Session 2

Cockroaches, Conversation and Collectors: Inside the SROs - Noise

 

There is in me a longing to be real, to be authentic, to be a clear reflection of what my heart holds at its deepest levels. It is a goal that the gospel steadfastly holds up as an invitation to me, to the church. It is when the church em­braces the gospel selflessly that it bears the heart of God and becomes real to the world. And when it is real, the church makes God believable. Page 5

 

Like the dirt and concrete pockets under the Portland bridges or the recessed doorways on Skid Row, these rooms are the nooks and crannies of the city’s poor and near homeless, and frequently, they are the spawning grounds of paralyzing feelings of separation and loneliness. Paradoxically, the darkness of such places is light for the church, because there the church is invited and challenged to claim what is best in itself – the ability to love compassionately, to serve unselfishly, to profess and speak to what is truthful. Page 6

 

Such conversations take place in the confines of these obscure little rooms. These encounters are the essence of the ministry of presence. In the midst of one‑way conversations, I am communicating all the time. I try to affirm this human being, so lost in his own world of memories, bitter and sweet. I could try to preach religion to the shut‑in, but it would be like talking about high‑speed particle physics. And even if I did, he or she would, one way or another, show me to the door. Page 7

 

Things give meaning to the lives of people who are deprived of authentic human contact. It is not necessarily a quirk of the poor: the millionaire builds an ostentatious house; the CEO wears a Rolex; the politician has a few people in his pocket; the dictator has his disposable private army; the preacher surrounds herself with unread theology books. Collecting things fills gaps in our hearts and gives expression to an internalized deprivation from the past. Page 16

 

Ronald

During one visit we asked Ronald if we could have a small celebration for his birthday and my birthday, both of which had occurred a few weeks earlier. We would bring the cake. “Yes, that would be fine,” he said.

But we weren’t sure he would be in his room when we came; sometimes he forgot about our visits and went out for a walk and a smoke.

But we lucked out; Ronald was in. Was he ever. There he stood, ready as a sentinel, his good eye gleaming back at us, dressed for tile occasion in a brilliant red polo shirt and wearing an understated smile that betrayed his excitement. Pushed up against the window, which overlooked Burnside Avenue, was his table, set with shiny red plastic dishes, knives, forks, paper cups, and white napkins. The napkins, on closer inspection, turned out to be neatly folded toilet paper.

Somewhere in his hotel he had dug up two extra chairs. He had pent his limited allowance (a local mental health agency was his payee) not only on the tableware. He had also splurged on a quart of chocolate ice cream, two huge bottles of root beer and cream soda, and three chocolate muffins. Between Melissa’s cake, Ronald’s chunky muffins, the ice cream, the soda pop, and some Killer whipped cream, we stuffed ourselves silly.

It was the party of the century. We were in the presence of unyielding simplicity and care. He who had so little was giving us a lesson in how to give, and with not one hint of self‑absorption. He, was loving us in the best way he could. Page 17f.

 

One morning I received the phone call from the nursing home Ronald had died in the night.  That night, after the smoke from the day had cleared, I prayed in the Chapel for him commending him to God and giving thanks for the blessing of his life. Ronald touched my heart because he would not allow my sophistication to impede his truth and goodness.

No, it was to shame the wise that God chose what is foolish by human reckoning…; those whom the world thinks common and contemptible are the ones that God has chosen – those who are nothing at all to show up those who are everything. I Corinthians 1:27‑28 Page 18f.

 

What is it that eats away at me at this residence? It is the vulnerability and emotional nakedness of those who live out their lives here, sick and lonely, most out of hinge with life and society around them. They have few visitors, if any. In most cases, they have no family, and if they do have a family, it has probably dumped this member like an old book or an inconvenient memory. Being in this hotel is like being in a ward of orphaned babies; it is an environment of deprivation, with bleak prospects for the future. Coming here, notwithstanding my love for Robbie, is like a blow to the gut.

And yet each one of these people had a momma, and each presumably has a life story. But there is no one to whom they can tell the story, no one to carefully listen. How did this young man in front of Robbie and me, staring out the window, get here? Did that catatonic woman in front of the TV have any children? And the striking white‑haired fellow, there, in the corner of the smoking room, does he have a family? Did he play ball and make love and throw rocks into the ocean? Did all at one time live with the hope that they might have what society judges to be most important and desirable in life: joy, love, a home, a good reputation, security in the world, and children to cherish their memory? Page 22f.