules? Does it mean allowing Christ to act in them through a prompting to their own action? To be honest, my answer changes daily. Should it? I don't know.

Seemingly, I am being called to serve those who cannot serve themselves. And I strive to find Christ's example in that. Throughout the Gospels Jesus does this, so it can't be that far off the mark, but there has to be a difference between healing the blind who cannot see and sorting out a woman's gas bill who is relying on the church to pay her utility bill, between being with the outcast and downtrodden and giving reprieve to a man who has left his voucher for assistance to expire without making an effort to redeem it- doesn't there? Again, I don't know.

I juggle concepts of mercy and compassion, justice and charity. I wonder if I am considering myself any better than those I serve. Is it that they cannot serve themselves or they just don't know how? Perhaps, I must show them the Way, revealing Christ's love and grace through my service, restoring their sight of God by caring and empowering them to begin to believe, even when their own poverty (material, spiritual, and practical) challenges my ability to.

In the end, I can only do so much- on my own and for those I serve.

As I hand Sam his voucher with a three week extension, I wonder if he'll make it to the warehouse this month. "No, I can't move you," I reply to his own disgruntled plea for more help. I remind myself that I can only do so much. Christ serves those who can not help themselves; it is by Grace that I find myself served and able to serve as long as life endures.

A Union of Incongruous Parts

There are some things that you can't truly know until you have experienced them. Before I entered the Mission Corps, I had lived in community before. Some communities were small- a few roommates in an apartment- and others were larger- a dorm of 250 men and women choosing to live intentionally towards questions of vocation in a broad sense. Others still were experiences of living in close community with those with whom you work, travel, and, in some cases, manage.

Each community that I have been a part of, be it a club, team, family, or friends, has taught me and shed new light on what it means to be a community member- for better or for worse. The communities I have lived with, especially, have caused me to take honest looks at myself and have taught me certain truths about living in community: Sometimes, you need to wash the dishes that you didn't make; Sometimes, you should bite your tongue before you criticize someone else; Sometimes, other people need to learn to bite their tongues before they speak; And all of the time, we are in this together, which is not to say that we are all at the same place in our lives, coming at something from the same point of reference, or even invested in the community in the same way.

After over a month here in Philly, I can say that all of these truths have rung true and that I must remind myself of them constantly as I navigate the joy and challenge that can be community living. I can also say that each community experience is new and living with two new women in a new city where we are all doing new work is certainly an experience I have never had before. Despite the newness of this experience, over the past two weeks, it has been that final & quite ultimate truth that I have continually had to remind myself of- we are all in this together.

As you can see above, there are a lot of qualifiers to that statement and rightly so. When I remind myself that we are united in community, that reminder comes with those added insights. It comes with the reassurance that community can be a union of incongruous part; Like a mosaic made of differently shaped pieces of tile- each with its own texture, pattern, past life, and original intention- community is an amalgamation that can be messy and hard to put together, but when it is finished, after having been laid out and created with a larger plan in mind, reveals something of beauty.

With time, communities face moments of truth. These are moments when we can chip away at each other and we can find ourselves broken as well. When I was living, working, managing, and traveling with a community for a month at a time as part of CHWC, these moments of truth always seemed to come in the third week. It was about that time that our group, which had begun as strangers, would reach a point where comfort and exhaustion collided. This moment could end one of two ways: 1) with comfort established and relationships grounded, the group could take an honest look at itself, confront its flaws, and emerge stronger or 2) Feeling as if we knew each other well enough from having been in such close confines and worn down physically and emotionally from hard work, the group (or members of the group) would crack- criticizing each other beyond the bounds of sound judgement, drawing lines of division, and allowing exhaustion to get the better of cordial relationships.

Really those two outcomes are the same. One is for the better and the other... not so much. For the first to happen, people must realize what is at the root of their problems and be humble enough to allow change to be a possibility. For the second to happen, just throw pride, poor judgement, selfishness, short fuses, and stubbornness together and voila!

Of course these are two extremes and lots of other outcomes can come from moments of truth. Yet, having seen both of these results, I can value the lesson to be learned in each, both by themselves and in comparison.

The reason I bring all of this up is not for a "The more you know..."style PSA but, simply put, to say that our community has reached the proverbial "week three". That's right, the honeymoon's over.

(Don't worry Sisters out there reading along in blog-land ... no need to worry, this is simply observation on my part and it is part of the growing & learning process, rest assured it is nothing serious just something I took notice of and felt compelled to write about.)

That's not to say I'm not enjoying myself or that this whole year/experience/experiment is a bust- far from it (see: I love it.). In all actuality, it is probably for the best. The best for me, the best for each one of us individually in this little community, and the best for our community as a whole. Yes, it can be frustrating to deal with a person whose motives are completely different from your own; it can be trying to be faced with illegitimate questioning/ undue criticism, treated like someone who knows nothing and always need clarification of her statements; and it can be downright disheartening to not be heard by one who you hope to strive towards a common goal with. It can be and in all honesty, it is.

But while it is all of these things, it is also a thing of beauty. It is a frustration that can also be a triumph as you defend your thoughts, beliefs, and convictions; it is a trial that can be enlightening as you try to understand where someone else is coming from; and it is a letdown that can be, and has been, an insight into the true goal I seek in this experience, what God hopes to teach me, and who I strive to be daily as a person living in the example of Christ. To be reminded that, in the words of Michael Card, "the space between ourselves sometimes is more that the distance between the stars" and yet, "the call is to community, the impoverished power that sets the soul free. In humility, to take the vow, that day after day we must take up the basin and the towel."

Reflecting on all of this, I happened to come across a entry entitled "To Be Authentic" at A Seat At The Table that seemed to echo my frustration and allowed me to breach beyond my internal struggle with the topic. Here is the excerpt that I found particularly striking:

What seems more important to me is that my 'authenticity' may be quite different from yours. Thus, can we respect and value each other’s authenticity if it is far apart? My extraversion may irritate your introversion. My inability to pay attention to the right approach may drive you nuts. Your absence of team spirit may depress me profoundly. And so it goes.

So yes, I believe in vulnerability, authenticity, nakedness, altruism, identity, mysticism, benevolence, participation, inclusion, open-mindedness... All this may seem very unrealistic to you; dangerous even.

Isabel Briggs Myers entitled her book, Gifts Differing, as she understood that the world needed every personality type to function and that truly no personality type is better than the other.

And so it goes. We are a union of incongruous parts. Parts that while all NFJ, according to the Myers-Briggs Test, differ greatly. Our differences don't need to divide us though, in fact, they can be things that draw us together if we let them. It will not be an easy task, but as with any mosaic or as a marriage after the honeymoon, with work (intentionality and truth to our being as persons and community) we can surely create something of beauty.

Beautiful, aren't we?

Life Lesson

I didn't grow up with sisters, biological or religious. For the purposes of this post, the latter is more important.

I didn't grow up with religious sisters. I went to public school and my home parish was staffed by a group of priests and dedicated lay people. Even in all my ministry during college, both at school and during the summer, rarely did I ever cross paths with sisters.

It wasn't until I graduated and began my first job that I came across real, flesh & blood nuns. First it was subscribers to the magazine, then women out in the blog-o-sphere, and finally, sisters with minds and hearts for social justice. Truth be told, while those three groups are separate, in many cases, they are one in the same. To be most specific, it was that last group, with spirits overflowing with faith and hearts beating for compassionate justice, that landed me where I am right now.

Recently, there's been a upsurge in appreciation for religious women in America. After decades of under-appreciation (or at least silent admiration), the church has begun to recognize and acknowledge the work of the great women of faith. Even if it is the result of recent controversy (see: Vatican investigation of "quality of life" of women religious & the separate doctrinal assessment of the LCWR), this movement is welcome and seems to be strengthening communities, individuals, and the entire culture of women religious. This is long overdue.

Among the many articles analyzing and commenting on these events are a remarkable number of personal narratives and cries of gratitude. Each person who has worked with or been ministered to by sisters can recount what they've learned. There is no end to the list of lessons learned and blessings received.

I've officially been a part of the SSJ Mission Corps for the last month. The lessons I have learned are tremendous. Many I cannot put into words and many more are still in progress, coming to fruition as I live and work with the sisters and their spirituality each day.

This past weekend I had the opportunity to travel to New York City with a sister for a demonstration concerning the non-distribution of relief funds raised for the people of Haiti following January's devastating earthquake.

(Quick Reality Check- of the over 1 billion dollars that was raised for relief, only 38% has been distributed to people in Haiti, the rest is caught up in NGOs and is not going to benefit those who are still living in dire conditions without food or adequate shelter... OK, now back to the story.)

Since the demonstration was this morning, we spent last night at a convent in Newark, NJ. The women of this house showed us generous hospitality and, since the sisters were helping to sponsor the demonstration, a group of us ventured out together on our peaceful protest/journey from the Haitian consulate to the United Nations.

The lesson I learned though has nothing directly to do with Haiti or even social justice; it is a lesson that I noted over a year ago when I first visited the sisters and which has been continually, though I'm sure not intentionally, repeated throughout my time with them.

That lesson? I'm going to die.

Well actually, you are too. In fact, we all are. That's kind of how mortality works.

The thing that reminded me of this lesson was a conversation with the community of 5 that lived in the house. Over pizza, we shared stories and made small talk. One thing I have learned about sisters, especially Sisters of St. Joesph, is that they are remarkably and unapologetically real. They tell it how it is and by being genuine, they inspire those around them to be true to themselves and their beliefs.

As the conversation wore on I wanted to ask one of the sisters, originally from northern New Jersey, if her parents still lived close by and if she ever visited them. Before, the words could reach my lips another thought flashed across my mind: this woman is in her mid 70's, there is a good chance if you ask that question she may not have any family that is still living ::open mouth insert foot:: Yeah, death is a pretty big conversation killer. Luckily I caught myself, but that moment of realization stuck with me.

Kind of like the time I happened upon the congregation's cemetery- imagine long rows of gravestones, some only days apart, marking the final resting places of sisters from a congregation that, in Philadelphia alone, numbers nearly a thousand today (and which numbered in thousands in the mid-twentieth century.) Standing in that cemetery and sitting among (very much alive) sisters in Newark, I am reminded of my own mortality.

I am also aware of the mortality of this order. Any sister that I have encountered would humbly tell you that she is simply a person, a mere mortal. No religious title, congregational insignia, or set of vows can change that. Yet, it is these things that act as a outward sign of what to many sets these women apart. Really they are just like any one else. Their community, like any family, is made up of many parts. Each person brings their own gifts to the table, teaching others lessons and presenting an openness and willingness to learn. When they die, they will be buried alone; but really, a cloud of witnesses stands before them, a community that supports them before, during, and after their death. They are not alone at all. No matter the size of the order, they will live on in the lives they have lived and the lessons they've shared.

Per usual, the lessons we learn aren't always the easiest and most often they aren't what we expect to learn. Many times they come from facing things that make us uneasy and that we'd much rather avoid. Death is no excuse not to live.

I am going to die. The lessons I've learned can't change that fact; they can, however, enrich the life I live and allow me to give the life I have to others so that they might live better lives. I may be one person and have one life to live, but it is that life that is a blessing. If you have truly lived life, you will never be alone. Likewise, these orders of sisters will never die out. The Spirit that lives within them and that is in each one of us will live on and bring new life. Give gratitude for it and all the lessons that come with it.

In each visit, find the presence.

A major part of my job here is Philly is to act as a Visitor for the St. Vincent de Paul Society of Philadelphia. This entails receiving referrals from local social service and mental health agencies of clients who are in need of food, clothing, and furniture assistance and then going out into the community, into the homes of those in need to access their needs and ultimately, to provide individuals and families with vouchers so that they can attain these goods free of charge.

As Sr. Linda, my supervisor at Visitation Parish, told me early on- "We're the only game in town!" No, we're not the only social service agency in the Kensington, not by a long shot, but in terms of the St. Vincent de Paul Society, we are the only society in the city and our sister societies are at parishes in Greater Philadelphia (i.e. the suburbs). So in terms of serving the need for accessible and free assistance, Visitation Parish is it. The parishes we partner with give us financial assistance, but if you are looking for a Vincent de Paul Visitor to come to your doorstep, talk with you, and give you a voucher be prepared to see my smiling face!

It was a late afternoon during the second week of September that I showed up on the doorstep of a home in Northern Philadelphia. What had been a heat wave a week before had cooled with the earliest chill of fall in the air. After a few wrong turns and then redirection, I found myself pulling up before a nondescript row house, typical of any neighborhood in Northern Philly- storm door, wooden steps, and bare porch- a slight variation of the row house that I currently live in, which trades the porch and the wood steps for a concrete stoop but otherwise is just another row house in the landscape of row homes that dot the landscape. I was outside of my normal jurisdiction as a Vincent de Paul Visitor but had made the appointment to visit anyway thinking it would be nice to explore the area around LaSalle University.

Since I was fifteen minutes late, the woman I was visiting was at the door waiting for me. We exchanged pleasantries as I entered her home. What do you say to someone who has come to assess your house and the life you've built? Somehow "Hi, how are you doing? Beautiful day isn't it?" doesn't quite fit the bill.

I explained who I was and the process that we would be going through, a simple tour of the house so I could see what furniture was needed and could fill out a voucher for the necessary furniture and clothes so she could pick it up at the Vincent de Paul warehouse. As we began our tour, I noticed a little girl making her way through the house with us. I asked her her name and age and bashfully she responded that she was Kaio (pronounced Kay-O) and that she was 5. "Oh so you must be starting kindergarten this week then!" I chirped back. She shook her head, a bit taken aback that this strange visitor was paying her any attention.

"No, she's starting pre-K", her mother stated, smiling kindly on her daughter.

"Oh! Well you must be excited and I bet your mom is too!" I said to both of them. Kaio avoided eye contact smiling at her shoes while her mother grinned, assuring me that it would be a welcome break.

Raising five children by yourself is no easy task, no matter where you live. But in a community where support is scarce and in a four-room home that is furnished by only two mattresses on the floor of one bed room, the task is even harder. As we talked, I learned about their life, a life strikingly similar to many of the homes I've visited over the last few weeks. A single mom, making ends meet and trying to survive not only for herself but for her children.

I try to ask a lot of questions of the people I visit, judging by their answers and general demeanor I determine how deep I can go/ how much they want to or are willing to share. My hosts are my neighbors and I must always remember that I am their guest. I have been invited into their home and it is in their hospitality that they share with me.

It is easy in my position to presume that I am giving to people who need so much and it is easy to assume the posture of a savior, to give myself a position of power/superiority through my ability to meet the needs of those I am serving. The threat of this presumption, this entitlement is present in each home I enter. I could be a savior to that little girl. I could rescue her mother. I could give them a couch and a dinette set. I could make this broken house a home. With disparate pride, I think I could, but really I can't nor should I think I can.

My job is to be a guest. To be welcomed into the home of another, to visit with them, to be gracious for what they share and to leave having taken something for the journey. What I take from each of these hosts is different. I hope that by being the attentive visitor I take something that will lighten their load, that by truly hearing their needs, needs far beyond a few pieces of furniture, I might be able to bring to them hope and gentleness in a world greatly deprived of both.

As guest, I find hosts willing to be vulnerable and in turn, I must be vulnerable too. While I strive to be Christ-like in my visitations, a savior I am not. I am not saving anyone. I may bring good news but ultimately it is those I encounter who are the one's in whom I encounter Christ.

The suffering Christ.

The simple Christ.

The very human Christ.

The sacred Christ.

The Christ who greets me, no matter how late or lost I am, at the door of an unassuming house. With a smile that shines through layers of filth and from behind faded eyes, he says, "Hi, how are you doing? Beautiful day isn't it?" and somehow in all its pleasantry and reality, humanity and divinity, that fits the bill.

Bounded: Visions of Orientation

The following are images I captured during my week of Orientation for the Mission Corps. All are from Chestnut Hill College and I hope they give you a sense of the sights I took in & meditated upon while I was there. At the end of orientation, the word that my heart settled on for the experience of the week was bounded. May these photos bind you to my experience, encapsulate the space I was in, and give you a glimpse of whatever you are meant to be bound to in them.

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Weeks that seem like months

Here I am at the end of week number two of my Mission Corps experience; there is much to reflect upon and many thoughts to be developed here on this blog soon, but for now let me give you the basic rundown of what's been going on in my life the last two weeks.

Week 1:

I moved into our house on Allegheny Ave. on the 22nd of August and was greeted by the leadership team of sisters who run the program. I had met many of them over my last year of hanging out with the sisters but among that crowd was my new community mate Barbara, our very own California girl, fresh off a red eye flight. We made small talk and got settled into the house before our third community member, Gabi arrived from Puerto Rico. The rest of the night is a blur, lots of getting to know you, lots of introductory conversation, and lots of just wanting to get this whole thing going.

The next morning, I was awoken by our neighbor's roosters at 5:30 AM (I live in Kensington, not the country & there are no hens around, so you draw your own conclusions about what they're doing with them). I have now become accustomed to the early morning crowing but for the first day it was a rude awakening. After getting up and getting ready we all packed our bags for orientation- a week at Chestnut Hill College for reflection and foundation in the program. So after less than 24 hours in our new home we were off to a home away from home, which barely had time to be acknowledged, let alone supplanted, as home. The week that followed was full and fruitful (a phrase I've been using a lot lately). Monday we toured each other's worksites; Tuesday we delved into the spirituality of the Sisters of Saint Joseph, learning about the history of the order, the prayer style of the sisters, taking part in a 'sharing of the heart', and getting a taste for the spirituality that will enrich the year ahead and on which this program is built; Wednesday was a glimpse into the tenet of community, what our individual experiences of community have been, how we operate in community, and our own expectations for life in community with one another; Thursday justice was our focus, including a trip on the 23 us line from the northern reaches of Philadelphia in Chestnut Hill all the way down to Citizens' Bank Ballpark at the river's edge, seeing the mass of humanity in between and traveling through the MANY neighborhoods that compile Philly; On Friday, we explored simple living first hand, sustaining ourselves on a total of $8.50 for three meal for three women throughout the day, finding new places to be filled, spaces that needed emptying, and bearing the triumphs and burdens of living a life of simplicity; finally, Saturday we were commissioned into the SSJ Mission Corps with a Mass at St. Joesph Villa, the community's retirement community in Chestnut Hill. The Mass was wonderful and a good cap to the week, which was full of blessings and challenges (often one in the same), the sisters at the Villa were ecstatic to see & meet us and being with them was a joy, if not a tad bit overwhelming, but who could resist a thousand hugs from old nuns?

Week 2:

By the end of Saturday, the three of us were exhausted. Full and fruitful for sure, but nonetheless tiring. One can only reflect and share with relative strangers for so long before there is a need to simply be in your own space. For that, Saturday night was much welcome. Although we had had a good first week, we all went our separate ways Saturday night, if only to regain the sanity that comes with decompression. Sunday we were met with the task of a house meeting, establishing our calendar for the coming month, setting some order to our community (I get to be the treasurer of the good ship Mission Corps), and laying ground rules for our time (Sundays= spirituality night & Wednesdays= community night). After completing our first grocery shopping trip well under budget, we toured center city (i.e. Independence Hall, Christ Church, Redding Terminal Market, City Hall) by ourselves & got the woman at the visitor center to recommend lots of fun (and cheap) things to do during our time in Philly.

When Monday finally rolled around, I felt like I had been here for two weeks at least. Yet with the sound of my alarm (or the crowing of the roosters, if you're so inclined), I soon realized our orientation was over and our long awaited and anticipated job placements were upon us. For those of you who don't know, I will be working at Visitation Parish and the Cardinal Bevilacqua Community Center (CBCC) during the coming year, splitting my time between the two and serving as an outreach coordinator in the parish for the food pantry and St Vincent de Paul Society and as a volunteer coordinator at the CBCC. Believe me, many of the details of my job had been ambiguous leading up to Monday morning, so if it seems to make no sense to you, just imagine how I felt facing this unknown as I rode my bike the mile down Kensington Avenue to the "Viz" that morning.

My first week on the job dispelled some of the anxieties I had that morning and helped to reassure me that this place was in some way the place I was meant to be at this moment. The first half of my week was spent conducting home visits with those requesting assistance from the parish's St. Vincent de Paul Society, seeing the need in person and accessing what material assistance I might be able to give them. This led me into the homes of my neighbors. It allowed me to meet those in need in their own space, to hear their stories, and to, in some small way, offer help and hope. From being asked out of respect to move down the street by a woman selling drugs to support her family to visiting a home infested with rats and with holes in the plaster walls to seeing a five-year old girl feed what little food she had to two cats as her mother explained that they must sleep in the same bed at night, a full mattress on the floor of an apartment empty of furniture, but cluttered with the lives of four adults and five-year old girl.

As the week wore on, I learned my way around the neighborhood, picking up what streets go where and beginning to acquire a little Spanish which will no doubt be an integral part of my ministry. After moving a woman and her two children into a new home in a different neighborhood Wednesday afternoon, I checked in with my supervisor at the CBCC. A new venture for the parish, the CBCC was just taken over from the Archdiocese of Philadelphia by Visitation Parish and is still getting its programming set for the fall as the school year fast approaches. Working at the center is certainly exciting. Being present to its beginnings means lots of tasks need to be accomplished and I am playing a part in orchestrating its vast mission. For me, the center is a prospect full of promise and potential that I will have a part in forming, supporting, and bringing into reality. That prospect is invigorating, but identifying and accomplishing the work needed to realize this mission is daunting and is reinvented/ newly imagined each day that I come to work. For now, my focus is to get volunteers into the center and program up of the ground, to foster community and invest in the future of the wonderful, even if troubled, neighborhood that the CBCC is a part of and seeks to serve.

That leaves me at the end of week two. We spent Labor Day weekend down the shore at Cape May with the sisters. Expect pictures to follow as I find beauty in Kensington and entries that will hopeful unpack some of what I've laid out here. I know, I know- lots of exposition and not a lot of analysis- in time, just you wait. For now, what more can I say? It has been full and fruitful.