sidewalk chalk

Come in from the cold [Urban Neighbors in north Mpls]

2011-01-04T10:00:00.000-08:00

[On December 11, 2010 the Twin Cities was hit with one of the "worst snowstorms of this generation." It virtually paralyzed the metro area for several days, and it even got it's own nicknames: Snowmygawd, Snowmaggedon. In the midst of that deluge of snow and wind emerged a touching story of inviting a stranger in from the cold, from one of our Urban Neighbor houses in north Minnepolis]

My roommate and I were outside in the driveway attempting to shovel the driveway after the big snowstorm. We noticed a teenage girl was walking down the street holding her baby, and there were two little boys following behind her. The mother was crying and said something aloud that she needed help and didn't know what to do. I asked her if we could help her. She stated that she didn't have anywhere to go: she had been staying at her friend's mom's house but she was asked to leave. The mother,"Marquisha", stated that she tried to go to Mary Jo's Place, a local family shelter, but was told she couldn't stay there because she hadn't been in north Minneapolis long enough (she'd only been in Minneapolis one day).

We invited her in. All of them were shivering and Marquisha told us her daughter had bronchitis. We got them food and soon they all fell asleep for a few hours. After they awoke Marquisha told us more of her story: she was from Rochester and is trying to start a new life in the Cities. She told us that she had a friend from Rochester, who had a friend in St. Paul who was going to take in Marquisha and her kids (confusing?!?...yes!). With the weather and road conditions post-snowstorm, there was no way of getting her to St. Paul. We invited her to stay.

On Sunday morning my wonderful mother came and picked up me, Marquisha, and her kids and drove her to St. Paul. Marquisha took my number, however I haven't heard from her. We think of them and pray for them, and thank God for the blessing it was to be able to help her and her kids out.

The Fixer [Dan, UHW staff]

2010-08-13T12:33:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago Chantal, one of our family residents, was cooking dinner. She had one of her four children in the bathtub and stepped away from the stove to check on her daughter. Seconds later, she came back into the kitchen to find that the pan she was cooking in was engulfed in flames and the fire was quickly getting out of control. Unable to stop it, she grabbed her children and went out the front door. Once safely on the street, she called the fire department who arrived quickly to douse the flames. Much of the kitchen is a total loss. The living room, dining room and hallway are coated with soot from the smoke and fire.

I went to see Chantal and find out how she and her kids were doing. She looked concerned. Her shoulders were heavy with regret. Lightheartedly, I gave her a hug and reassured her that I didn’t care about the apartment. I was only concerned that she and her children were okay and that we happen to have an open apartment to put them into temporarily. She seemed relieved, though I could tell that she wished there were more that she could say or do.

A few days later, I was talking with our other tenants across the street. The fire came up and I asked if they were aware of what had happened. Susan (not her real name) said that her husband saw it while it was happening and said, “You gotta get over there and see what you can do!” Susan went into high gear and helped round up Mattieu, David, Grace and Ruth. The Urban Neighbors upstairs also came to help Chantal move furniture and mattresses that were unaffected by the fire.

Sometime later, I received this note from Chantal. It was addressed to me, but it was intended for many people that have come to her aid throughout her time in housing with us. It reads,

Dear Dan,
I really want to thank you from the bottom of my heart, once again,for everything. Seeing the kindness and understanding, before and after the fireaccident, of you and everybody from UrbanHomeworks, I was sorry and still sorryfor what happened. I couldn’t thank God enough for all of you and ask Himto bless you and your families. Your actions go deep and teach me many thingsand I am blessed to have all of you. My children call you “fixer” because they see you come in sometimes repair whatever need to be fixed. I told them that your name is Dan, but they keep saying that Mr. Fixer was here and he fixed this or that. Thinking about that I say to my self; “He is a fixer, he does fix things and also people’s broken hearts. We all thank you; Me, David, Grace and Matthieu May God bless you.

Sincerely, Chantal

Chantal’s story is rare. We hope that none of our tenants experience a grease fire in their home. What we hope and believe is not rare is the care and concern that Chantal and all of our families feel from our staff, the Urban Neighbors, and other neighbors. Chantal lives in a 3-bedroom that we are able to rent to her for $550 each month because of private support that makes it affordable for her. You, too, can help more families like Chantal’s by participating in 100 Gives 100, a family sponsorship program.

>>Find out more about how to become ONE of the 100 giving 100. Help more families be at home in stable housing: http://urbanhomeworks.com/housing/life-at-home

Hockey in the 'Hood [Mike, south Mpls Urban Neighbor]

2010-08-03T05:38:00.000-07:00

Hockey is a sport for rich white kids, and poor city kids and minorities just don’t play.

That is that stereotype that I have lived with for my entire life, and I suspect that it is a stereotype that others who come from the suburbs hold. Volunteering with Dinomights in south Minneapolis this year helped me break that stereotype and it is helping to break that stereotype for others as well. Dinomights, affectionately known to many as "Hockey in the 'Hood," brings a diverse group of kids together to discover and share a common love of hockey. And it turns out that kids who you wouldn’t associate with hockey have a great deal of talent.

After growing up in Bloomington, MN and going to Jefferson high school (capitol of high school hockey in MN!), I came to the city with a full set of biases about what city kids are like and about who belongs on an ice rink. But getting to know and love the kids that I worked with at Dinomights helped to break down some of the stereotypes that were bred from ignorance in my upbringing.

You frequently hear the phrase, “don’t judge someone until you have walked a mile in their shoes.” This year, I had the chance to skate a mile alongside of the kids of South Minneapolis, who break all of the stereotypes that I carried with me from the suburbs into the city. They were both talented at hockey, and also responsive and respectful to coaches. They will be good ambassadors to the game and positive influences on their communities!

God is moving in the city, and He is using Dinomights to connect himself to the kids of Minneapolis and work to break down the stereotypes and prejudices that people from the suburbs may hold about who plays hockey. I’m grateful for the opportunity to connect with Dinomights this year, and I’m lucky to have gained some exposure (as an Urban Neighbor with Urban Homeworks) to the kinds of organizations that are working for the Lord in Minneapolis to protect, develop, and enrich at-risk communities.

[for more information about the great work done by Dinomights, or to join Mike as a volunteer coach or tutor, check them out at www.dinomights.com. If you are interested in being an Urban Neighbor with Urban Homeworks, go to http://urbanhomeworks.com/urban-neighbors].

Good-bye Maggie [Dan Hunt, UHW staff]

2010-06-21T11:52:00.000-07:00

Maggie has been a north Minneapolis resident for many years. She moved into Urban Homeworks housing as part of a program that assists people on the challenging road of chemical dependency and mental illness. Together with two roommates, these three dedicated women received support to stay sober and experience a greater level of self sufficiency. Urban Homeworks’ housing is the last step in the program before they can apply for their own housing.

One day, I saw Maggie sitting behind one of our other buildings, up the street from her apartment. Surprisingly, she had been friends with one of our other tenants for 15 years, and they regularly got together to play cards. These friends supported Maggie, encouraging her sobriety and giving her a place to fit in as a friend—not as part of a program.

A few months ago, Maggie asked me about getting her own apartment after she had recovered from knee surgery. She felt like she was ready to get her own place and even brought me a sweet potato pie to “sweeten the deal.” I began to make arrangements for her to get into her own place. She was ecstatic! After so many years of bouncing around from one program to the next, she was making plans to be on her own. That evening, she went to play cards with her friends and told them all about her bright future.

They all celebrated with her. That same night, Maggie fell asleep on her couch and tragically did not wake up. Her heart had stopped. Maggie was kind, quick to smile and make others laugh. She had an infectious joy about her. Others who were with her before she died talked about how much it meant to her to be given a chance—to have a place to call her own. While Maggie’s journey in this life ended suddenly, the support from our 100 Gives 100 Campaign provided an opportunity for her that brought great joy. 100 Gives 100—it’s simple. 100 people each giving $100 a month will make ALL of Urban Homeworks rental homes available to families making as little as $10.00 per hour without the need of a government subsidy. 100 Gives 100 is opening the door a little wider so more people like Maggie have affordable and dignified homes.

[There are currently 67 donors who have committed more than $80,000 so far in 2010, allowing UHW to offer a growing number of dignified housing opportunities]

I Need You [Chad, UHW staffer]

2010-05-05T13:16:00.000-07:00

I Need You...

I put Sam on the bus for his first day of school;
I peeked in the door and kinda felt like a fool;
As I blindly entrusted the driver which I never knew;
And realized deeply… Mr. Driver, I need you…

Sam arrived at school that day ready to roll;
I saw the teacher at the door taking toll;
Each one welcomed, and then right through;
I realized deeply, Ms. Door Person, I need you…

He strutted his way to his locker at the 1st grade;
A new friend in the hall on his way to class he made;
Where did this kid come from… his parents are WHO?
And I realized deeply, Kid’s parents… I need you…

Then off to class ready to learn and get some knowledge,
Sammy sat at his desk and his attention did pledge;
All day long, to a man I barely even knew;
And I became keenly aware… Mr. F… I need you…

Then we gathered again at the great Loring School;
As parents to connect and our knowledge pool;
In a thing called CPEO, to teach and encourage parents too;
Where together I realized, fellow parents, I need you…

All our kids ready for college is the Promise we make;
No child will we allow those damn prisons to take;
Whatever it Takes, is what we must do;
And then it dawned on me, which may stink for you…

but, you need me too.

Race Matters [UHW staffer]

2010-04-19T07:25:00.000-07:00

[From our discussion last week at our monthly Urban Neighbor gathering. Topic: "Race Matters," with Marque Jensen from Sanctuary CDC]...

What we learn about race as kids impacts how we think about ourselves, and our own self-esteem. Our concepts and values we assign to "race" does not just affect who we view other people, but the development of our own sense of self-worth/self-esteem.

Check out how this simple experiments done with young kids, and how they answered the question "Which doll is the 'nice' doll? Which doll is the 'mean' doll?" when given the choice between a black doll and a white doll...

Black doll/white doll experiment re-done: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MqSFqnUFOns&feature=related

If you desire to read a full artice about it from ABC news: http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/story?id=2553348&page=2

Just so you know...Ro's house burnt down [Cody, UHW staff]

2010-04-01T13:32:00.000-07:00

"Just so you know, the three of us are standing outside because 'Ro's' house burnt down. We're fine, their house is bad news. All alive but kids got 2nd-degree burns. On face and chest I think."

That's the text message I got at 3:10 AM from one of our Urban Neighbors who lives in the Urban Homework's duplex on Elliot Avenue in the Phillips neighborhood. At first the cause of the fire was unknown, but it is now being investigated as an arson. The fire was started outside the building, potentially with gas, while the family/kids were asleep inside.

Before you continue, please take a moment to read the compelling, and heartbreaking, story of the event and the newest details (note: there are graphic and heartbreaking photos of the little girls’ burns): http://wcco.com/local/2.girls.saved.2.1603296.html.

Here is an update on UHW-community response:

>Urban Neighbors: Daniel, Matt, and Pat have gotten to know the family somewhat in the past year, and have located them since the fire. Red Cross stepped in with emergency assistance I think. As of yesterday the family does not seem to have a plan for what’s next. The little girls are still in the hospital. Daniel was telling the story to a Augsburg College staffer, who donated $100 to go for a gift card for the families needs.

>UHW housing: we have communicated via the Urban Neighbors that the family could apply for housing for our next vacancy (earliest May 1), but we have a waiting list of other families in tough situations themselves. This just reminds us of the dire need for dignified housing for so many lower income and working families who are already on-the-edge.

>Ways to respond/support the family: if you feel so compelled, here is a way to get money into a fund for the family via Wells Fargo: http://wcco.com/local/2.girls.saved.2.1603296.html.

Homeless Hosannas [Urban Homeworks staff]

2010-03-29T07:36:00.000-07:00

I love how God gets my attention, those wake-up-call moments that I do not expect, but once I get I know my soul needed so badly. Yesterday's Palm Sunday service was good, but probably would have blended into the memories with the others of years past, except that God used a homeless guy in our church choir to get my attention.

Mac has been coming to our church for the past few months. Our church is located within shuffling distance from several local shelters, so we are honored to have a constant stream of men join us for Sunday services and even become part of the fabric of our worshipping community. Some of the guys have become psudeo-staff during their unpredictable tenure with us, working around the century old building on the incessant list of things that need repair or TLC. But Mac has joined our choir, bringing with him a passion to praise the Lord. It is a "joyful noise", to be brutally honest, flavored with a twinge of Garth Brooks and southern gospel. And Mac brings his heart and lungs faithfully each week.

It was downright inspiring, and incredibly humbling, to see Mac this Sunday with his head thrown back and eyes closed in full release of genuine "Hosannas," gently waving his palm branch. He had on one of his good Nascar shirts, a well worn button down shirt adorned with the name and number of a decade old racing has-been. He had obviously taken time to comb his thick greasy hair carefully, to present his best to the Lord that Sunday. Mac awoke before church in the back seat of his pride and joy, his late '80's Trans Am; it's his bedroom right now. He probably has seen the inside of a tub or shower as much in the last 3 months as my toddler and infact have in the past week. The pastor reminded us that on the first Palm Sunday, the King of Kings rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, in stark contrast to the war-horse riding early kings before and after him. Another example of the"upside-down kingdom" Jesus talked about. In this upside-down kingdom God takes special note of widow's mites and the pure Hosanna's of homeless men. I know God was so blessed by what Mac brought to Him. I know I was too.

I almost punched my neighbor in the face - [south Mpls Urban Neighbor]

2010-02-25T12:19:00.000-08:00

The verb form of 'love' has taken on a whole new meaning for myself. about a week ago, i almost punched my neighbor, Carl in the face. Seriously. Almost struck him with my fist in the facial region. With an open hand, he hit me across the face, trying to kid around while we were discussing why he can't wrestle with the neighbor kids.

Just a bit of background: Carl is a fifty-year old man with significant mental and emotional issues, the product of a traumatic childhood filled with abuse and neglect. So, in general, dealing with Carl is like dealing with a 10-12 year old mentally and emotionally. I have to keep this in mind, but it is tough sometimes. Back to the story...

The day before he had jumped in on the kids wrestling on our front porch, and obviously, that just can't happen. he doesn't realize his strength, nor his age, both of which will put him in jail should someone decide his actions are inappropriate.

So there we were, in his doorway, when he slapped me, and i raised my hand to strike him in the chin. I altered the hand into a very intense pointed finger, sternly told him never to hit my face again, and slowly walked away; furious, but also shocked by my response. I emailed my mentor and said we needed to chat. i didn't know how to tackle the situation. i couldn't figure out how to make sure it didn't happen again (my reaction.) I was totally clueless, and so i figured he might have some advice for me. I learned that there might be a piece of me, in loving Carl, hoping to see change. change in his temper, change in how he deals with situations, a change towards more responsible actions. But as Mr. X informed me, that form of love is 'close, but not quite.' What i have for Carl may not be love with strings, as i'm not looking for anything in return, but it's probably love with expectations. And perhaps, that lack of fulfillment of my expected results over a drawn out period of time, is what led me to momentarily believe punching earl in the face was alright. When a mother or father bathes their little one, it's not with the expectation that they'll never poop their pants or play in the dirt again. the parent washes the kid because the kid needs washing. we love our neighbor because our neighbor needs loving. i now realize that i have to find which part of me is expecting my words and actions to bring change, kill it, and replace it with a moment by moment mindset of pouring out love which forgets the past and doesn't look into the future.

i think this mindset, this way of loving, will keep me from knocking Carl out cold.

Not living for "what if's"...

2010-02-23T20:20:00.000-08:00

Dan Hunt, the Director of Housing for Urban Homeworks, donated his kidney to one of our family tenants today. Read the whole story on the KARE 11 website and keep Dan, Sherry and their families in your prayers.

To see the news story on Kare11/NBC: http://www.kare11.com/video/default.aspx?bctid=68095419001#/Local/Landlord+donating+kidney+to+tenant/48173211001/48322959001/68095419001

To read about it on Kare11: http://www.kare11.com/news/news_article.aspx?storyid=842654&catid=396

Mine or Yours? [Erica, Frogtown neighbor]

2009-05-22T12:56:00.000-07:00

Emily came home from school especially hungry one afternoon. She told me that for the previous couple of weeks, part of her lunch was missing by the time she got to the cafeteria. In fact, it was the same item missing every time and her favorite part of her lunch – a tube of berry yogurt.

She thought she knew who might be taking the food from her locker, but she hadn’t told anyone about it before our conversation that day. I think she was motivated by a desire to protect the suspect, who already got into more than her fair share of trouble.

My instinct as a mother and citizen was to put a stop to the stealing. Emily could talk to her teacher. I could call the school. She and her friends could hide out and try to catch her classmate in the act. This train of thought seemed normal. I quickly played out the scenarios in my mind, subconsciously gauging the probable success of each option. Intervening didn’t just seem like the right thing to do, but the only thing to do. How could we let this wayward child get away with thinking that stealing was okay? If we didn’t put a stop to it, who knows what criminal activity might be in her future?

But, something stopped me from opening my mouth. For a split second I wondered if there was another option, another way. Seconds turned into minutes and my mouth blessedly stayed closed. Something in me was drawn to the possibility of breaking the pattern of reactionary, punitive approaches to disagreeable behavior. What else could we do?

Being the middle of three children, I got an early education in the laws of “mine” and “yours.” Sometimes the dividing lines in my shared bedroom were made visible by tape, string or a line of shoes. Most times the lines were implied yet understood and respected. As I got older, I didn’t need visible lines or long negotiations because I had developed an intuitive sense of personal space and boundaries. I kept track of my things and generally left everything else alone unless invited otherwise (with the exception of my sister’s closet, which is universally forgiven after adolescence).

This lesson on my relationship to possessions has shaped my worldview and, therefore, my behavior. I am generally grateful for this – I would have been quite a societal misfit had I not learned these lessons early on. The downside is that these laws of “mine and yours” became almost absolute. Sharing “my things” felt strange and gradually became the exception to the rule of hoarding and protecting what belonged to me. As with most patterns learned in childhood, this was soon embedded in my brain as the normal, acceptable and right way to live. And generally, it probably is. But this experience with my eight-year-old daughter was sparking a re-thinking of these patterns and leading me to imagine a looser interpretation of “mine and yours.”

I saw this as not only a teachable moment for my daughter to learn how to face problems like this, but it was an important moment for me. Is someone in her mid-thirties capable of re-imagining human interactions and changing patterns of thought and behavior? I am a glass-is-half-full kind of person, so I hoped so. Here was a chance to put it to the test.

Before fully forming a complete strategy in my head, I threw out an idea to my daughter, who was by this point finishing her after-school snack and only halfway paying attention: “What if tomorrow we put two tubes of yogurt in your lunch box?” What if, in anticipation of another visit from her mischievous friend, we chose to share instead of hoard?

Emily steadied her spoon and looked at me. I could see her mind processing this unusual solution. Perhaps she was expecting her friend to take both and she would still be left without a full lunch. Or what if her other friends found out and teased her for being nice to the class outsider? She didn’t say “no” right away, so I pushed it a bit further and suggested something more: “What if you also wrote a note and attached in to the second yogurt, showing that you know what is going on and mentioning that you have something in common – you both like yogurt?”

This evoked a sly smile, like she wasn’t sure if I was serious or if this last part was a clue that I had been teasing all along. I insisted there was a way to do it with minimal chance of embarrassment to her. My daughter bravely agreed to give this route a try. We got out pen and paper and Emily penned a note that said something like, “Enjoy the yogurt. I am glad you like it. I like it too, so please save one for me.”

Such a small thing and yet I couldn’t stop thinking about it that whole next day. The reality is that we have more than enough food in the house. As soon as that box of yogurt was gone, we could afford to go to the store and by another. Our kids have never known a day of hunger in their lives. And although I am not certain that the stealing was motivated by hunger, there is a strong chance of it as our kids go to a school where over 90% of the student body qualifies for free or reduced lunch. Regardless of the student’s motivation to take the food, the issue was becoming less about her and more about us. There is just too much we don’t know about other people’s behavior so we can only stick with deciding our own. In this case, will we share or hoard?

Sharing felt really good.

I recognize there are risks to approaching adverse behavior this way and I am not sure how this strategy would work when the stakes are high. Admittedly, the stakes couldn’t have been much lower than they were in this scenario.

But there is also a risk in teaching our children to be strictly governed by the laws of “mine” and “yours.” This worldview too easily sets people up to be enemies or threats. In a simple way, our daughter had a chance to do the unexpected and show kindness instead of retribution or malice. It was wrong of this classmate to steal, and we made sure Emily understood that. But I felt it would also be wrong of us to teach our daughter that the only ways to respond would be to either ignore it or turn it into something that could break up a friendship.

We don’t know of any changes in this other student’s life. We do know of a change in ours. The tiny spark of a “what if…” question and the resulting experiment in kindness was strangely liberating and has opened our eyes to new possibilities.

That next afternoon Emily came home a little less hungry. She made it to lunch with her meal intact and felt more satisfied. The extra yogurt was gone and the note was left in her lunchbox. This continued for about the next two weeks and then the mid-morning visits to Emily’s locker stopped. We like to think the student is now reformed and no longer sees stealing as an option.

Or maybe she just doesn’t like yogurt anymore.

In North [Heidi, North Minneapolis neighbor]

2009-03-20T08:12:00.000-07:00

This compelling post is from Heidi H's blog, "Life with Little People": http://hhaines.blogspot.com/. Heidi, Stephen, and their two little people live in the Hawthorne neighborhood of North Minneapolis. Thank you, Heidi, for sharing your gift-of-words with us!]

In North I bring my kids out onto the front porch where they can play and watch the usual activities of the neighborhood; it is a very busy neighborhood. There are kids running everywhere, a continuous stream of cars, and a constant trickle of pedestrians, as our house is on the way to the bus stop. On any given afternoon I can look out my front door and see a football game commencing in the largest area of free space available for activities: the street. There are clusters of children everywhere, all interacting, all joining together in one big unsupervised play-date.

In North people actually use their front porches a lot. We have a grill on ours that we use regularly. Our five-year-old neighbor Jonathan has tried to buy steak and hamburger dinners from us. Sometimes, if we see him playing outside before we start cooking, we will add extra for him.

In North I was sitting out on my front porch one day when I met Kelly. She was waiting for her kindergartner to get off the bus. We started chatting and she told me how she had just moved into the neighborhood from Northeast, she didn’t really like North because it was too violent. She is 25 years old and she has seven kids, the oldest is eleven and her youngest is two weeks older than my seven-month-old. She had her first baby in eighth grade and she is proud of the fact that she has just one baby daddy. She has been with him more than half her life and he was eighteen years older than her when they met. We talk several times a week now while she is waiting at the bus stop, and we’ve been invited to her birthday party.

In North my daughter asks, in two-year-old fashion, “What are them doing?” when she hears people conversing through shouts from opposite ends of the block. I say, “They are talking to each other.” She tries to copy them, yelling out unintelligible noises. I try to tell her that it is not nice to shout at people like that, but to her it is just what people do. It’s just another way to have a conversation.

In North I am starting to recognize homeless faces. My neighbor knows several of their names and though I don’t yet, I will someday. For now I give them cash and feel sad when the nights get colder and colder because they are the same faces that I saw standing out there the last time the nights got colder and colder. I wonder how they keep hope. If I don’t have cash, at least I offer them a smile, just to say, “Hey, I notice you.”

In North a snowy afternoon might bring several different groups of elementary entrepreneurs to our door, asking if they can shovel our sidewalks. If we have cash we say yes, even if that means we usually need to shovel again after they are done. If we have cookies we pass them out, but we don’t invite them in for hot chocolate and I am not sure why.

In North the police, fire trucks, and ambulance can arrive on the scene at lightning speed. When my baby was born in the backseat of the car last February, I could hear sirens in the distance before my husband even hung up his 911 call. Amidst all the standard crazy day-to-day activity, the quick arrival time makes me feel safer.

In North it is not every parent’s dream to have a park just two short blocks away from home. My husband was at the park with the girls one day and heard gun shots on the other side of the community center, less than 50 yards away from where my babies were playing. When I put my daughter to bed that night she described to me, “Them cars caught them. Cars wif lights. They went up the hill. The kids were runnin’. Them cars caught them. Why did them do that?” I didn’t have an answer for her.

In North there are times I don’t bring my daughters outside in the middle of the afternoon because I don’t want them to see that the neighbors across the street have gotten so angry they are throwing punches. I don’t want them to see one neighbor holding the other neighbor against the wall, fists pounding, until the cop car races up.

In North nighttime can be even more eventful than daytime. One night I awoke at 2:00am during a raging thunderstorm, while still lying in bed I looked out the window and saw the back of two little heads about 20 inches from my face. A dad and his five kids, their ages about three to eleven years old, were camped out on our lawn chairs on our porch under a No Trespassing sign. The police did not believe this man and his children had walked from an impossibly long distance away. They said they were waiting for Grandma to come and pick them up, as Mom was too drunk for them to go home. After calling Grandma, to re-explain the whole situation and remind her why she was picking them up, she arrived five minutes later. The six of them piled into a five-passenger car with Grandma, and the police watched them drive away.

In North gunshots woke me up around 5:00am. I looked out my bedroom window to see three men pacing back and forth on the sidewalk in front of our house. One of them was on the phone, agitated, and I was glad that someone was calling 911. A car screeched to a halt at the corner. It seems, instead, they were mad because their ride was late. One of the men pulled a gun out of his pocket and they got into the car. He unloaded his weapon into the air before they squealed away. I am not sure what he was trying to say, but I heard him loud and clear.In North we were also woken up a week before Christmas at 4:00am by someone pounding on the door. When we didn’t answer immediately, we heard, “Police! Open up!” The cops wanted to know if we had heard or seen anything unusual in the past few hours. Yellow crime tape stretched from the corner of our front porch and to the stop sign on the other side of the street. We found out later that a man was shot and killed a couple of houses down the block. We didn’t hear a thing.

In North the next time someone was shot and killed on our street it happened before 10:00pm, while we were still awake. We were sitting at the kitchen table when it suddenly seemed like there was an overly decorated Christmas display on the other side of our drapes. We looked out our kitchen window to see an entire fleet of emergency vehicles appear within two or three minutes. We went outside and overheard someone say they saw a body lying in the street less than half a block away. It was dark and we couldn’t see anything. Our entire intersection was soon blocked off with the yellow crime tape. Two kids, trying to get home, crossed it and got thrown onto the hood of a police car and patted down. Most of the neighborhood showed up. Detectives followed, along with a news crew. People gathered on our front lawn and when they heard the news of who had died some fell to the ground, screaming and wailing. We listened to it while we lay in bed and tried to fall asleep. The next day when we looked out our kitchen window we could see balloons and flowers marking the spot where our neighbor had fallen and died.

In North we are surrounded by empty houses. Five of the six houses directly surrounding our corner are vacant. They are boarded up and condemned. Soon after we moved in we took a walk down the block and counted the houses on our street that we could tell were vacant. From our corner down to the other end of the block were 16 boarded-up houses. Now these houses are falling down around us. The city has decided to bring in cranes and trucks and knock them down. This rocks my daughter’s world. She keeps asking me, “Where did it go? What happened?” We woke her up early one morning so that she could watch as the house across the street was reduced to a pile of boards and bricks; we hoped it would help her understand. Honestly, though, the bizarreness of it all rocks my world too. Especially when it’s the next day, when people scrounging through the massive pile of rubble, pulling out the aluminum siding to sell. It looks like scene from a third world country. Now I don’t know if I want my daughter to see and understand, to think this is normal. There is nothing normal about it.

In North you can hear on the new about a man getting shot and killed on a sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon, and that might mean something to you. It means something else to see a little 10 year old girl strip down to her t-shirt and jeans on the street when the weather is below zero so that she can teach her friend how to win a fist fight. While bouncing around with her fists in the air she says, “You don’t ever wear no hood. They can grab onto that so fast and pull you down. Make sure you don’t wear no hoods.”

In North we have a fire bowl out on our 8x16 piece of lawn. This is where we hang out with friends and meet our neighbors. We met Rob, who sat down to bum a smoke from one of our friends and ended up staying for a couple of hours. Our next encounter with Rob was when he stopped by to see if he could do some yard work for us to make five dollars. We said sure and gave him ten. He was really excited that he could not only buy cigarettes, but toilet paper as well. A few weeks later he knocked on our door at 11:00pm to tell us that he had just been in the hospital with a bleeding stomach ulcer. He wanted to know if my husband would sit on the porch with him and drink a beer. My husband said, “Sure, let me get dressed first.” I went back to bed.

Jesus shows up everywhere...[Ben, Urban Neighbor]

2009-03-19T12:03:00.000-07:00

[This is an excerpt from an audio interview with Ben, an Urban Neighbor in North Minneapolis. To hear the full .mp3 audio version, go to: http://urbanhomeworks.com/?page_id=312]

Seeing God at work here in the city is almost a constant thing once you start seeing things through the eyes of a Kingdom perspective. You begin to see glimpses of hope in kids’ eyes. As you pour into their lives, they begin to grasp this idea that maybe things could be different. Or seeing the hope that’s already here… You see Christ at work everywhere if you have eyes to see it. You can see his heart beating throughout the city, his heart beating for things that break his heart. When you’re in tune with the things that Jesus was passionate about, you begin to see him just showing up everywhere, and it’s incredible.

Thanksgiving with Karen Refugees [Sara, Urban Neighbor]

2008-12-11T18:52:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had dreams fulfilled in a backwards sort of way? I’ve been realizing God puts dreams and passions on our hearts not only for us, but also for others. About eight years ago as a young teenager I heard about the Karen people (pronounced Ka-REN) of Southeast Asia,from the country of Myanmar (Burma). Many of them were Christians and had been oppressed by their government. I got many Karen items like a traditional skirt, shirt and bag through an organization who supports these persecuted Christians. I became divinely obsessed with this people group and I gave a presentation on their plight and culture in my ninth grade world cultures class. I’ve always wanted to go to the area of the world where they live and visit them.

I heard several years ago that Karen people were moving to the Twin Cities. When I moved to Saint Paul this fall, I had some random connections that led me to begin tutoring two Karen women my age in English. I was so excited to finally get to know some of these people God had put on my heart! These two had just arrived to America this summer. One of them had lived in a refugee camp for 10 years. The other is here in a new land without father (passed away) or mother (still in Asia). I have befriended them and helped them with things from trying to understand insurance to learning how to bake muffins. Through the generous donation of food from YouthWorks staff, my Urban Homeworks house was able to put on a Thanksgiving dinner for my students and a bunch of their relatives. The sixteen guests enjoyed the night and loved playing jenga and spoons.

So this is what I mean by having my dreams fulfilled in a backwards sort of way. Instead of going to visit the Karen people in Asia, God has brought them to me and enabled me to bless them here. I still dream to go to Asia to see them and perhaps I will. But it’s not just about me and my dreams, is it? God knew they would be coming and so he put them on my heart so that I would have joy to minister to them here. God is so good, isn’t he? He gives us passions for a purpose beyond ourselves. He gives us dreams to give us joy through giving joy to others.

There are about 3,000 Karen in the Twin Cities and there will be many more coming. They need furniture and clothes when they arrive. If you would like to donate I have contact information. They also need friends and English help. Many of them are our brothers and sisters in Christ. “Therefore as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the family of believers” (Galatians 6:10 NIV).

To see a short video about the Karen people: http://www.vimeo.com/2139064
Here is a blog concerning the Karen story from the Karen Community of Minnesota: http://minnesotakaren.blogspot.com/2005_09_01_archive.html

Want to assist the Karen?

Contact me at purplelilacs@juno.com.

Or, here is contact information for social service to the Karen:
Wilfred D. Tun Baw
Project Manager
Karen Support Project
C/O Vietnamese Social Services of Minnesota
1159 University Avenue, Suite # 100
Saint Paul, MN 55104
Tel: (651) 645-5940 (W)/ (651) 789-0168 (W)
Fax: (651) 641-8908
E-mail: wilfredshwe@vssmn.org

"14" [Leah E., Urban Neighbor]

2008-11-26T09:35:00.000-08:00

I am doing homework across the table from a 14 year old.
She is a freshmen in high school. The school she attends doesn't have the best reputation in South Minneapolis. A few of us at the Oakland house have known her since she was in 4th grade. She is making a powerpoint for her Geography class.

She had to write about the 5 best places in her neighborhood. One of the places she chose to write about was our house! A few of her cousins were over last week and they said "Being at your house is like a retreat from our lives..."

It broke my heart to hear them say that. Yet, I hope as these girls continue to grow up they will know our house is a safe place to eat, laugh, and talk to each other in.

They are prayed for in this home.

As inadequate as we may feel at times, I pray that they will know that they are not defined by their surroundings, and instead they will recognize how beautiful and talented they are.

[to read more from Leah's blog, go to http://celebratingthekingdom.blogspot.com]

To be seen and known [Sarah W., Urban Neighbor alum]

2008-11-13T13:00:00.000-08:00

If there’s one thing I learned through my time as an Urban Neighbor, it’s that people want to be seen and known for who they really are. It’s easy to shove people in the city into boxes: the poor, welfare moms, gang-bangers, addicts, the homeless. During my years with Urban Homeworks I have learned to see people more like how Christ sees them: kids with hopes and dreams, women with huge hearts, men who’ve made mistakes. When you enter into a relationship with someone, you get to really see them and know them. The relationships I have built with my neighbors have blessed me in so many ways. I wish I had hours to tell you every single story: the neighborhood pizza nights, the ice cream parties, the cook-outs, Thanksgiving banquets, the tutoring. I have been filled with lots of love for my neighbors, and my heart breaks to see them struggling through life. There is one story I will share with you all.

Terri is a middle aged mom who lives with her family downstairs from me. I am amazed at this woman. Despite living in poverty, dealing with diabetes, renal failure, and heart disease, she gives and gives and gives. She has taken in two children who are not her own and I know she would take in more if she could. I love Terri, and I love getting to hang out with her family. We’ve had some incredible times together: pow-wows, cook-outs, birthday parties. Words cannot express how much this relationship means to me, or the ways that Christ has shown himself to me through it. For a woman to be dealing with so much and to still have the heart to remember things like my birthday . . . it just blesses me. Last year she bought me a pair of Native American earrings and had her whole family sign the card. It is humbling and inspiring to know such a person. Often, people think it’s the Urban Neighbors’ job to change or impact neighbors, but Terri has changed my life by being an example of love, dedication, and perseverance.

All that to say we’re not just neighbors anymore, it feels more like family. I know Terri, and she knows me. I know her favorite color is red and that she likes to dress babies in old-fashioned clothes. She can tell when I’ve had a bad day at work or if I’ve got a new crush. There are not many secrets between us. So when I get a call at 11:30 at night and Terri is wanting to come up for a cup of tea, I know there is more to it. So I get out of bed, put on the kettle, and hug Terri as she tells me how her oldest daughter is dealing drugs again, her son is back in jail, she can’t afford her heat, and she doesn’t know how she’s going to make it. Now I want more than anything to fix things for her, to make her pain go away. But I can’t. Being an Urban Neighbor is great, but it doesn’t give me superhuman powers to fix the world. So I do what I can, what God asks me to, and share in her troubles by listening, praying, and feeling the hurt with her. And we both go back to bed. It breaks my heart that I get to wake up the next morning to a cup of good coffee and my job, but Terri wakes up just to go through it all again. But I thank God that she does make that midnight phone call. Or when my neighbor Amanda calls crying because she thinks she got an STD, or when Frank, my friend’s son, calls because he and his mother got put out of another shelter. Because even though they are hurting, they know they are not alone. And for me, that’s what being an Urban Neighbor is all about. In my attempts to live like Christ, I get to see people: the welfare moms, gang-bangers, addicts, and homeless, beyond the circumstances that got them those taglines. I get to journey through life with them, sharing in their burdens when the load gets heavy, celebrating with them in the times in between.

Letter from an Inner City Kid [from the Burnside Writers Collective]

2008-11-12T19:09:00.000-08:00

[From the Burnside Writers Collective, http://www.burnsidewriterscollective.com/. Note: This piece contains csome contextual profanity].

To the caring and capable adult who wants to help me, but sometimes does not want to see me;
To the one who plays with me, and who shows me lots of fun, but then like a grandparent, sends me home again when I get too tiring;
To the one who faithfully comes into the neighborhood twice a week and never misses an appointment;
To the one who really does love me with all their heart, but who still recoils when I get too close because of my smell, or my runny nose, or my ringworm;
To the one who buys me stuff, even though I ain’t their kid;
To the one who reads books with me, and helps me with my homework, and mentors me, and comes to my court review.
This letter is for you.

Thank you.

I don’t say that very often, do I? At least, not in ways you hear. Even though I may not show outward signs of appreciation, you must realize how important you are to me. You take time out of your busy life to come and visit me. I am a kid you don’t know too well, and one you don’t fully trust, but you come see me anyway. You are not my mamma or her baby daddy, and the courts didn’t make you come here. So when you spend time with me, I know it is because you want to. I’m too tough to tell you, but I need that kind of care. I crave it. I love you for doing it.

But you got to remember that you and me are different, okay? You got to remember that there are some things that I know better than you.
You drive into my neighborhood to work, but I live here all the time.
That’s not a bad thing, I am glad you come to see me. But you got to remember that you’re the guest here. You are not in charge all the time. You don’t always set the agenda.
Long after you leave, I will still be here.
When you are waking up for work and drinking your morning coffee, I am dragging my younger siblings out of bed and dressing them and making sure they eat something so we can get to the bus stop on time. And I don’t wake mamma.
When you are sleeping in your bed at night, I am curled up in a trembling mass in the corner of a shadowy den hoping and praying that my new daddy don’t come home drunk again.
I know you want to help, but you got to remember you don’t make the rules.
I need to drive sometimes. I know I am a little kid, but there are some things that I know better than you.You forget that sometimes, but hey, nobody’s perfect.
I know you like to visit me, but I also know that I scare you. You come from somewhere different than me and you can’t figure out why I act like I do.

For example, when you give popcorn to the kid on my left, I want some too. Do I simply ask for some, or patiently wait my turn? You wish I would.
“Hey! No fair! Why does he get popcorn? Where’s mine? Gimme some!”
This is my default.
There is a whining sound in my voice that annoys you, or I sound angry and aggressive.
What I want to say is this: “The popcorn looks delicious. I would like to have some, please.”
But I don’t know how to say that.
You tell me I have poor manners. You tell me I am rude. Well, I don’t know much about that, but I do know that you are trying to rip me off.
At home, and everywhere else I go, the assumption is that I am going to get screwed. See, I live with my mom and her boyfriend, and he has kids of his own that he brought with him when he moved in with us. And my brother has a different dad too.
At my house, there are favorite kids. At my house, I don’t get a new toy just because my brother did. At my house, I get left out.
But my mamma doesn’t say anything because it might make Joey mad. So, at my house, I am on my own.
Then you come along, and you seem nice enough. But how do I know that there is enough popcorn for me? How do I know that you are going to serve me just like you served that other kid? How do I know that you won’t ignore me?
I don’t.
I don’t know until I can trust you. Because, even though I am here in a church or school or kids club, I forget that I don’t have to fight. I forget that you try to be fair.
So, I will demand popcorn if I have to.

I say “fuck” a lot. And “bitch” and “shit” and “pussy.” You tell me I am bad, but really I am just talking like everybody else.
You got stuff you say, and I got stuff I say. It’s not because I am dumber than you, it is just my language.
I need you to fight against something. You will be tempted to judge me based on my speech patterns. My informal register will cause you to feel intellectually superior, and my use of profanity will cause you to feel morally superior.
Battle those urges with everything you’ve got.
I need you to talk to me without lecturing. I need you to include me in discussions. I don’t need condescension, I need conversation. I know you’re convinced that your language is the “correct” one and mine is somehow broken. But Jesus speaks Ebonics too.

By the way, it is okay for you to talk your talk. I don’t mind. But don’t try to mimic me, because I don’t know how to respond to that.
I don’t need someone who looks like me and sounds like me. I don’t need someone more ghetto or someone who fits into the neighborhood.
I need someone who truly cares. I need the love that turns things upside down. That will be enough.

I like to laugh, just like you do. I want to have a good time. But I laugh at different things than you.
You laugh at clever remarks and ironic situations and cunning satire.
I laugh when I tease the boy next to me until he cries. He walks funny and his clothes are too big. (My clothes are too big too, but I crucify him for it.)
Then I flip open my cousin’s cell phone and show everybody an animation I downloaded for $1.99.
It is Scooby Doo having sex with Daphne.
I laugh loud and long so everyone around me hears. I pass it around because there is great value in being the entertainer.
You tell me I am mean and inappropriate, but I don’t know how else I am supposed to laugh. The only things funny to me are people and sex. And when I showed it to my uncle, he laughed too.

That animation on my phone is the best way for you to understand me. That animation shows the clash of two worlds.
Scooby and Daphne: icons of silliness and youth.
Graphic depiction of sex: a mysterious siren song beckoning me to the big people world.
I clash with myself every day.
I am a kid, a normal kid, just like in your family. I go through all the same phases and want all the same things. I am just as likely as your kid to beg for a toy or have a scary dream or cry when I don’t get my way. I am just as likely to bite my Tootsie Pop or enjoy Dr. Seuss or forget to tie my shoe laces. And sometimes I just need a nap.
But I am also an adult, a small adult, who sees the real world every day. I go through all the same phases and want all the same things. I may not understand it, but I am likely to be intrigued by sex and marvel over money and watch while my brother gets high. I look up to Scarface and I’m wary of police and I see through your lies about school. And sometimes I just need a drink.
I’m kind of schizophrenic. A half-kid half-adult hybrid. That’s why I can be vulgar and innocent at the same time. That’s why I will tell you of my sexual exploits in graphic detail and then ask you to blow bubbles with me. That’s why I will quote the movies “How High” and “Alvin and the Chipmunks” over dinner and laugh just as loud over both of them.

You might think I have no impulse control. You might think that I am overly emotional, or terribly dramatic, or blatantly offensive. You can’t figure out why I act like I do.
You feel like you can’t get close to me because I fly off the handle every now and then, or I am cold or hostile toward your sappy Christian advances. I’m totally inconsistent and you think I may be mentally imbalanced.

You know nothing stays the same? Ask me my phone number. I probably won’t know it.
Ask for my address. I might be able to give you the street name we just moved to.
Ask me who my parent or legal guardian is, or which of those kids is really my cousin. I’m not being rude when I don’t answer. I just can’t keep up.
And I don’t know if my mom will bring home groceries, and I don’t know if I will make it to middle school. I don’t know if I am safe in my bed, and I don’t know where my daddy went. The things I don’t know far outweigh the things I do know.
I can’t control what happens to any extent, and I have trouble predicting outcomes.
Things happen to me.
I don’t wake up and plan for my day. I wake up and brace myself.

That’s why I cry at the drop of a hat, and that is why I launch into manic fits. That is why, when my brother asks for help on his homework, he may start fuming and kick the hell out of something.
We’re wearing roller skates on a merry-go-round. We can’t catch our balance and no one is helping us up.
We are trying to climb the wrong way up an icy sliding board while the bully at the top keeps throwing snow balls.
We’re in a cage match with reality, and there is no way to tap out.

And so we do things.

Maybe you’ve seen those scars on my arms. No, not the cigarette burns. Those came from something else.
I mean the cuts. Those straight and narrow cuts that criss-cross all over my skin and make patterns like a railroad track.
They look suspiciously like I put them there myself. You wonder about it when you catch a glimpse, but it takes you a couple of weeks to ask.
Let me tell you about my day. Let me tell you about my day that is the same day every day, and how boring and tedious it becomes to climb out of bed. Everything seems broken sometimes, and I don’t believe it can be fixed. There is nowhere to go from here, nothing to do.
I am bored.
Boredom leads to apathy, apathy leads to numbness, and numbness is the enemy of hope. I am the walking dead and it doesn’t take long for me to yearn to feel something. I want to feel that little sting, that rush of endorphins, that cleansing release as I purge my body of pent up self-worthlessness. I feel something. And I am in control. I am causing the sensation and no one is doing it to me. I am causing the sensation and I can make it stop.

Leave me alone. Just leave me alone. Don’t talk to me! I hate you! I hate you!

I’ll run away and hide from you because you’re getting too close. I will say things just to make you hurt inside, and sometimes I get satisfaction in knowing you cried over me. I’ll cuss at you sometimes. I will jump out of your car and refuse to get back in, telling you the whole time that you are a liar who doesn’t care about me at all. Then I will walk home by myself in the rain, tossing the gift you gave me on the ground.
And I will watch over my shoulder to see you driving slowly behind me until I arrive safely at my destination.

I’m mad at you. I am not speaking to you. We both know that it’s not your fault, but I want to be mad at someone. I fume and vent, and you shrink and listen. You will try really hard in this situation, but I don’t want you to win. I want you to come back, but I don’t want you to win. I’m pissed.

I need you to be patient. Most people stick around until I lose my temper, or steal from them, or resist their love. They get tired, or hurt, or bored, or mad and I never see them again. When you wipe my spit from your face and search me out in the streets, I get it. Then I start to believe you. I’ll be baffled by your mercy and puzzled by your grace, and the yearning of my heart will be satisfied by your faithfulness. I’ll probably still act mad for a while, and I may teach you some new choice phrases. But I will also end the conversation with, “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
So, thanks for reading my letter. I don’t know if you’ll understand what I am saying, I am really not that articulate. I don’t know how to express these things. Sometimes I have to wrestle with my tongue to make the words come out. But I still wanted someone to hear me out, to engage my opinions, to recognize my voice.

And I cherish you for doing that.

From the kid you want to work with, but keep at arm’s length;
From the child you pick up for church on Sunday and play basketball with on Monday;
From the one who loves your reading voice and wishes he had a dad like you;
From the boy who needs to learn to shave and the girl who needs a chick flick night;
From the 1 in 4 who is living in poverty;
From the one who is close enough to touch.
I’ll see you tomorrow.

Bring candy.

An Unlikely Gift [Dan Hunt, Urban Homeworks staff]

2008-11-12T18:39:00.000-08:00

On a daily basis I have the opportunity to measure my effectiveness and my capacity to serve our families in rental housing. I have stumbled onto a golden egg-a tool to measure whether or not I will be good at my job each day. This tool is in a form that you might not expect. It occurred to me one day as I was driving from one end of town to the other. I pulled up to a red light on Washington and Broadway in North Minneapolis and as I sat there waiting for the light to turn green, and as I looked just over to my left, there on the median was a gift from God. This gift was bearded and there were deep creases on his cheeks and forehead. His clothes were adequate, but not quite sufficient to keep out the chill. Behind the man was his bike and he was pulling a burley outfitted to carry pieces of discarded aluminum, steel, and copper. In his weathered hands he held a hand-made sign and although I don’t remember exactly what it said, to me it read, “Will you love me today?”

It was in that moment that I made a connection between my feelings for this man who I don’t know, and the families I am called to serve in this ministry. I have come to learn that if my first reaction to this man and his plea for help is one of compassion and love, then my heart is prepared for showing that same love and compassion to our families in rental housing. If my heart instead is filled with judgments, then I know I not prepared to give our families my best.

Seeing blessings through broken windshields - [Stacy, north Minneapolis Urban Neighbor]

2008-08-21T12:34:00.000-07:00

I moved onto my block in north Minneapolis about a year ago, and am ashamed that I am just now becoming part of my neighborhood. First, I want to thank everyone who reached out when someone on my block shot out both of my windshields. Definitely not something I wanted to wake up to, but I am so thankful that it happened. Why? I experienced what it means to be part of community - to be prayed for, loved, and taken care of. It melted my heart when Nunu, a six year old boy on my block said, "I wish I could fix it for you." It humbled my heart when another young child asked me, "Do you cuss?" "I have," I said, "But I try not to."

Cecilia Wiliams spoke of the beauty that IS in North Minneapolis - Sometimes we have to look for it harder than other times, but it is there. Saturday night I was on a mission to bring my neighbors to Urban Jerusalem. I went down the street and was discouraged that the kids I had invited were no where to be found. In my frustration, God said - "Why do you try to 'do' things for me? Why do you follow your own agenda? Why do you become frustrated when things don't fit your schedule? This is not about you, it is about Me. Following me will not always be convenient. Following me means building relationships, it means 'putting in the time'. You can not expect to change your neighborhood if you are not in it. Praying is action, not wishful thinking" Ouch, I know.

I tried to keep that near my heart as I set out to go to the gym on Monday night. I opened my front door to find a gentlemen drinking with two of my neighbors. As I took off for the gym, God stopped me and said, "This, this is what I was trying to tell you. Stop!" I talked to the man who told me a lot of 'lies' including that he dated 50's Mom. And just as I was going to take off thinking I was just talking to the alcohol, he said, "I'm dying of liver failure." And that was it - the need, the message behind empty words. "Keep me in your prayers," He said. And I prayed for him right there. Broad daylight, people passing by, an 'uncoordinated' prayer, but it spoke to what community is. It was a testimony that people need Jesus. Bottom line, people need Jesus, and we find Jesus in community. If this man had sat on my steps a few months, even a few weeks ago, I probably would have passed by. But it is because of community and the prayers of those in my life, that I was able to see a need and respond.

I work for a company whose motto is, "Blessed to be a blessing." I pray that I and others would realize we are blessed not for ourselves, but blessed to be a blessing. Be encouraged that gunshots are not the only thing that is heard on the block - prayers and praise are coming forth and we will continue to refuse for things to stay as they are.

Lessons From a Homeless Man [Tanden and Erin, north Minneapolis]

2008-07-31T12:54:00.000-07:00

[Tanden and Erin bought a house in north Minneapolis from Urban Homeworks several years ago. This blog entry is an excerpt from their own blog www.parakletos.blog.com. Check out more of their journey there!]

Three nights ago I was standing by my front window, when I heard a familiar voice. I looked out the window and there was Charles making his way up our front steps. Before he got a chance to knock, I opened the door and invited him in.
We first meet Charles when we moved in two years ago, back then he was living in his van in the alley. Today Charles is trying to recover form a surgery that he had on his knee a few months ago. Charles is a Vietnam vet, and the injury is one that we got in the war. The surgery was going to help him with the movement in that knee, but in reality the opposite has happened. Today he is having a very hard time getting around. He can not longer work on cars, a love of his and a source of money. He can no longer go on long walks around the neighborhood, his freedom and movement are slowing leaving him now, which it seems to me are slowly but surely leading to his death. When he left the other night it I had to help him out of his chair, and then it took him several minutes before he could take a step.
I often wonder what kind of health care we are giving to one of the men that fought in one of our wars. I wonder if Charles is not just another one of those men we asked to go to war and to be a good citizen, but know that he is old and is in need of us, I wonder if we are really there or not.
Every time I see Charles now I encourage him to take care of himself, because I tell him that the neighborhood needs him. I know that because I know that I need Charles. Over the 2 years Charles has taught me a lot about life and the struggle of the poor.
My white culture taught me that Charles was lazy, did not want to work, was a drain on us, had nothing to offer, and was an object of our charity. In my relationship with Charles I found that not to be true.
What I have found is a friend that I have been able to share my life with. A friend that I was able to help by giving him rides, letting him use our car, sharing meals with, listening to, and giving him a garage to do his work in. But more importantly Charles has been a friend that has given to me, examples of what it really means to give to others, what life is really like when you don’t have a place to call home, he has called the police when he thought that someone was breaking into our house (he was the best security system that you can get), finding our house and car keys on the front sidewalk and returning them to us, and being a voice that tells the stories of the neighborhood and welcomed us when we the newcomers.
After I talked to Charles the other night I realized that there may only be a few more conversations like that with him so I better cherish each one. As Erin and I went to sleep that night we both talked about how we missed Charles and we will ever be grateful for God visiting us through Charles, so that we might see and know truth that is so often intentionally hidden from us.

"I ain't no criminal no more!" [Dan, UHW staff]

2008-04-05T08:55:00.000-07:00

It was about 5 years ago when I first met Amanda. We were just finishing the renovation on the house next door to where her mother lived. Her mother was taking care of Amanda’s children and we were seeing lots of them because they were curious about what was happening at the ‘crackhouse’ next door.

As we were finishing up this lower-unit apartment the kids were encouraging Amanda to see about renting it. She was in need of housing because she was finishing up a residential treatment program for using crack cocaine. Her addiction led her to prostitution and assault with a deadly weapon in order to support her habit. The treatment program she was leaving was the courts recommendation since she was a first-time offender. It was intended to ‘get her attention’ and keep her away from jail time.

The treatment program did, in fact, get her attention and she came out with renewed hope about a life with her children. Urban Homeworks did rent her the apartment, though many of the details of her history were not fully known at that time. It appeared to be a workable setup- having Amanda’s mother next door to help with the kids made it possible for Amanda to pursue work as a residential house cleaner.

Before long, however, the company that Amanda was working with hit financial trouble and had to close their doors. Amanda was now an unemployed, single mother with a criminal record. Despite having a good work history and a letter of recommendation from her supervisor, Amanda could not get a job. Each time she was apply and things would seem favorable, but quickly turned into disappointment with the employer ran a background check. Cleaning companies were not going to hire someone with a drug history and an assault charge to clean homes for elderly or disabled people.

Amanda lost hope. She was falling into financial trouble and she felt powerless
to do anything about her circumstances. Although it would seem that having the
support of her mother next door would be a help-that too was a heaping on of disappointment and hopelessness. Much of Amanda’s drug history was rooted in her mother’s house and when she fell into despair, her mother offered her an ‘escape’ to ease the pain.

Amanda’s started using again. She found herself back in drug court and back in front of the same judge explaining what had happened to her in the last two years. I went with her and asked the judge if he would consider another residential treatment program if we agreed to help her maintain her housing while she was away. The judge agreed, Amanda went away and came back a new woman. She had renewed her vows of recovery and starting attending Narcotics Anonymous support a couple times each week.

It was about a year after this that she told me she was moving. She discovered that the temptation to use drugs was tied, in part, to her location in the neighborhood. Too many people that she had used drugs with were still attempting to draw her into the old habits.

Amanda did move and called me her ‘advocate.’ She said that as her advocate I would need to “call her every once in a while and ask how I’m doin.’” If I let too much time pass between calls, she would call me and tell me how she was
doing and scold me for not calling enough. Another responsibility of mine as
Amanda’s advocate was to write her letters of support to show to employers.
She continued to apply for jobs in cleaning or cooking but was running into the same old challenges.

On February 14, 2008, I got a call from Amanda and a request for a letter of support. She was going back to court, but this time she was attempting to have her criminal history expunged. According to an information page on criminal expungement, “While it is easier to expunge a dismissed case than a conviction case, no one can accurately predict how a judge will decide your request for expungement.” Amanda charges were not dismissed and she had a second
appearance in drug court that did not look favorable for her. Despite my
doubts about her success at having her criminal record expunged, I knew that she was maintaining her recovery and was a good mom, so I performed my duties as her advocate.

I received a phone call from Amanda on February 26, 2008. In fact I received about 10 calls, but was unable to answer them since I was working with volunteers that morning. On my way back to the office I called her. She must have seen my number on the caller ID because she didn’t even say ‘hello’ when
she answered. She began reading something. Between her excitement and the
fact that she was talking incredibly loud I couldn’t make out everything that she said, but I heard, “February 25…courtroom 319…presided over by judge Herron…commenced hereof…criminal record hereby…EXPUNGED!!!

She laughed and wailed on the other end of the phone and yelled, “I ain’t a criminal no more, Dan!” I told her how proud of her I was and that although I wasn’t sure how that court appointment would turn out, I was overjoyed for her.
She told me that she felt sure that she could get a job now and that she wouldn’t have to feel so bad when she turned in her application. She didn’t say this, but I got a picture of her and the weight of past being lifted. Her identity had been shaped by the presence of one word- criminal. When she received that letter, every other word on that page erased that criminal identity she had assumed. Every word on that court document served to strip the lie that she was a criminal who could not be trusted. Details like the courtroom number, presiding judge and even the court reporters name was cause for celebration because Amanda felt reborn.

She celebrated that afternoon by having a BBQ. She cooked everything she knew how on that little backyard grill and as the aroma of her celebration wafted through doors and windows, down streets and alleys, everyone would know that Amanda was free.

possible

2008-01-21T14:49:00.000-08:00

Jesus looked at them intently and said,

"Humanly speaking,

it is impossible.

But with God

everything is possible."

(Matthew 19:26)

Kicking Up Dust [Urban Neighbor alum]

2008-01-15T10:37:00.000-08:00

[This posting is excerpted from an e-mail sent to me a by former Urban Neighbor who has been in the process of discerning the next steps in his journey: stay in Minneapolis, or return home to the Portland, Oregon area? It is a profound and wonderful reflection on how our lives and "God's will" intersect." The photo is his, too.]

"Most people want to wake up in the morning with a general at the foot of their bed saying 'Go do this.' The problem is there's somebody at the foot of their bed saying, 'Once upon a time. . .' " -N.T. Wright

I've spent the last four and a half months in Minneapolis waiting for the general to give orders. Unfortunately, my general happens to be the strong, silent type. In my mind, the general is a Type-A god with a blueprint and checklist for my life, waiting for me to put tab A into slot B correctly. This picture is entirely unhelpful.

Much of my personal development has taken place in a context of Christian culture where "God's individual plan for my life" was the only approved decision making model and ministry/career path. Whether or not this model is accurate, my experience has shown it to be like attempting to navigate through Yosemite National Park peering through a pinhole. Not only is it extremely difficult to see where I am and where I'm going, but I miss the beauty and grandeur of it along the way. I admit, there are definite bounds for my wandering, basic Biblical guidelines, to be sure. But within this frame of a bigger picture, I've been finding tremendous freedom to explore my place in God's story - perhaps writing a new chapter of my own.

I realize now that the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, is probably more like a novelist than a civil engineer. He cares less about where we go and what we do as long as the characters develop and the story hangs together as a coherent whole. The only way to ruin this kind of story is to forget who the author is. I used to read the Bible as a scripted play with people simply filling predetermined roles, but now I know it didn't go down like that when they were kicking up dust on the earth. They simply did what they had to do, and often just what they wanted to do. There was a famine, and people had to go where the food was. Someone got kicked out of the house and had to run away to a new land. Men went in search of a wife, and found one (or two). And sometimes, God spoke directly to a person and told him or her what to do. I've decided to experiment with artistic license in this story (giving credit to the author, of course). I'm going to kick up some dust - rather, mud, because I'm moving to Portland, Oregon.

My neighbors are aliens [Cody, UHW staff]

2007-12-27T11:05:00.000-08:00

In some recent reading I have been doing on a "Christian perspective" on the US Immigration issues, I have come upon this very crystal-clear passage, and in light of new events in my neighborhood, it takes on equally crystalline implications:

“The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt. I am the Lord your God (Leviticus 19:34).”

You see, my new neighbors are "aliens." In fact, aliens are transforming my block.

Thanks to one of the top 10 or so snowiest December's on record, I got to meet the newest addition to our little "United Nations" block in south Minneapolis. After the most recent fluffy deluge, I was outside shoveling my walk, and I saw my newest neighbors attempting to clear off their sidewalks. I say "attempting" because they were trying to shovel 6" of snowfall with a spade shovel, which is all they had. And as a native Minnesotan, I am sort of a snow shovel savant , so I had to step in (any seasoned shoveler would have done it). And that is how I met Ali and Hayat, the Somali family that now lives two doors down.

The house they moved into is more than just the new neighbors house. It represents a lot microcosmically about certain 'issues' that are impacting our country:

-The last people to own the house were a Mexican family [issue: immigrants, documented and undocumented most likely].

-They lost the house due to both immigration paperwork issues (the father was deported) AND the resulting inability of the now abandoned mother-of-three to pay her escalating mortgage payment on their adjustable rate mortgage they got talked into by some modern day carpet-bagger [issue: foreclosure epidemic].

-The house sat vacant for over a year. The copper was stolen [issue: globalization. One of the reasons copper prices have escalated is due to the massive amount of copper needed for construction projects in China, India, and South America]. Eventually it was boarded up.

-Then signs of new life! Hammers a-pounding! I went to over one day to see who was building, and try to get a little inside information. The construction crew were all Ecuadorian workers, led by a Mexican guy who had great control of the English language [issue: immigration, again].

-The house was completed, and Ali, Hayat, and their brood moved in [issue: refugee/immigration, again. And in this case, if you know the reason Somali's got to MN in the first place: US Foreign Policy, East African national and ethnic tensions].

So, now I have new neighbors, and I look forward to seeing how our paths will cross again. And if I ever wonder what attitude I am to take concerning these 'aliens' who are my neighbors, I think that passage in Leviticus makes it pretty clear: I am supposed to love them as much as I love myself (which is an awful lot, I must admit) and to treat them as "native-born." Welcome to the neighborhood, Ali and Hayat.

Come Lord Jesus, Be Our Guest [Oakland Avenue house]

2007-12-07T11:11:00.000-08:00

“Come Lord Jesus, be our guest and turn this food from damned to blessed." -Thanksgiving Prayer, Latarra age 11

Gratitude, credit, merit, appreciation. So many words exist to express thankfulness. Yet I have a hard time describing the feelings that overtook me last Wednesday. Let me explain. A while back my roommates and I decided to throw a community Thanksgiving meal. It started small; the family downstairs (we live in a UH duplex), maybe a significant other, and ourselves. But I think more than one of us has the spiritual gift of hospitality. For when we tallied the final guest list we realized 25 adults, 4 babies, and a pre-schooler were coming for dinner!! I’ll also note at least 5 people were invited but couldn’t come.

So before all the tryptophan lulls me to sleep, I will indeed count my blessings instead of sheep and share with you all the experience that has left such a big impact on my gut . . . and my soul.

Blessing #1: Generosity of others.
The idea for this meal came when Youthworks, a partner ministry of Urban Homeworks, offered to provide Thanksgiving meals for urban neighbors wanting to invite over those placed in the “have not” category of life.

Blessing #2: Increased generosity of others.
When some folks working at Bethel Seminary got wind of the meal, they chipped in and made homemade pies and side dishes for the feast.

Blessing #3: Beauty
We were very intentional to create a beautiful environment for our guests: white table cloths, candles, fresh cut flowers, and place cards adorned our tables. Beauty spread from the table to the faces of our guests. When you are valued enough to be invited to a beautiful banquet, it says that YOU must be beautiful to have deserved the invite in the first place.

Blessing #4: Diversity
Our guests were a mixed group of Section 8 families, poor high school students, lonely neighbors, and friends.

Blessing #5: Love
There was nothing in the Wassail, but by the end of the night we were jolly enough to clink glasses with our neighbors and embrace one another. Babies were passed around the room, numbers were exchanged between possible mentors and mentees, and a spirit of service and sacrifice led many to stay for hours to help clean. Relationships were formed and strengthened, and God’s Spirit of Love was present.

As I said earlier, words don’t do justice to the true emotion of the night. I remember reflecting on it all as I drove my students home. It was more than a magical Disney feeling, more than just a good time. I know God blesses those who take care of his poor. So maybe the feeling is blessing #6. If so, it’s the best one. It’s been the longest lasting. I don’t have all the right words to describe it, but here are a few: grace, fortitude, peace, hope.

In Transit

2007-11-18T21:27:00.001-08:00

Last Friday was the day my thoughts burst. I had walked to the coffee shop after work to get some fresh air. Soon it just got cold so I boarded the bus and the realized I didn't have correct change so when we stopped I told the driver that I'd get off and walk the rest of the way since it wasn't super far. The driver told me to just put in whatever I had, so I turned around to get it all together and a woman (who I guess had overheard) handed me a dollar as she walked past and said, "I guess its your lucky day."
I was really grateful. It felt strange and humbling to be on the receiving end of generosity... there I sat with my $3.61 chai, humbled by the fact that I had both needed and gotten a "hand-out".
That got me thinking about how much I like riding the bus; I enjoy that feeling of being a part of the City and I also feel that I have become one of "them". That led to thinking about the difference in Christ's eyes between me and them, and I started feeling crummy. There is no difference! I feel like somehow its been ingrained in me to see people in classes, like I have left some other-world to stoop down and move to St. Paul and teach them all how to live a better life. "All you need is Jesus" (And middle-class white folk). Like I'm here to save lives or something.
This story hasn't resolved; its still a journey being played out daily, but I think that with this comes a freedom to learn and grow more to be who God is calling me to be here and now.

Thanks be to Honey - [Cody, UHW staff]

2007-10-18T09:18:00.000-07:00

I had a blast from the past today, and it rocked me.

I saw a kid (young man) standing down the hall from our office at the Youth Enterprise office door looking for staff (office was closed). I went out to help him find who he was looking for...and then we had one of those unspoken "Hey, I know you" moments of recognition. It took me a minute to place him, because the last time I saw him he was about 10 years old.

"Hey, Cody." He placed me first. I was still playing through my mental list of neighborhood kids I had met over the years, but my "search function" is awfully slow. Then it clicked...it was Johnny.

Johnny was the kid who lived downstairs when I first moved into south Minneapolis as an Urban Neighbor in an Urban Homeworks house. He was one of the first kids that went from being a "statistic" to being a living, breathing example of "a poor black kid." His mother, "Honey," was a hardworking single mom, had 5 kids (all from the same dad) ages 5 to 15. I remember the mornings when she would have to take a taxi at 5:30 AM to the 'burbs for her job. She asked if we (the clueless 4 white guys and 1 not-quite-as-clueless Asian guy) could check in on them in the morning, to make sure they got out the door for school. So we did. Usually Johnny and his little brother, "Q", would be up and at it already at 7 AM, eating their breakfast. Johnny would be ironing he and Q's school uniform. Feeding his brother, ironing his clothes, getting ready to go to elementary school, at age 8. Meanwhile, his mom was 15 miles away, trying to concentrate on her telemarketing job:

"Did the boys get off to school, with food in their tummys?"

"Did they remember to iron their clothes? I don't want my boys looking shabby."

(Because she was so exhausted each night that it sometimes didn't get done).

"Did they turned off that iron so that the house is still standing when they get back from school ? (She'd still be at work).

What a clash of realities. When I was an 8 year old kid, growing up in the sheltered lap of middle-class white America, my mom's biggest existential concerns [God bless her] were whether or not it was safe for me to ride my bike to school because the road shoulder was not ideal in width, or if I'd crack my head open jumping my BMX bike off of homemade jumps (I'll give her that one).

After Johnny and I chit-chatted a bit, caught up on the "what's so-and-so been up to" stuff, we parted ways. Then it hit me. When I got back to my office, I felt a stirring…an excitement, a joy to see Johnny again and even more so because he is involved with something really good (Youth Enterprise's mission is "equipping youth living in urban communities with relevant life and business skills grounded in the hope of Christ"). But entwined with the warm-fuzzies was a deeper hard-to-describe , odd feeling. Not a whole lot different than that stuff that churns around in you when you run into an “ex”...when you know there was/is a shared history or connection in which you both shared some really good stuff. And some really NOT so good stuff. Things did NOT end well with his mother and the family.

Urban Homeworks (we) had to ask her to leave because she had relatives dealing drugs out of the house and would not (or could not most likely) put an end to it. We tried to do everything "right": she was served an eviction notice, with ample time and options. Yet, when it came down to the midnight hour (literally), the last minute of the last hour of her tenancy, our staff had to go to her house with a police escort because Honey had made quite a few threatening statements prior that. And we knew her well enough to know that she was not bluffing. And I don't blame her. She was the mama bear and we were kicking her and her cubs out of their den, regardless of whether or not we were "right" in doing so.

I cut my “urban teeth” on those first few years in that Urban Homeworks house, and I can’t separate it from that family. I hope I didn’t leave too many bite-marks in the process. Those years kicked my butt in many ways…but for the better. And I have a feeling it might have kicked their butts too…but I dread that perhaps it wasn’t for the better. Those years, and that family, lit the fire under the cauldron of my own racial attitudes, white privilege stuff, arrogant classist assumptions, etc. Since then, this white-boy's cauldron has reached the boiling point. The dross is slowly rising to the surface, I am refining. And in many ways I am NOT the same Cody I as an Urban Neighbor. Thanks be to God…and thanks be to Honey.

I got Johnny and Honey's number. I really want to call Honey, to tell her how much I have grown because of her, through her. But I can't help but wonder...was my growth was probably at her expense? And thats why when I think about doing it...the stirring inside begins again.

One Semester of Spanish - A Love Song

2007-10-17T14:00:00.000-07:00

Census Bureau researchers found that by 2050 the Latino population of the United States will triple, and one in every four Americans will be Hispanic. Better start practicing your Spanish, my friends.

Check out this link for your first "Spanglish" lesson. It'll make you laugh...

http://www.runawaybox.com/morevideos/music/musicvidpages/muiscspanishlovesong.html

Sins of my Skin [Siri N., Urban Neighbor alum]

2007-10-17T12:20:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a small town in southern Iowa, where pigs out numbered the population. I was blessed to be surrounded by hard working, blue collar, family orientated people. Though the reality of my home life went more like an after school special, full of yelling, hitting and confusion. I grew up with few friends but being a poor white kid I was able to feel comfort with the few kids in my school that believed different than the town-wide Catholic God, or those who lived across the track in the projects. And yes, as the stereotypes say most of the kids in our projects were kids of color. But for me the Lord had placed on my heart at a very young age the understanding that Jesus died for everyone no matter the so-economic standing, religious beliefs or color of skin.

As I grew up my heart for the city and my desire to explore new cultures grew. So I moved to Minneapolis to attend college, though the first college I picked I found that the culture I had been brought up in just followed me up to the college. So I still felt a large hunger in my heart to be around ‘All of God’s people’ and that is when the blessing of youth fell into my lap. I was able to volunteer for a youth group in St. Paul full of kids that skin color had no similarities to mine. I began to see that it was in voices of these children's experiences and realities that laid the true work of Christ. At this time I was just a youth worker who loved kids and camp, race was not as apparent. But as time went on and as I experienced my current job, God began to show me the very subtle, destructive divide between the white and blacks in our country, in our state, in our city; actually on every block in North Minneapolis, "Jesus prayed that believers might be brought to complete unity—a process of which we are a part of (John 17:20-23)"

I moved to north Minneapolis about seven months ago and have worked at my current job for almost two years in that time I have been blessed to see the world from the eyes of the beautiful children of North Minneapolis. Their stories entail drug abuse, poverty, physical abuse, hunger, stress and racism. They also entail strength, insight, love, compassion and an understanding of the world many of us will never have. Through their lives God began to show me that "Love for God and others is a continuing ‘debt’ we spend our whole lives paying off (Rom. 13:8)." I cannot fix the sin of those before them but I have begun to see that I can apologize for the sin of my skin. There are chains on the ankles of these children and on mine because of the sins of my forefathers and with the Love of Christ I have begun to see that no amount of ignoring, money or programs will break these chains that are holding us all down.

I grew up a poor white girl in southern Iowa, and I have been able to get a great education, get any job I have needed or wanted and have lived in many unseen privileges. I was able to change my background through an education and a good job, but for the children in the North Minneapolis they will never be able to change the history of oppression and prejudice that has plagued their skin just by getting a better job or nicer things. Their skin color and all that lives with it will follow them every day. That is why I believe as a white American I must acknowledge my privilege, ask forgiveness for the cost it has had on my fellow brothers and sisters and continue to speak the truth through Christ Jesus. I believe that one day through the grace of God the children of the North Side will have a chance to step out into a world that no longer defines them by their race but rather by the image God made them in.

Where have all the old people gone? - [Kristin, Urban Neighbor alum]

2007-09-24T10:08:00.000-07:00

I am an Urban Homework Alum, I used to live in the house on 29th St. and Bryant Ave. in North Minneapolis. I got married in July, and my husband Caleb and I moved into one of the Urban Homeworks Cedar 28 condos shortly afterward. Yesterday, we decided to take a walk down Cedar to get to know the area on foot a little better. We ate at a place called Matt's Bar, a fixture in Minneapolis, famous for it's "Juicy Lucy" hamburgers, that have molten hot cheese in the middle. Then, we walked down to a new ice cream shop and each got a scoop.

On the way back we met an 88 year-old Japanese man on the street named Sam. We had seen him when we were on the way down to the ice cream shop, and it concerned us that he was still pacing the same area 45-minutes later. So we went up to him and asked him if he needed any help. (Actually, I'm embarrassed to admit, that we first tried to call 3-1-1, because we assumed the man didn't speak English. We thought it best to have a Minneapolis cop come and address the situation, but 3-1-1 was closed for the evening.) Turns out, Sam didn't need help, the house he was pacing in front of was his, and he was "just passing time". But he was desperate for conversation, and kept us engaged for a good 30 minutes as he leaned on his cane and told us story after story.

He spoke perfect English, even though a few of his words were swallowed when he would accidentally breathe in his gray mustache hairs, and his barren gums would get stuck on them. He was a strange looking man, like a older Mr. Miagi from the Karate Kid - small and thin with long gray hair and a long gray mustache and beard, overgrown eyebrows and nose hairs, no teeth, long, unclipped finger nails, a blue long-sleeved polo shirt with multi-colored stains in the center of his chest, long navy-blue polyester pants, and flannel slippers.

He told us about his time in the military during World War II, and how valuable he had been to the armed forces because he was fluent in Japanese, English and German. He told us of his childhood in Ojai, California, and of his older brothers, who were the first non-white boys to be accepted into the Boy Scouts, who have now long since passed. He told us of how he came to Minnesota, and how his Japanese-ness was seen as such a novelty in the midst of the pure-bred Minnesotan Scandinavians of the 1950s. Many of his facts contradicted each other, but he seemed so desperate for human contact that Caleb and I didn't correct him. We continued to ask him of various ways we might be able to help him - Can we call your family? Do you live alone? - but he just wanted to talk.

It made me sad to think of how many elderly people must be so lonely that all they need is someone who will listen, and how anyone - ANYONE - could take the time to listen, but we rarely do. It made me think about how they say that you can tell the moral character of a society based on how they treat the people least valuable to them - the elderly, the disabled and children. Americans are often are more willing to put money into programs for children because we see them as "our future", and we want to make sure it's bright. But what incentive is there to invest in the elderly? They have already given us their best years. They already fought our wars, developed our programs and businesses, and passed them onto us.

I thought about how special this man must have felt over the course of his lifetime, being Japanese by heritage, but American by birth - one of the first second-generation Asian immigrants to live the American dream. And then I thought about how much better off he would probably be at this stage of life, had he returned to Japan, where every September, every Japanese citizen gets a day off for "Respect the Elderly Day" and there are over 32,000 people over the age of 100.

I worry about Sam, and others like him, who are so vulnerable. There he was, shuffling in front of his house on Cedar Ave. in Minneapolis in his slippers, unaware of any danger that may come to him. How many countless Sams must exist in Minneapolis, and yet, we don't know or hear their stories. What are we, as a nation, doing for people like him? Doesn't he deserve more after how much he did for us? It's a dilemma of Urban Ministry that is rarely addressed by young, optimistic revolutionaries like us, and definitely a dilemma I need to think about more. Where have all the old people gone? How are they being valued and loved? I don't know the answers to these questions, and I should. We all should. How did they get forgotten?

"Dear Mr. President..." - letters to our President from the kids at the Bryant Ave. tutoring house

2007-08-02T11:21:00.000-07:00

[This year a group of Urban Neighbor' s organized a weekly tutoring night for neighborhood kids in an Urban Homeworks house in north Minneapolis. Thank you Kristin, Katy, Matt, Jessica, and Stacy for your amazing efforts, dedication, and inspiration!].

"In every community, there is work to be done. In every nation, there are wounds to heal. In every heart, there is the power to do it." ~ Marianne Williamson

Over the summer, the face of our make-shift tutoring program at the 2902 Bryant House shifted and changed a bit in order to accommodate the fact that the kids wouldn't be in school, and thus, wouldn't have homework to bring to tutoring. Although we love planning fun outside activities, we decided to do something academic (but fun) each week to impress upon the kids that "learning never ends". However, the kids were not as keen to our idea. They caught on quickly that we were trying to "trick" them into working during their precious time-off from the pressures and stresses of grade school. Week after week, we cajoled, bribed and weaseled the kids into writing an imaginative story, doing "fun" math worksheets or playing trivia games. It was becoming quite frustrating for both us and the kids.

The week after the Fourth of July, someone had the idea to have them write letters to the President of the United States. It seemed like a good patriotic activity to engage in with the kids, but as Wednesday night tutoring approached, we all expected to go through our regular routine of begging and pleading to get them to write to Mr. George W. Bush. And, as usual, there were a handful of kids who simply would not have it. We let them draw pictures instead. But, to the surprise of everyone, there were two girls who took this activity on as a way of expressing their frustration with their circumstances. The two girls came from different backgrounds. One was African-American, and one was Native American - but they ended up with letters that were strikingly similar - a plea to the President to help their families out of poverty.

I had the pleasure of staying with these three girls after "writing time" had run out. They willingly missed playtime, to come up stairs with me to finish their letters. At the end, as they read their letters out loud to me, I felt a strange sensation - a mix of beaming pride, righteous anger, upper-class guilt, and heart-felt empathy. Kameja's* letter was filled with humor and wit, with sentences like, "Hello Mr. George Bush, I almost wrote George Washington, but that would have been a mistake, you ain't as good as him" and "There are too many baby's momma's still living with their own mommas. They need help getting their own houses for their babies." The other girl, P.J.* let me copy down her letter to share with you all. Here's what she wrote:

Dear Mr. President,

How are you doing? My name is PJ. I live in Minnesota. I am 10 and I am from the Mille Lacs tribe. I speak Ojibwe and English. I used to live on the reservation but now I live in Minneapolis. Here in Minneapolis I have less friends than on the reservation. I was 8 when I moved to Minneapolis. In Minneapolis, it's harder to get from place to place, one time I had to walk over 4 miles. I walked from my mom's boyfriend's house to my aunt's house. I'm tired of going place to place to place. My mom has no house and she is very busy. She has to watch kids all the time. Can you please make prices lower and give my family $1 million dollars so my mom can buy a house and a car? I said please. Sincerely,PJ

This one experience with PJ and Kameja made up for all of the Wednesdays when the kids left tutoring, and we were left standing in the ruins, with growling bellies, dull head aches and surrounded by a stunned silence.

It made up for the many snacks I have prepared that the kids complained were "too healthy" and "didn't have enough sugar".

It made up for the dirty fingerprints that line our hallways, and the beads and glitter from Christmas crafts that we are still sweeping up.

This is why I came here. To empower.

And if it takes week after week of stressful, loud Wednesday evenings of crazy crafts and vaguely controlled chaos to get results like these - I'd do it again in a heart beat. Because it was through those weeks that we were able to build relationships with these kids - relationships strong enough that two of them would trust us to help them write down some of the deepest most painful issues of their life, and demand that things change.

We helped the kids address their own envelopes, and sent all of the letters and pictures the kids made to the President of the United States, The White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC 20500. What a powerful lesson in citizenship, and what a better way to reinforce the meaning of our country and its founding. For as Marianne Williamson said in The Healing of America, " ... the inherent goodness of the average citizen [is] the crown jewel of American democracy."

* Names have been changed to protect the far too innocent.

The city heats up in the summer...

2007-06-12T11:42:00.000-07:00

Things get a little "hotter" in the city in the summer...but don't believe everything you see on the evening news because most of what happens in the city is good, clean fun! These pictures say enough...

Marcela and the Tunnel [Sarah R., Urban Neighbor alum]

2007-05-30T12:22:00.000-07:00

[Sarah, an 2005-06 Urban Neighbor alum, is currently working with street kids in Chihuahua, Mexico.]

Her name is Marcela or Marcelita. She is 14 years old. She lives in an underground tunnel on the streets of Chihuahua with her 15 year old husband Nacho. I do not know her face, but I know her cry. As I walk in the dirty smelly streets I come across her home: the tunnel.

Dark and long, she lives all the way in the back where the light cannot reach. She cries as Nacho beats her. He comes out. We are there to feed them. She is still crying. I take a plate and walk into the tunnel. I hear her crying. I am hunched over as the tunnel is about 3 feet high. I walk and walk and walk. I can no longer see the hand in front of my face. Who knows if there are rats on the ground. The darkness is so thick and I am so scared. But she is still crying. I tell her I am here to give her food and she need not be afraid. I continue to walk, how long is this freaking tunnel? I am so afraid as the darkness seems to enter my soul and envelopes me into its greatness. I stop for a second and just sit there afraid.

This intimate moment with Marcelita is powerful. I have entered into her darkness. I can see a small light behind me where I came from and I cannot walk any further. I am too afraid and she stops crying and she is too far back there and Moi (my leader at the home) tells me to come back. Nacho is happy and smiling. I only want to beat the living day lights out of him, but I pray God shows me how to love him (my enemy). Moi says there is nothing we can do but pray as the Mexican government is not like the US. They do not go and stop domestic abuse. She is addicted to her drugs and the abuse and she does not want to leave. He says all we can do is pray and God does answer those who cry out to him. I am praying for her and by faith I know God will rescue her. This is why I am here. To sit along side Marcela and tell her she is loved and I am here to listen to her story and am here to be her friend and help her beat her addiction and know real love...

Birthday Blessings [Leah, south Minneapolis]

2007-05-24T10:20:00.000-07:00

I never knew what a simple game of kickball would bring about...

One day as I got home from work our neighbors below were grilling out. We organized a little game of kickball and made everyone line up according to who had the closest birthday. As the kids told me their birthdays, Sha'Liece ended up having the closest birthday- May 20.. This happens to also be my birthday. As she found out that we shared the same birthday, her face instantly lit up. In our four plex there are 3 other families all with younger kids. This particular family had just moved in 2 months ago. I work at an Elementary school, and some days I come home from school absolutely exhausted, wanting just to take a LONG nap. Yet, these kids continually want to play "ships across the ocean", freeze tag", "kickball", or whatever other game they come up with.

Everyday after that glorious game of kickball Sha'Liece would let me know that there were "22 days until our birthday", 17 days until our birthday", "7 days until our birthday." She reminded me of the anticipation we have as children of these events in our lives.
I decided to organize a little party for this girl who was soon to be 7. I talked it over with her Mom, and made sure all of the girls would be able to come. I sent an e-mail to a group of friends telling them to bring games, books, and toys for Sha'Liece and her 3 sisters. I bought a pinata and was looking forward to celebrating with this family and having friends get to know them. Well, the big day rolled around and I didn't hear much activity in the home below. This was quite surprising since music/yelling are typically constant in their house.I knocked on the door and found out Sha'Liece was gone and wouldn't be home until alter on in the evening. Friends were coming over at 1 o'clock. People ended up arriving with all kinds of gifts-books, hula hoops, sidewalk chalk, bubbles, coloring books and more. I felt so grateful for the outpouring of love by the community of friends I have. Yet, I was feeling bummed out that I thought the family below and I had clearly communicated about the party.

My friends came and went, still with no Sha'Liece and her sisters, to break open the pinata with. Later that night I got home form a family celebration and the girls came up and knocked on the door. My roommate Krista and I had all the girls up, as well as their uncle and Sha'Liece got to open her presents. The look on her face was absolutely priceless. She had gotten some money earlier in the day from a relative for her birthday. She told me a family member had already taken the money to buy gas. These were the only gifts she got. I had my apprehensions of what it would look like for a bunch of my friends to get her gifts, but it ended up being a truly beautiful moment.

The next day all of the kids in the four-plex were outside playing. It was a gorgeous day. I told the kids that when my roommates Krista & Marissa got home from work we could open the pinata. Some of the adults in the building came out as well. We had such a great time. People ranging in age from 2-50 were taking turns at the pinata, laughing and uniting over a 7 year olds birthday. There have been many experiences this year that have struck me- some bringing deep pain, and some bringing immense amounts of joy. Monday was such a beautiful day of celebration and joy on our little corner in the central neighborhood of South Minneapolis.

Just Let Me Give

2007-05-12T06:43:00.001-07:00

Reflections from the weekend "Fast from the Middle Class"

I met a black man, or rather he met me when he invited me out of my chair to meet his friend, a staff worker. He was homeless with only a white t-shirt and basket ball shorts to cover his back. Fastened around his waist he wore a black back-support, the kind stockers wear at the grocery store.

He said he wanted to talk to me because of the clearness of my eyes and a countenance about me he had not seen in a long time. This is one of many reminders I received that weekend that it is impossible for me to cover up my blessed background and stable life situation. Right now, it is just who I am and so deeply ingrained that I cannot simply turn it off, and I do not need to.

His structure was two of me. His eyes were the color of coffee. He had picked out a tan trench coat from the tables downstairs before breakfast trying to hide his shoulders which hung like leaves off his trunk-like body. Occasional lone tears slipped from his eyes as he shared his story. What could make a forty-two year old black man cry freely in front of a five-foot-four, twenty-six year old white woman., especially one who did not trust white people until he left the south and moved north.

"For six days I have not eaten. I have given up, and I have been drunk and stoned under that bridge over there. I am tired; not just today, but of life. I dreamt for those six days of killing myself and ending it all. I am tired of fighting, really fighting. I do not know what brought me here today for breakfast. The food in my stomach is so foreign to my body that it is being rejected. I feel like throwing it up. I am not even sure I want to make it through today." All I could do was listen. He wanted no answers, just question.

"Do you know where I have been?"

"No, I have no idea," I said.

"I am from a nice family. My mom prays for me every day. There is a family in the suburbs who takes care of me. I cannot keep taking from them. I cannot keep receiving their charity."

"Why not?"

"I do not deserve it. I have done nothing to help them in return. I have nothing to give back. They do not ask anything of me, but how can I keep receiving that? My mom still prays for me every day, but you know what really struck me that she said," he asked.

"No, I don't."

"'I pray for you every day,' she tells me, 'but when will you start praying for you,' she asked me. I had no answer. I know God's love is sufficient for me. I know his grace is complete. I have read the Bible over and over again. I know what it says; I know what it teachers. I can repeat it back to you. I have lost my Bible three times and it always comes back to me, somehow. I know God loves me."

"Can God be trusted," I asked him.

"Yes."

"Why can you not trust him with yourself. You do not have to be clean. That is God's job. You do not have to be worthy because none of us are worthy. Jesus came for people like you who see your dirtiness and need for a savior. Trust Him with yourself since you know He, alone, is enough."

"I cannot do that. I am too dirty. I cannot let that go. Did you know I have been in jail? I have been in prison for years. I have seen so much death; more than anyone should see in a lifetime. I cannot stand it anymore! I am so broken and full of junk! Did you know that I have not been hugged, truly and honestly in years. I have sold my body to men and women alike for drugs, but nobody has hugged me. Do you know what I really want?"

"No, what do you want?"

"I want to be really held. I want to feel love again. I want someone to wrap their arms around me. Is that so hard?"

"I don't know. I really don't," I responded.

"Do you know what I want to be," he asked me.

"A preacher?"

"Yeah," he laughs. "I want to be a preacher. I want to tell people about God. I want to teach them the truth! I am an artist, too. Did you know that?"

"No, I did not. Do you know what I see in you," I asked him. "I see a man being chased after and sought by God. You have the truth. You just need to trust it. You lost your Bible and God keeps bringing it back to you to remind you of Himself. I believe God is in you and working. He is the one that makes you worth anything, only him, not yourself."
"You really think so?"

"Yes, I do. It's like this. Think of a piece of art. This piece of art does not search for the artist, right? It is a creation of a creator. We are the art. God created us, but we cannot seek him. We are his creation. He must reveal himself to us. So, the fact that you know he exists and understand so many of these truths are evidence that He has revealed Himself to you. Otherwise you would not know he existed. He loves you! He is hanging on to you and is not letting go. When are you going to hang on to him?"

"It seems so simple, but I just don't think I can do it. I wish it was that simple."

"I know."

"Did you know I have HIV? I have told everyone I have been intimate with. Some appreciated it and others were angry with me. I did not do it on purpose? How can they be mad at me? I would not have been intimate with them if I had known. How can they say it is my fault? Some now recoil at my presence and nobody touches me anymore even though that is not how you get it."

"They are just ignorant."

"I wish I could give. Nobody lets me give anymore. Everyone gives to the homeless, but nobody ever lets me give back to them. I have so much to give! But, nobody lets the homeless give from who they are. They have taken our identity and made us feel useless by not letting us share who we are. I just want to give of who I am and what I have. Someday I am going to write a book, a bibliography of my life."

"I hope you do because I think you have a lot to give," I said.

This man would have kept my ear all day. I thanked him for "giving" me his story and encouraged him to give it to other people. There was nothing else to say. I prayed all day that he would make it through today, tomorrow, next week and continue to see the truth, eventually being relieved from his despair. I shook his hand as I left. I knew I could not hug him, but I wanted to leave him with one good, honest touch. He never once asked me for anything but my ear to listen. That is all he wanted, a chance to give. The desire for love, identity and a chance to give is what makes a large black man cry in front of a girl. He knew life was too short to hold back.

~Rachel
We don't love by chance; rather, we make room for the ones we choose to love.

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Lucky Pennies for a Dollar [Rachel, south Minneapolis]

2007-04-19T11:26:00.000-07:00

A man with a painted expression of apathy stood just within the archway of an alley in downtown Minneapolis. He wore a sky blue, nylon, 80s jacket with a faded baseball cap. I could not pass the pennies up for long. I turned back after a few steps to take a second look. On top of the suitcase filled with his life belongings and an umbrella handle protruding through the zipper sat an old cardboard pizza box with a few handfuls of pennies inside. Although he appeared to be passively watching the business world flurry by, I am sure he took in every pause or second flicker of an eye in his direction.

Looking at him through his goggle-like glasses, I asked if he was really selling pennies for a dollar. He nodded back without emotion. I shuffled through the pennies wondering what my odds were of finding a penny actually worth a dollar. I asked him where all his wheat pennies were. Through his scruffy beard, he quickly told me he kept them in his pocket. I laughed out loud at his quick wit. I chose a shiny penny from the bunch and began to dig out a dollar bill. While handing him the dollar bill, I asked for permission to trade the dollar for a picture of him and his corner business.

Even though it seems foolish to “buy” a penny, the picture of this successful entrepreneur beside his business is priceless. He sells pennies for a dollar and calls them lucky. A man in a dark, professional suit sells his ideas for thousands of dollars a year and calls it a career. The penny man appears to be the fool on the street with such a ridiculous venture, yet who is the bigger fool – he who is selling, or the cooperate world who pauses to buy, keeping him in business? What if we quit buying his pennies? What if we quit buying someone else’s ideas for the prices they demand? Which example of business is the more true consequence of corrupt consumerism?

I want to find him again someday to trade his penny for a cup of coffee. What is his story? What has been his life journey? How many times has he been trodden over by life?

Caroline and Chloe [Rachel, south Minneapolis]

2007-04-19T11:15:00.000-07:00

Caroline is a homeless woman who sits in front of the IDS Tower in downtown Minneapolis. Her two year old daughter, Chloe, has spent some of her most developmental years understanding this life as the norm. Her sense of trust and security (from Erickson’s Eight Stages of Social-Emotional Development) is based on the constant motion and transient society of the street community. Where is her source of hope? What can she trust? As she is asserting herself as an individual, who is she defining herself to be? What is she learning to become? How often does she face shame or doubt instead of assurance?

I met this small family two weeks ago when God interrupted my life by their presence as I was searching for the lucky penny man I had met only days earlier. I paused moments up the street to watch this mother care for her child. Most of the world passed by, but occasional schedules would break momentarily to “bestow good will” upon the impoverished family. Yet the human connection made in those moments was so minute. It lasted but a second with barely a spark lit between their eyes.

I awkwardly approached her and asked what kind of help she was waiting for. She said any help was good; a job would be wonderful. I wanted to help, yet I know that “bestowing good will” only places her socially bellow me.

She says she is from Philly and is a bartender. She is waiting for benefits to come through county social services, which is so commonly a hardship of all stories of life on the street. She has repeatedly been denied. She only has two weeks left in her house before she must relocate.

We agreed to meet for lunch the next day to trade a shared meal for her life story. Unfortunately, the weather turned bitter and she kept her daughter inside. Not coincidentally, I have run into her a few times since then. Today, she was at her wits end dealing with housing and benefit issues. She does not want to have lunch today because she’ll miss the “gifts” others drop in her hand. She wants so badly to be self-sufficient, but the world has degraded her to accepting hand-me-downs. I wonder what keeps getting in the way. Could she make better choices? How many times does one fall before they quit trying to get back up?

I gave her my phone number since she has no phone to call her at. She has promised to call me soon to share her story and a meal. I offered to share my life with her as well, knowing relationships are a two-way journey. I debated in my mind whether or not to buy food at the market for her, just a simple bag of apples would do. Would I only break our connection giving myself a social boost? I made the offer but she said lunch was enough. She would rather I shared moments in life with her than bestow upon her a good deed. I smiled as I left wondering how often she truly felt human friendship. Chloe is maybe the only one who truly knows her, and Chloe is only two. I touched her arm as I left. She reached out to me as well, but did not dare get close enough to quite brush my sleeve.

Doorbell Agendas

2007-03-27T13:55:00.000-07:00

There are some nuns, the Visitation Sisters (or the "Nuns in the 'Hood" as many call them) that live in north Minneapolis. They are by far one of the clearest examples of the incarnation of Jesus Christ that I have yet to experience. They have "lived Jesus" (their words) in a notorious part of north Minneapolis for 17 years. They have fed their hungry neighbors, handed out bus tokens when they had them, provided curbside death-knell prayers to dying gang members, taught English, taught Spanish, taught music, and taught God's love.

They are artisans of God's grace and His manifest mercy and justice. And like the humblest of artisans, they can't even see their own brilliance. But it is unmistakable. Being around such radiant lovers of the "least of these" always provides yet more inspiring but almost-impossible challenges to how I "live Jesus." The latest challenge to my overly-scheduled life: doorbell agendas.

A doorbell agenda is NOT a strategic plan, a formula, a ministry method. It is a way of life that they model. It is waking up in the morning and humbly kneeling before the Father and saying, ""Morning Lord. I have things on my calendar today, things I want to do, things I need to do. But I submit to Your will, and when that doorbell rings and someone is standing outside my door with a need or hurt, give me the strength to be Jesus to them."

A doorbell agenda really threatens my efficiency and productivity paradigms, my plans, MY agenda. Living Jesus really is a threat to living ME.

The Lawless

2007-03-23T11:57:00.000-07:00

"Lawless." For me the word conjures up wild west images of grizzled outlaws, gunslingers, riding furiously through canyon lands trying to evade "the good guys." Guns blaze, but to no avail. The good guys always get their man.

Then another image of a lawless man is flipping the script for me on what "lawless" might be all about. Check out this passage in Luke 22, Jesus reciting a prophecy (from the prophet Isaiah) about himself: "For I tell you, this scripture must be fulfilled in me, 'And he was counted among the lawless'; and indeed what is written about me is being fulfilled.'" (v. 37, NRSV). The translators of the NRSV chose to use the word "lawless" (other translations say "transgressors" or "rebels"). Ten verses later we find a posse of the "good guys" armed with swords and clubs (see Matthew 26) hunting down our Lawless Lord under the cover of darkness, led by one of his own, Judas. Within a day or two the Lawless Turner of Temple Tables was hung to die between two other Lawless thugs.

Jesus the Law Abiding Citizen...where do we get THAT image? They killed him because He was a threat to the profits and security of the elite, status yielded by the adulterous relations between Temple and State (Rome), NOT because He was a good citizen.

Two other lawless "thugs" made the news last week: Eugene and Lorenzo were shot dead, their bodies were found in the basement of their place in north Minneapolis. The news reported (or implied) the all-too-usual incriminating stuff: "A significant amount of cocaine was found at the crime scene, and several witnesses had drugs on them. The reason for the killings has yet to be determined, but police don't believe it was random." A drug deal gone wrong? Payback?We may never know. You got to admit...the evidence of ciminal apptitudes definitely tempers any swells of compassion. "Justice" or "just desserts"? I can't speak for you, but my heart of darkness whispers these questions...

But I hear other whispers, too: "Jesus was counted among the lawless. What do you do with that?" Jesus, Eugene, and Lorenzo. The criminal element, enemies of the state. I have a hard time reconciling the Lord Jesus with the lawlessness of Eugene and Lorenzo. But in the end, Jesus died like a criminal, like a thug, between two other thugs. Jesus laying on the floor of a dingy basement with a bullet-hole in His head. NOT how I picture the Lord. Maybe seeing their friend on the Roman wood was as shocking and vulgar to Jesus' followers?

So, what would it mean for us, as Followers of the Lawless One, to be "counted among the lawless?" And would be our demise?

"Walk in my shoes for a mile or two and you'll see...." [Benjamin W., Phillips neighborhood]

2007-03-09T15:17:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, out of the blue, I saw a poster up on the street for the Dakota Commemorative March. It said that many Dakota American Indians would be re-walking the 150 mile stretch where their relatives were force-marched by the US military in 1862 - many of them to their deaths. I felt this would be a great opportunity to literally "walk in their shoes" and spend prolonged time in their company to hear their stories. I didn't know if any other white people would be there, but I decided to go anyway.

Late on the evening of November 9th, a friend dropped me off in the small farming town of Mankota in southwestern Minnesota. I cautiously entered the church where the walkers were supposed to be staying. All I saw in the darkened church basement were masses of dark forms strewn all over the floor and couches, and the faint sound of snoring. I quietly laid out my sleeping bag and tried to sleep, unsure of what to expect the next morning!

At 5:00am the lights were flipped on and a booming voice shouted cheerfully for everyone to wake up. The whole floor of the basement started moving. People of every age and size started to rise and prepare to walk for another 20 miles before dinner - from young children to elderly men and women. I tried to follow the crowd and get a feel for what I was supposed to do. At some point someone yelled and everyone ran to the windows - 5 inches of fresh snow lay on the ground and it was still falling fast. "Looks like we'll have to walk in the snow - anyone need an extra pair of socks?" someone said. A makeshift medical station was set up where people's bruised and blistered feet were treated with ointment and moleskine to help the pain. (At the point where I joined them, they had already been walking almost 20 miles a day for three days.) After a quick prayer and song in Dakota and a light breakfast of dried meat, dried fruit, and hard boiled eggs, we began to walk.

The procession was always led by a medicine woman out in front carrying the traditional medicine bag. A few paces behind her were the relatives of the Dakotas that marched in 1862 carrying large decorated staffs to represent their different bands. Behind them came all the rest of the walkers including myself, followed by a long trail of support cars crawling along at walking speed. The lead car had a loudspeaker that played traditional Dakota drum and chant music. The caboose for this crazy, yet somber parade was a heated trailer with restrooms. At each mile post marker on the highway we would stop and pound in a wooden stake with two of the family names of the origional walkers on it. Then we each took turns sprinkling tobacco on it as a way of remembering and honoring their legacy.By 11:00am, my feet hurt, my calves hurt, my butt hurt, and my back hurt. Then I looked at the 50 year old man marching beside me with a smile on his face and kept going. A man called Bear kept reminding everyone, saying "many of our ancestors didn't have shoes when they marched, and they didn't even get to sleep! Remeber that when your feet start to hurt." Wise words.

A young single mother let me push her daughter's stroller the last 4 miles of the day when the side of the road became muddy and almost impossible to push the stroller through. As I labored to keep up with the rest of the group with my new burden, I was struck by the irony and the beauty of what was happening – it was as if this woman had given me the opportunity to share in her trouble, and in a way, to share in the trouble of her people. I pushed that stroller with all the might and care that I could, as if baby Jesus himself were riding in it.

We arrive at Henderson, MN (pop. 910) at about 4:00pm to end the day's march. It was the wierdest feeling to walk down main street and see the locals peering through shutters of shop windows and standing in doorways, all staring in silence as this crazy band of American Indians proudly marched through their town to the beat of drums. It felt eerily unwelcoming, as if the townspeople at that moment were stuffing down the realization that their land used to rightfully belong to these marchers. The man walking next to me whispered unmenacingly to himself as if to respond to their silence, "that's right, we're still here."

The local charter school floor was to be our home for the night, and the staff was very welcoming. I ended up having to leave that night to come back to Minneapolis for orientation at my new job, but I later found out that the marchers had been badly harrassed at the school that night by some townspeople, and some of the leaders had to be taken to the police station for protective measures. That made me very, very sad.

All in all, I feel I am a very lucky man to have joined these people in their march of rememberance. I was blessed by their willingness to let me share in their suffering, and to consider me one of their own as we marched. I have experienced in a very small way what it means to be a native in this modern world, and it breaks my heart.

Full house @ 2902 Tutoring! [Katy R., Hawthorne neighborhood]

2007-03-08T12:05:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago, we had quite the blow. We had kids who refused to participate and, as hard as it was, we stuck to the rules. we had 5-6 kids go home instead of participating in a writing exercise. i was very very sad. After they left, I was helping one of our kindergarteners, Jaytwana. As she sloooooowly wrote her name on the top of the page i just put my head down. She asked if i was tired and i told her no, i was just sad that so many kids had left. in her cute little 6 year old voice she told me that she was sad too but she was still here. melt my heart! Everyone told me they would come back but it was just hard.

In light of this not so fun night we decided to make a few changes. We instituted a call&response for when we need everyone's attention right away. Krisitin allowed the kids to pick their own and, after voting, we settled on "North" followed by "Side". they love it. we are still working on the silence after the call but it'll come. We also got a white board to write the night's schedule on. This way the kids know the different rewards and activities that follow the dreaded homework time and how long everything will last.

Yesterday was a whole different ball game. We had SO many kids, 11 but it felt like sooo many more. Thankfully, Stacy's roomie, Amber, got her trial-by-fire last night. She was great and jumped right in where we needed her. The posted schedule helped keep the kids on task and things seemed to go pretty well. At the very end Kristin asked one boy to leave for pushing another kid. All the kids were just floored and i think it drove home the point that there are standards for conduct at tutoring. He's a great (and i do mean great) kid and i know he will be back next week.

The way tutoring looks is changing dramatically from how it was this fall. We have more kids, a wider age spectrum, and more kids who lack the perfect manners of our first students. We continue to teak 2902 Tutoring as we need it. One of our biggest needs right now is more space. We have been doing homework at our dinning room table and our living room coffee table. With almost everyone crammed around the table it can get quite loud. We need another place to put our little homework-doers. Kristin believes she will be able to get a fold out table from her parents' house. However, we are wondering if Urban Homeworks has any connections we could use to get some free folding chairs that we can pull out as needed! I think another table will really help to keep a lid on things and allow the tutors to be more effective!

Welcome to Our Whirled

2007-03-08T10:25:00.000-08:00

There are seemingly parallel existences in our society, worlds that pass close to each other, but don't always intersect.

The people in One World sojourn on I-35 and I-94 and other causeways, strapped into their rides as they rocket by and above the Other world, destined for somewhere important. On time, ordered, mobile, and seeking even more upward mobility. The good life is predictable, clean, scheduled, self-reliant. Cash is king. The Good Life is having. iLife. One World is middle America.

The Other World is different, it is the Other America. Chaos sabotages predictability. Hand-me-down cars, hand-me-down schools, too many stores selling hand-me-down One World clothes. People renting hand-me-down homes, owned by The Landlord (who lives somewhere in One World). Survival is king. The Good Life is making ends meet. Other world is poor America.

And then there is Our Whirled. It is not as much a place as it something that is happening to us. Our Whirled is where we One Worlders end up when the King of Kings invites us to a Least of These Party with His friends Montrey, Homeless Larry, and Candy the Single Mom Sometimes Hooker. One World is our roots, it runs deep in our blood, but it feels more like a funeral than a Party. Less of a departure than an arrival. New Other World friends introduce us to their people: Harsh Reality, Keepin' On, and Laughter. We are confused, mystified, and...changed. Other World is not entirely Home, but no longer is One World either.

Welcome to Our Whirled...