Last night I drove south on G Street as I have done many times in the past. I've had the privilege of taking part in programs that minister to homeless men at the Fresno Rescue Mission located on G Street, just south of Ventura. It is the Rescue Mission that has most often drawn me to what is for most Fresno residents a VERY undesirable part of town - to say the least.
However, it wasn't the Fresno Rescue Mission that called me to drive to the dark, filthy, drug infested neighborhood that is G Street - it was my son. My oldest son is home from prison on parole. Well, he's not actually at home since the great California Parole System in their wisdom have decided my son shouldn't be around my daughter - who also lives at home. I won't even discuss the rationale behind their decision, as it is in fact irrational, but it is what it is. So, in order to deliver a few bags of groceries to my son I drove past the rescue mission, past too many to count shopping carts, and past the little village known as "tent city" - homes built out of camping tents, garbage bags, and building scraps. Finally I arrived at the small, roach infested motel that the State of California has demanded my son call home for now.
The room my son is living in was everything I expected it would be. There was a bed to the left and a worn, splintering cabinet on the right that cradled a barely working television set with a 15 inch screen. My son pulled back the covers on the bed to reveal holes in the bottom sheet that appeared to have been put there by repeated stabbings from a knife of some sort.
Where is the hope? A newly paroled young man who wants to turn his life around is put in the darkest part of town, surrounded by drug addicts, alcoholics, and the mentally deranged. He is forced to spend at least 14 hours a day in this place and is expected to find a job, stay out of trouble, and find reasons to believe in himself and to have hope.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Another First
There's nothing like the feeling of a "first". There many firsts in life - the first day of school, first kiss, first new home, the birth of the first child.
Some firsts are not nearly as pleasant - the first breakup, the first major illness, the first visit to a dentist. I've survived my first car accident, my first surgery, my first trip in an ambulance, and my first house fire. Last week I experienced another "first".
Last week I traveled to the bustling metropolis of Wasco, California. I ventured out to this small dot of a town just Northwest of Bakersfield for the very same reason most people "visit" Wasco - to see a loved one who is incarcerated in Wasco State Prison. The first thing you notice as you turn left off of Highway 46 onto the prison property is how very familiar everything looks. Not the same kind of familiarity one has with a place they've been before, but rather it is seeing for the first time something up close and personal that you've only seen in films or television dramas. Yes, prisons really are surrounded by tall fences topped with rolled barbed wire. Yes, there really are tall towers standing in the center and on all four corners of the prison yard from which armed officers keep an eagle eye out for the first hint of trouble.
I had received a list of clothing items I COULD NOT wear onto the prison grounds and I went through three or four outfits at home before feeling confident that I wouldn't be denied a visit because of a clothing infraction. I couldn't wear anything that was made of denim and I couldn't wear any shade of blue. If I wore a skirt it had to be a certain length and could not have a slit. I couldn't wear a bra that contained any form of under wire or any metal at all. Upon entering the prison I could keep with me just two keys, my ID, and $30 in one dollar bills and/or quarters only.
My visit lasted just one hour and just like in the County Jail, there was a piece of glass between me and my son. I sat in the booth that had been assigned me and looked into the handsome young face of my 21-year old son....a felon. From the moment he was born I called my son, "Angel Face" and when I looked into his sad yet courageous blue eyes, I saw my baby.
Another first.
Some firsts are not nearly as pleasant - the first breakup, the first major illness, the first visit to a dentist. I've survived my first car accident, my first surgery, my first trip in an ambulance, and my first house fire. Last week I experienced another "first".
Last week I traveled to the bustling metropolis of Wasco, California. I ventured out to this small dot of a town just Northwest of Bakersfield for the very same reason most people "visit" Wasco - to see a loved one who is incarcerated in Wasco State Prison. The first thing you notice as you turn left off of Highway 46 onto the prison property is how very familiar everything looks. Not the same kind of familiarity one has with a place they've been before, but rather it is seeing for the first time something up close and personal that you've only seen in films or television dramas. Yes, prisons really are surrounded by tall fences topped with rolled barbed wire. Yes, there really are tall towers standing in the center and on all four corners of the prison yard from which armed officers keep an eagle eye out for the first hint of trouble.
I had received a list of clothing items I COULD NOT wear onto the prison grounds and I went through three or four outfits at home before feeling confident that I wouldn't be denied a visit because of a clothing infraction. I couldn't wear anything that was made of denim and I couldn't wear any shade of blue. If I wore a skirt it had to be a certain length and could not have a slit. I couldn't wear a bra that contained any form of under wire or any metal at all. Upon entering the prison I could keep with me just two keys, my ID, and $30 in one dollar bills and/or quarters only.
My visit lasted just one hour and just like in the County Jail, there was a piece of glass between me and my son. I sat in the booth that had been assigned me and looked into the handsome young face of my 21-year old son....a felon. From the moment he was born I called my son, "Angel Face" and when I looked into his sad yet courageous blue eyes, I saw my baby.
Another first.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Winter Growth
It's a yearly ritual. Sometime in late October or early November I cut the lawn in both the front and back yards down as low as the blade on the lawn mower will cut. I then aerate the yard with a chunky garden rake and I throw out the rye grass seed and the fertilizer. In no time at all the yard has a fresh carpet of deep green grass and even though I could take a break from yard work if I didn't plant the rye grass, I choose instead to plant.
I performed this yearly ritual two weeks ago and my neighbor wandered out of his home and over into my yard - presumably just to chat. "You aren't planting rye grass, are ya?” he asked. "I sure am!" I responded. "Better you than me" he said shaking his head as if exhausted.
So, why do I plant the rye grass? Is it because I am just vain enough to want my yard to look good all year long? No...that's not it. I've experienced a lot of winters in my life - seasons that have been cold and lonely. In fact, it seems that I've been in a cold and dormant season for a particularly long time. I look for hope, however - small patches of green that tell me even in the winters of life, there can still be growth. The rye grass gives me hope and reminds me that no matter how dark the day is, there is life and there is tomorrow.
I performed this yearly ritual two weeks ago and my neighbor wandered out of his home and over into my yard - presumably just to chat. "You aren't planting rye grass, are ya?” he asked. "I sure am!" I responded. "Better you than me" he said shaking his head as if exhausted.
So, why do I plant the rye grass? Is it because I am just vain enough to want my yard to look good all year long? No...that's not it. I've experienced a lot of winters in my life - seasons that have been cold and lonely. In fact, it seems that I've been in a cold and dormant season for a particularly long time. I look for hope, however - small patches of green that tell me even in the winters of life, there can still be growth. The rye grass gives me hope and reminds me that no matter how dark the day is, there is life and there is tomorrow.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Jail Visiting Rooms
There are places most of us will never see or visit, but rather our perceptions of said places are formed by their depictions in film, television, or news clips. Those places include the county morgue, a hospital emergency room, a police interrogation room, or the visiting area of the county jail. We've all seen movies which shows the angry wife, the urgent lawyer, the partner in crime, or the frightened child walking into the jail visiting room, sitting down on the cold stainless-steel stool and picking up the phone. We've been the fly on the wall as the red jumpsuit-clad criminal enters the cold hallway on the other side of the glass, picks up his own phone receiver and the conversation begins. No matter how many times I saw that visiting room scenario played out on the big or small screen, nothing prepared me for the flood of emotions that overwhelmed me the first time it was me picking up the phone to talk to my frightened 20 year old son on the other side of that glass.
As the months wore on my weekly visits to the county jail to visit my son got easier. We often laughed, talked easily, and we shared mundane details about our daily routines. He told me about the latest book he was reading and I told him about whatever triumphs and frustrations my day at work had brought (I teach drama to elementary age kids). The weekly visits to my son, however, soon became about more than him and me. I began to watch and learn from the other visitors whose loved ones were on the other side of the glass.
I saw moms and dads hold one another's hands as they encouraged their barely 18-year old sons. I watched as young mothers held their toddlers up to the window so they could see their daddy and so young men could say "I love you" to their confused sons. I was choked with emotion when a handsome young man on the wrong side of the glass was unable to hold back the tears when his small daughter said, "I miss you Daddy" into the mouth of the black receiver. I saw a middle-aged woman, dressed in a green inmate jumpsuit put her hand on the glass and her 20-something year old daughter pressed her hand into the glass and said, "I'm here for you Mom." I have listened to the soft muffled cries of a hurting mother as she stands in the visiting room, unable to move until her son disappears from sight and the heavy door slams shut behind him. In that cold, sterile visiting room we are all the same - mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, and friends. In that place we are all equal, despite our differences - different nationalities, religions, economic stations, and education experiences. We represent broken homes, intact families, dark secrets, happy lives, successes and failures. In that room we are all doing the same things at the same time with the same heart. We are connecting, hoping, sharing, forgetting, encouraging....loving.
I may not ever speak a word to one single person with whom I share that visiting room for 30 minutes every week, but each mom, wife, sister, son, daughter, father, brother, and friend who stands on the "right" side of the glass touches my heart. For 30 minutes a week we are all equal.
As the months wore on my weekly visits to the county jail to visit my son got easier. We often laughed, talked easily, and we shared mundane details about our daily routines. He told me about the latest book he was reading and I told him about whatever triumphs and frustrations my day at work had brought (I teach drama to elementary age kids). The weekly visits to my son, however, soon became about more than him and me. I began to watch and learn from the other visitors whose loved ones were on the other side of the glass.
I saw moms and dads hold one another's hands as they encouraged their barely 18-year old sons. I watched as young mothers held their toddlers up to the window so they could see their daddy and so young men could say "I love you" to their confused sons. I was choked with emotion when a handsome young man on the wrong side of the glass was unable to hold back the tears when his small daughter said, "I miss you Daddy" into the mouth of the black receiver. I saw a middle-aged woman, dressed in a green inmate jumpsuit put her hand on the glass and her 20-something year old daughter pressed her hand into the glass and said, "I'm here for you Mom." I have listened to the soft muffled cries of a hurting mother as she stands in the visiting room, unable to move until her son disappears from sight and the heavy door slams shut behind him. In that cold, sterile visiting room we are all the same - mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, and friends. In that place we are all equal, despite our differences - different nationalities, religions, economic stations, and education experiences. We represent broken homes, intact families, dark secrets, happy lives, successes and failures. In that room we are all doing the same things at the same time with the same heart. We are connecting, hoping, sharing, forgetting, encouraging....loving.
I may not ever speak a word to one single person with whom I share that visiting room for 30 minutes every week, but each mom, wife, sister, son, daughter, father, brother, and friend who stands on the "right" side of the glass touches my heart. For 30 minutes a week we are all equal.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
A Magical Place
I know many people who live in a very happy place – a place where there are few challenges, where children are well behaved, where living is simple and carefree…a place where life is downright blissful. On occasion I have visited this magical land and I therefore know it exists. But, I never stay long enough and I always end up back home. This delightful and enchanting land is called, “Denial”.
My own visits to Denial have varied in length and my reasons for taking those trips are as numerous as the trips themselves. When I was younger I went in search of fantasy and fairytales and because I grew up believing in both, I had to be sure I left no stone unturned in my quest. Other trips were motivated by less joyous passions – fear, sadness, weariness, loss, and more often then not – selfishness. However, I always come home.
The residents of Denial always seem to be at peace. They whistle happily and say things like, “my children have NEVER given me one ounce of trouble and are smart, talented, and beautiful”, or, “my husband has never said a harsh word and treats me like a queen every moment of every day”, or, “I’m the perfect best friend and I’ve never let anyone down”. They are experts at pointing fingers, they don’t struggle under the burden of personal responsibility, and they seem to never experience shame or guilt. Who wouldn’t want to live in such a place?
A mother recently left a message on my phone telling me all the reasons her daughter’s bad choices were my fault and the fault of my children. My husband and I had made a choice in regards to our daughter and this mother wasn’t happy with our choice and said to me via the phone message, “you’re making my life hard”. I had a best friend who witnessed another friend pummel me with a torrent of judgment and lies. Instead of standing up for me, she took a long trip to Denial and settled in for a nice quiet vacation with the pummeling friend. Long stays in Denial change people and I lost my best friend.
Maybe I need a change. Maybe it’s time I pack my bags and move to Denial for good. The population in that spell-binding place is high, but I bet there’s room for one more!
My own visits to Denial have varied in length and my reasons for taking those trips are as numerous as the trips themselves. When I was younger I went in search of fantasy and fairytales and because I grew up believing in both, I had to be sure I left no stone unturned in my quest. Other trips were motivated by less joyous passions – fear, sadness, weariness, loss, and more often then not – selfishness. However, I always come home.
The residents of Denial always seem to be at peace. They whistle happily and say things like, “my children have NEVER given me one ounce of trouble and are smart, talented, and beautiful”, or, “my husband has never said a harsh word and treats me like a queen every moment of every day”, or, “I’m the perfect best friend and I’ve never let anyone down”. They are experts at pointing fingers, they don’t struggle under the burden of personal responsibility, and they seem to never experience shame or guilt. Who wouldn’t want to live in such a place?
A mother recently left a message on my phone telling me all the reasons her daughter’s bad choices were my fault and the fault of my children. My husband and I had made a choice in regards to our daughter and this mother wasn’t happy with our choice and said to me via the phone message, “you’re making my life hard”. I had a best friend who witnessed another friend pummel me with a torrent of judgment and lies. Instead of standing up for me, she took a long trip to Denial and settled in for a nice quiet vacation with the pummeling friend. Long stays in Denial change people and I lost my best friend.
Maybe I need a change. Maybe it’s time I pack my bags and move to Denial for good. The population in that spell-binding place is high, but I bet there’s room for one more!
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
I Miss My Rats
So...the past few years have been very, very hard. Actually, "hard" doesn't even begin to describe the angst, frustration, pain, fear, tears, and loss. The last few years have quite simply sucked!
Through it all a few well-meaning folks have begged the question, "So Liz, what are you doing for yourself?" Well...um...for myself...uh... What does one do when doing "something" for oneself?
I've learned a lot about myself over the past few years. I now have a much longer list of things I know I do not enjoy. I do NOT enjoy manicures, sitting for long periods of time sipping coffee and watching the Tower Rats scurry about (more on Tower Rats later), sitting in a darkened theatre watching a scary movie alone with twenty two strangers, having my hair done, shopping alone, or buying make-up! What I most enjoy "doing for myself" is spending time with friends - watching a rented movie, enjoying a good play, driving up the coast, walking on the beach, playing in the snow, talking on the phone, playing a board game, or putting on a show (even the rehearsals bring me joy!). What do I want to do for myself? I want to be surrounded by the people I love the most, trust the deepest, adore completely, admire greatly, and who make me laugh. Relationships bring me joy!
We've lost all the relationships that matter most to us (except for a few extra special family members). The experience of a crisis (or one crisis after another) always brings out the best and worst in people, and believe me, we saw the worst of the worst! All of our energies went into saving the lives of our children and when you don't invest in relationships there is no return. So, some people gave up on us because we weren't available to them anymore. Sadly, we had to turn our backs on some friends and family because having them in our life brought more toxins than healing balms. Relationships bring me joy and right now I am relationship poor and most definitely JOY poor!
Now...the Tower Rats. Every town has one - the neighborhood that boasts the most of everything - art energy, eclectic citizens, interesting architecture, surprisingly good restaurants, great theatre, and colorful characters. In Fresno that neighborhood is called, "The Tower District" because the focal point of the neighborhood is a very old movie theatre/entertainment venue called "The Tower Theatre". The gyspyskirt-wearin', dreadlocks-adorned, skateboard-ridin', don't-need-no-job-to-tie-me-down characters that walk the streets of the neighborhood and hang out in the coffee houses are called "Tower Rats". I envy them. They have each other - in good times, in bad, in joy, in sorrow - they are ever supportive and ever loving towards one another.
The one solitary activity that I do love is reading a good book while sitting in one of the comfy chairs at Barnes and Noble, surrounded by the smell of new books and good coffee. Happily, I still have Barnes and Noble (or Borders when I want to feel old). But I miss knowing that today will bring a welcome phone call, an unexpected coffee for two, a surprise invitation to lunch, or a bit of creative sparring with the creative team I so dearly loved. But mostly, I miss my Rats! :)
Through it all a few well-meaning folks have begged the question, "So Liz, what are you doing for yourself?" Well...um...for myself...uh... What does one do when doing "something" for oneself?
I've learned a lot about myself over the past few years. I now have a much longer list of things I know I do not enjoy. I do NOT enjoy manicures, sitting for long periods of time sipping coffee and watching the Tower Rats scurry about (more on Tower Rats later), sitting in a darkened theatre watching a scary movie alone with twenty two strangers, having my hair done, shopping alone, or buying make-up! What I most enjoy "doing for myself" is spending time with friends - watching a rented movie, enjoying a good play, driving up the coast, walking on the beach, playing in the snow, talking on the phone, playing a board game, or putting on a show (even the rehearsals bring me joy!). What do I want to do for myself? I want to be surrounded by the people I love the most, trust the deepest, adore completely, admire greatly, and who make me laugh. Relationships bring me joy!
We've lost all the relationships that matter most to us (except for a few extra special family members). The experience of a crisis (or one crisis after another) always brings out the best and worst in people, and believe me, we saw the worst of the worst! All of our energies went into saving the lives of our children and when you don't invest in relationships there is no return. So, some people gave up on us because we weren't available to them anymore. Sadly, we had to turn our backs on some friends and family because having them in our life brought more toxins than healing balms. Relationships bring me joy and right now I am relationship poor and most definitely JOY poor!
Now...the Tower Rats. Every town has one - the neighborhood that boasts the most of everything - art energy, eclectic citizens, interesting architecture, surprisingly good restaurants, great theatre, and colorful characters. In Fresno that neighborhood is called, "The Tower District" because the focal point of the neighborhood is a very old movie theatre/entertainment venue called "The Tower Theatre". The gyspyskirt-wearin', dreadlocks-adorned, skateboard-ridin', don't-need-no-job-to-tie-me-down characters that walk the streets of the neighborhood and hang out in the coffee houses are called "Tower Rats". I envy them. They have each other - in good times, in bad, in joy, in sorrow - they are ever supportive and ever loving towards one another.
The one solitary activity that I do love is reading a good book while sitting in one of the comfy chairs at Barnes and Noble, surrounded by the smell of new books and good coffee. Happily, I still have Barnes and Noble (or Borders when I want to feel old). But I miss knowing that today will bring a welcome phone call, an unexpected coffee for two, a surprise invitation to lunch, or a bit of creative sparring with the creative team I so dearly loved. But mostly, I miss my Rats! :)
Friday, June 2, 2006
WWJD?
"What would Jesus do?" This has become a pop culture mantra among Christians and the letters WWJD can now be found adorning oh-so-attractive and must have art, jewelry, book marks, bumper stickers, and t-shirts. I must ask....do we really, really care about what Jesus would do?
I have heard the question, "What would Jesus do?" asked of very small children misbehaving in the supermarket. "Now Timmy, you are acting naughty. Tell me, what would Jesus do if his mommy asked him to stop whining?" Timmy's little tear stained face would get a sheepish grin across his little boy mouth and he would quietly say, "Jesus would stop whining". "You are mommy's good little boy." Pulleeez!!!
Would Jesus make excuses for not confronting a friend who is making bad choices? "I don't feel that the Holy Spirit has given me permission to address that issue right now. The timing just isn't right." Would Jesus tell a child he was no longer welcome to come to church? "You are too hard. I've given you chance after chance, but I just don't want you here anymore."
It makes me crazy when people use something Jesus did as an example for why they are doing something. One that I have been confronted with often is the fact that Jesus called twelve men out of non-ministry type jobs and made them His disciples. People claim they have been "called" and then they find some church who will hire them to be their Junior High School Pastor despite the fact that the week before they were a truck driver. Well...what would Jesus do?
Yes...it's true...Jesus called working men into His ministry. However, let's not forget that after calling those men He taught those men twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty five days a year, for three years before putting them to work. When God calls us, He calls us to excellence and He calls us to education.
Do we want to give God our very BEST? Hmmm....what would Jesus do?
I have heard the question, "What would Jesus do?" asked of very small children misbehaving in the supermarket. "Now Timmy, you are acting naughty. Tell me, what would Jesus do if his mommy asked him to stop whining?" Timmy's little tear stained face would get a sheepish grin across his little boy mouth and he would quietly say, "Jesus would stop whining". "You are mommy's good little boy." Pulleeez!!!
Would Jesus make excuses for not confronting a friend who is making bad choices? "I don't feel that the Holy Spirit has given me permission to address that issue right now. The timing just isn't right." Would Jesus tell a child he was no longer welcome to come to church? "You are too hard. I've given you chance after chance, but I just don't want you here anymore."
It makes me crazy when people use something Jesus did as an example for why they are doing something. One that I have been confronted with often is the fact that Jesus called twelve men out of non-ministry type jobs and made them His disciples. People claim they have been "called" and then they find some church who will hire them to be their Junior High School Pastor despite the fact that the week before they were a truck driver. Well...what would Jesus do?
Yes...it's true...Jesus called working men into His ministry. However, let's not forget that after calling those men He taught those men twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty five days a year, for three years before putting them to work. When God calls us, He calls us to excellence and He calls us to education.
Do we want to give God our very BEST? Hmmm....what would Jesus do?
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