The guy was talking about areas, maybe territory. He said that they should come with the group, and the kids said no, they were going home. Then the guy informed them that if they didn’t come, they wouldn’t be under his protection. Something might happen to them.

It’s not like I thought it would be easy. It’s one thing for me to know that, and another to feel it in my gut. I’m praying for guidance as we walk through this. Praying for the loving path to become clear.

Last night we walked a few blocks through our neighborhood to go to the kinda-monthly meeting of the Neighborhood Association. As we approached the street that leads into the neighborhood, we saw a group of young people. I said to Tracy, “Better call the cops.” This, you might have guessed, was a joke. Let me explain.

See, last month at the Blockwatch meeting, we (PineHillians? Pineys? P-Hillz?)… we were told that if we see a group of more than about 4-5 young people, we should call the police. Yes, indeed. We must call the police and report suspicious activity.

As we got close to the kids, and approached them, I noticed a little one in a stroller. (A teen-age-type was pushing.) One of the kids said to us, “Don’t worry. We ain’t goin’ rob you.” Then another said, “Naw, they trick-or-treating!” Which was funny, because I’d said to Tracy just before that the weather & the time of day & the neighborhood reminded me of Halloween as a girl.

Anyway, we smiled & said hello, and kept going. I considered asking if they were all right, because I could sense some agitation. I could also see some people in the distance ahead blocking the sidewalk. Was there conflict? But they didn’t seem to want our involvement. So, on we went.

Uh oh. There’s more.

Half a block later, we ran into the other group we’d seen. This time it was our neighbor, Blockwatch Guy, and a couple of security guards. (I’d have called the police, but there were only three of them. Besides, they said the police were on the way.)

I think because we appeared to him to be Us and not Them, the Blockwatch guy was friendly, and told us all about the problem. The kids were congregating at the corner store, and they needed to go. He was there to make sure they went, and didn’t come back. His demeanor was… well, let’s just say he’s made it known that he carries a weapon, and he’s not afraid to use it. It was not a posture of humility.

It made me wonder. Where are these kids supposed to hang out? There’s no “official” places, “acceptable” places, except inside the homes in the neighborhood. I can think of a zillion reasons a teen might not want to be hanging out inside their house on the first spring-like evening after months of cold and gray. Stale odors, abusive parents, boring parents, no space to move…

Tracy and I started to continue on, talking about the experience. Soon, we realized we did want to go back and see how the kids were doing. But by this time they’d left.

Neighborhood Association isn’t for “neighbors”

Pine Hills is laid out pretty clearly. It’s roughly between a rectangle and a football, bordered by a thoroughfare on the north, a creek (that I love) to the west, and freeways to the east and south. It’s easy to guess where the borders are, but if you did, you’d be wrong. The borders of the official neighborhood are drawn with all sorts of angles, to exclude all those folks in apartments. When I look at those borders, my heart breaks.

According to the census data, there are way more apartments than the 550 houses the neighborhood association includes in its boundaries. Wonder if that’s why we exclude them? We do it, not just by declaring them somehow “not part” of the neighborhood association. But also by taking an Us/Them posture at the corner store, on the playground, on the street…

What would happen if, as a start, we considered the whole neighborhood, invited folks from the apartments to meetings, hung out with the young people we run across on the streets?

Just call me Polly Anna.

So then I got this idea…

Well, actually, I’ve been really at a loss. We left our ministry in Eugene, and have been waiting, watching, walking, looking for where the path leads from here. Winter is a slow time in Columbus, and it makes sense that we’ve spent a bunch of time in quiet waiting. And it makes sense that with the first green shoots of spring (like the ones in our yard, which cheered me greatly!) — with spring, we would find ourselves breaking out, ideas forming in our minds and hearts like buds on the trees outside our window. :)

It’s not that I haven’t had ideas. I’d like to go to the Baptist Church in the neighborhood, and help the folks there figure out how to love the neighborhood. But will they have me? I’d like to get pizza or burritos and share a meal once a week, like we did in Eugene. But where? I’d like to turn my garage into a hang-out. Don’t get me started on why that’s a bad idea.

But last night, I was around real people, and something clearer started to form. (Hang on. I’ll tell you what in a second.) It’s something I’ve had glimmers of before, which is part of why this feels more real. In the past, when the “right” path has shown up, it’s shown up with a life of its own. We’ll see whether this turn out to have that kind of life in it.

ok, here it is

What if, right along side the Blockwatch patrollers, there were Radical Love Project patrollers? What if we wandered the streets and talked to people with love and respect, offered help and kindness, befriended folks and encouraged them? That might be something I could handle. No 501(3)c paperwork, no accounting nightmare, no zoning board. Just two feet on the pavement. I think that’s how God likes me. Walking.

People ask me if we’ve “started anything” in Columbus yet, and sometimes I get the sense they might feel let-down by my answer. And then I get news like I got today, and I’m reminded that what we’re doing is exactly the right thing to be doing.

What we’re doing is breathing, listening, remaining open to discernment, and loving everyone in our path. It’s no small thing, but sometimes it seems like it doesn’t count in the way that finding a group under a bridge to share a meal would count. But I’m wrong. It does count. Check it out…

Today’s news was from a friend from our cohort (think “house church”), Scot, whose life was changed by an encounter with a guy holding a “spare change” sign.

…as I came off the ramp and onto Easton Pkwy aiming for the curb lane I saw “him”…ominous black clad figure holding cardboard sign. I reflexively jerked my vehicle toward the outer left turn lane so as to avoid “him”. In a flash I remembered the aforementioned resonations…I whipped it back over for curb service. Thankfully the light was red and I was first in line and there he was 3 feet away.

You can read the rest of the story at the Central Ohio Emergent Cohort blog. I definitely recommend it.

P.S. Someone asked what video we showed. It was from the Urban Entry series from Mile High Ministries. It’s called Anything Helps.

Tennessee has family back home, but he can’t return there. He just can’t live they way they want him to. But he’s writing a book about his experiences. He tells us, “I can’t write it if I don’t live it. I live this way, for real! It’s all true!”

He’s standing here with clever camp stove, which stayed in the park for two full days, before the police made him move it.

In addition to being a friend, I’m also his editor, and that’s a real privilege.

Also, the rain is here, and that means we move back to the area that’s covered by the overpass, and we have less sunlight. It reminds me of the cold, wet nights when we first started coming.

We got pretty comfortable in the park this summer. Instead of coming to meet new folks, it began to feel like we were coming to hang out with folks we already knew. I am wondering if we got lazy, neglecting to reach out to the folks who stayed away from the center of the action.

Now, each time I go back into the park, it’s without a clear idea of what will happen. Things are shifting, and I can’t predict how. I think that’s kind of a good thing.

I have to say that I can’t believe my good fortune in being able to do this work/love. I don’t know how to describe it — the amazing beauty of the experiences. Sometimes it’s a painful beauty, but it’s always real, alive, filled with grace.

If you’re feeling called to do something like this, I invite you to try it.

* Come to the park with us.
* Carry socks in your car, and offer them to folks.
* Call to talk about how to love more.
* Email us to brainstorm where God is leading you.

Here’s a news video about it.

We’ll be having a memorial service on Labor Day for James David Pelfrey. His family has provided flowers, music & fried chicken in the hopes that he’ll be remembered the way they’d like to remember him. If you’d like to help remember James (David) please come. If you have the ability, please bring something to share. Consider a bucket of fried chicken–enough to feed yourself and at least one other person.

Monday, September 7, 2009

7:00 PM

Washington/Jefferson Park

Jefferson Street picnic table, between 1st & 5th

Come as you are. If you’re able to bring chicken, please bring enough to share with those who aren’t.

(There are KFC locations at W. 11th, River Rd. & Gateway)

So, now I’m remembering James losing sleep over another man’s death. Last may, a homeless man was brutally murdered, and our town is small enough and quiet enough for that to be shocking. For the folk who live outside, it was extra shocking. For James, it was deeply disturbing. That slaying happened in a nearby park, closer to the river. I didn’t know the man who was killed that night, Herbert Bishop. Mr. Bishop wasn’t part of the circle of associations I’d made, but his death brought out fear for everybody who slept outside, without protective walls, doors, and locks.

The gloom of those fears persisted a long time through that cold Spring. Among the many who were upset, I’d say James was the most upset. For one thing, on that night he’d been sleeping close enough to be awakened by the sounds of the fatal blows. That rhythmic pounding had puzzled him. In the morning he figured out what he must have been listening to.

Because he’d been so close to the scene, James was interviewed by police, and he was close to others who were interviewed in that investigation. He tired of that fast. He became suspicious. He was afraid to sleep. He would nap a little during the day when friends could watch over him, then he’d stay awake all night, vigilant over his nighttime companion. As the weeks drew on the accumulated effects of lack of rest and distrustful bickering became worse. These fell, of course, on top of the effects of daily drunkenness.

Eventually, the pervasive fear faded. The heat of summer, arrests of suspects in Bishop’s murder, and changes in who-hangs-out-with-who created a new version of normalcy. James wasn’t so perpetually on edge as he had been. Now there were days where his spirits were high and he joked and played.

All of the sudden, it’s James who lies dead among us. Memories of James force themselves on me, an incongruous collection of reckless and cautious actions. James was afraid that he might die in something like the manner he did actually die. Yet James was also fearless when it came to many things that I tend to fear.

Living closer to James has strengthened my confidence that fear does not help. His fears did not keep him safe. My fears are not keeping me safe. Fear does not let us assure our safety—not individually, not collectively. Fear may be important, but it isn’t important in the way it seems important when we are fearful. Fear is for letting go.

With a new killer “on the loose” around here, there’s plenty of fear stirred up. I’ve my own share of it. This time perhaps that fear will not linger so. Perhaps this time I’ll be better able to remind others that love can cast out fear.

Are pastors supposed to cry when they lose someone? Am I supposed to cry when I talk to his sister, and tell her that her brother is gone? (She asked me about heaven. I told her yes, I am certain that James is with God.)

I’m noticing one of the hardest parts of this is the powerlessness. The police & the news describe him, and my friends, like they’re not really people, but something like intelligent monkeys, whose behavior can be observed and described. They treat me, and his sister, like we’re intelligent monkeys, too. (Every time I work with the police, it feels very weird, because they treat me almost exactly like the “homeless” people I work with. Something in me expects them to see me as “better”, though realizing that makes me wanna puke.)

I’ll post a real obituary soon. James was loved by a lot of people.
—-
Two more quick things. First, here’s a couple of news links, in case you want to know more. KEZI video, Register Guard story. Second, some of you talk about wanting to come to the park with us. I don’t want to discourage that… these next few weeks will be hard, but love & light is also especially needed right now. If you feel called to come & meet some of my friends, please let me know.

Living without those friends turned out to be harder than Len thought. Living in a sobriety house was sure nice for its amenities—bed, shower, roof, internet—but it meant that Len had to be around people he didn’t know, people who seemed to only be interested in hassling him to comply with the AA program. Len said he didn’t get anything out of the 12-step meetings. People in those meetings kept saying that AA had made the difference, but Len couldn’t hear anything about how it made that difference.

And, anyway, the difference between drunk and sober wasn’t something he entirely liked. Not only was he no longer not getting the continual stream of personal contact that he had around the park, not only was he no longer taking part in a party every day, he had lots of time to think. His mind was clear. He could remember things better. Len didn’t like that, actually. And instead of sleeping when he passed out from downing too many Sidewalk Slams, he slept sober. So he would dream, and his dreams were bad.

Len won’t tell us what he doesn’t want to remember. He won’t tell us what wakes him up, screaming, in the middle of the night. But he has admitted that his tough-guy act is, well, an act. He’s had the presence of mind to tell us that the hard thing he hasn’t been able to do, so far, is face himself.

Today Len walked away from the sobriety shelter that had given him his first shot at “home” under a roof in I don’t know how many years. Angela and I had braced for the likelihood of this, but it was still hard to watch. He’d been there less than two weeks. He’d overcome several tough days. He didn’t overcome today.

Len chose to leave. He chose to drink and get stoned. He told us he’s torn between what he thinks is best and what he feels he wants. He told us today he decided to get drunk, but tomorrow will be different. I am sad when I think of what tomorrow will likely be for Len, but I also hold out hope. I don’t exactly hope that Len will turn away from intoxication. Instead, I hope Len will give up on evasion. If he keeps trying to stop drinking because he’s trying to evade its terrible effects, the results won’t be pretty.

Can he turn away from evasiveness? Can I? Can you? I hear the message of Jesus as this: It is possible for every heart to change in this way, the power to create such a change is divine, and the opportunity is always immediately present.