Last Thursday was a day that I was glad I keep this blog to remember happy and good things about the job. Because that evening, I was not feeling a bit of it, neither happy nor good. I had just returned from a trip to the police station with a client, Maria, who was raped several weeks ago. A report was filed that night, and a week later, as the rapist was lurking around her, she called them again, added to the report and a warrant was issued for his arrest. As it happens, this rapist was my client about a year ago, so I knew his name and information, but was kept by HIPPA laws from providing it to the authorities. Instead, I merely stood by her and prompted her to provide useful details she omitted.
Over the weekend, the guy was found and brought into the police station. When they tried to find Maria, however, they were unsuccessful, because she's homeless and wanders. Since they couldn't find her, they let him go. Last week, she and I went to the police station to learn what her options were, but we didn't hear any possibilities. In fact, it sounded like it was just dropped. Just closed. Like it was nothing, nothing at all.
I found myself doing what social workers shouldn't do - take something like this personally. I kept thinking, "This could be me. But for the grace of God, this could be me." It got to the point that I couldn't think about any way to help my client, because any time I thought about it, I felt helpless and weak, and I was so frustrated. I felt further disempowered because I couldn't help her in her case, even though I knew the information she needed.
The turning point came when I read responses to my frustrated post on Facebook. As a social worker, I have a number of social worker friends, and they are connected with resources that I can't think of in the moment. Furthermore, they could offer support, even over a digital medium, and their words were encouraging. The following morning, armed with resource names and contact information, I began making calls to sexual assault and legal advocates, and was immediately lifted up. They were extremely helpful and uber informative, and I was quickly armed with several options for empowering and assisting Maria.
But it didn't end there. Later that morning, I met with another woman I've been working with for about a year. She'd recently left a long-term relationship she was no longer happy with, but this day, she disclosed how controlling and abusive he's been to her, something she'd not before let on to me, I think out of embarassment. He's slapped her several times, and he threw a brick into her father's window, almost hitting her. As she was sharing this with me, I could see the shame that had been wrapping around her for so long, finally being a little bit released because she could share it with someone. Because of the the research I had done for Maria, I immediately provide her with phone numbers, talk to her about different options and -most importantly - reassure her that she was not to blame.
I almost have chills when I think about how all of this came together. As dreadful as these circumstance are, I can't help but, when I think about them, marvel how the seemingly unrelated events harmonized. Through the discouraging day of bottomless frustration, an evening of tears, then loving support and suggestions, a morning of furious searching and information-gathering, and then - right when it was needed - hope. Beautiful hope.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Peace be with you, S.
While I try, in this blog, to focus on the positive things that I see in my clients, I feel moved to share a somewhat negative thing that happened last week. One of our clients, S, killed himself. This was his third attempt. I don't know how; one of my co-workers found him when she went to take his medication to him.
While this, in itself, is tragic and devastating (there were many tears flowing around the office that day), out of respect for S, I would like to talk a little bit about him, remembering him.
S first came into my day program after months of outreach from the mobile team establishing a rapport with him on the street. He came to us extremely delusional with symptoms untreated before he came into my center. For the first several weeks, he wouldn't communicate with any people but the mobile outreach team. He actively conversed, however, with the voices in his head, in all volumes. He frightened a number of the clients, and even offended one or two of them when he imagine himself to be God, as he did pretty regularly. Most of the clients, however, could see that he was not well, and they treated him gently. It was really sweet to see them, as tough as they tried to pretend they were, treat someone who was hurting with a kind of quiet care and respect.
When S became extremely loud, one of the workers would go to him, point out his volume, and ask him to lower his voice. When I first began doing this, as soon as I approached him, he would avert his eyes. He would lower his voice, but only for a minute. The longer I knew him, however, the more comfortable he became, and he began to look me in the eye and smile. After a little longer, he began to hold small conversations with me.
He became of client of our Assertive Community Treatment team, which houses chronically homeless and severaly ill clients and then follows them every day or so, making sure they take their meds and go to the doctor. S had only been with them a few months, and then this happened. My agency has a number of burial plots for clients who do not have family so they can be buried with dignity, and S will receive one of those.
When I think about his passing, I'm a little sad, of course, because his was such a simple and sweet spirit. But it was also tortured, and I like to think of him now completely and finally at peace.
While this, in itself, is tragic and devastating (there were many tears flowing around the office that day), out of respect for S, I would like to talk a little bit about him, remembering him.
S first came into my day program after months of outreach from the mobile team establishing a rapport with him on the street. He came to us extremely delusional with symptoms untreated before he came into my center. For the first several weeks, he wouldn't communicate with any people but the mobile outreach team. He actively conversed, however, with the voices in his head, in all volumes. He frightened a number of the clients, and even offended one or two of them when he imagine himself to be God, as he did pretty regularly. Most of the clients, however, could see that he was not well, and they treated him gently. It was really sweet to see them, as tough as they tried to pretend they were, treat someone who was hurting with a kind of quiet care and respect.
When S became extremely loud, one of the workers would go to him, point out his volume, and ask him to lower his voice. When I first began doing this, as soon as I approached him, he would avert his eyes. He would lower his voice, but only for a minute. The longer I knew him, however, the more comfortable he became, and he began to look me in the eye and smile. After a little longer, he began to hold small conversations with me.
He became of client of our Assertive Community Treatment team, which houses chronically homeless and severaly ill clients and then follows them every day or so, making sure they take their meds and go to the doctor. S had only been with them a few months, and then this happened. My agency has a number of burial plots for clients who do not have family so they can be buried with dignity, and S will receive one of those.
When I think about his passing, I'm a little sad, of course, because his was such a simple and sweet spirit. But it was also tortured, and I like to think of him now completely and finally at peace.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Reverend Bobo and Bubblegum
Today I saw one of the more colorful characters I’ve known from my day program. He’s working with our intensive community treatment team, which is the only way the wonder of his current stability is possible – he’s been housed through my agency for over a year. He takes medication regularly, he bathes regularly, and when one asks him a question, he answers in a way that makes sense. This is a far cry from the years he spent on the "hobo trail." He was rarely clean and a hopeless hoarder, saving papers and food, empty cups and trinkets in an old backpack. The only clothes he owned were those on his back - and he had several outfits on his back.
His very name is truly unique. I won't give the actual name here to protect his identity (in the small chance that you'd know him) but it's akin to Empee. As a testament to his then untreated mental illness, however, some days he wanted to be called Earl, and sometimes he wanted to be called Reverend Bobo. Unfortunately, one couldn't tell who he was on which day, and he got very angry when we called him incorrectly.
Not only did he adjust his own name, but also other people's names. He frequently called people Bubblegum, particularly when he was frustrated. "I put that there for a reason, bubblegum.." He had trouble with my name for awhile, and so he just called me Gracie. I don’t know how he got Gracie or why, but I was sad when he stopped. Whether this was due to his personality or mental illness, I don't know.
One thing that I do believe is a testament to his mental illness is that when one asked him a question about how he was or the status of his meetings, he would answer a different question. Very frequently, the answer was to remind us that Darth Vader was his father. Sometimes, though, the answer was an angry outburst, and no amount of soothing voices or corrected names could fix it - he was excused for the day.
The first time that he revealed to me how sweet and gentle person he is was when one of our staff members was leaving. This made him very nervous and anxious, but he really didn't have the words to communicate how he was feeling. Instead, like a frightened child staying near their parents, he hung close to different staff members throughout the day. My turn was during lunch. He hovered around me, almost wringing his hands, and frequently reminded me that she was leaving. Though he was sad, his reaction was touching. He was handling it the best way he knew how.
I remember the day that President Obama was inaugurated – my center has a big screen TV and we let people stay after lunch to watch it. The whole center was darkened, and all of the clients were arranged in a half circle around the TV to watch. Despite the unusually large number of people in the room, they were hushed to hear the television commentator announce the different parts of the ceremony. When they announced a performance by Yoyo Ma, Empee’s voice piped up from the quiet darkness to announce, “Yoyo Ma’s my cousin!”
While I miss Reverend Bobo and Bubblegum, it was nice to be able to hug him hello today and to really be with Empee.
Epilogue: When I was working on a project in my practicum, I was working with prominent members of the faith community, and did, in fact, meet a Reverend Bobo. I spoke with other people about Empee, and they suggested that he knew Reverend Bobo, who is extremely involved in his community. And all this time, I thought it was a delusion...
His very name is truly unique. I won't give the actual name here to protect his identity (in the small chance that you'd know him) but it's akin to Empee. As a testament to his then untreated mental illness, however, some days he wanted to be called Earl, and sometimes he wanted to be called Reverend Bobo. Unfortunately, one couldn't tell who he was on which day, and he got very angry when we called him incorrectly.
Not only did he adjust his own name, but also other people's names. He frequently called people Bubblegum, particularly when he was frustrated. "I put that there for a reason, bubblegum.." He had trouble with my name for awhile, and so he just called me Gracie. I don’t know how he got Gracie or why, but I was sad when he stopped. Whether this was due to his personality or mental illness, I don't know.
One thing that I do believe is a testament to his mental illness is that when one asked him a question about how he was or the status of his meetings, he would answer a different question. Very frequently, the answer was to remind us that Darth Vader was his father. Sometimes, though, the answer was an angry outburst, and no amount of soothing voices or corrected names could fix it - he was excused for the day.
The first time that he revealed to me how sweet and gentle person he is was when one of our staff members was leaving. This made him very nervous and anxious, but he really didn't have the words to communicate how he was feeling. Instead, like a frightened child staying near their parents, he hung close to different staff members throughout the day. My turn was during lunch. He hovered around me, almost wringing his hands, and frequently reminded me that she was leaving. Though he was sad, his reaction was touching. He was handling it the best way he knew how.
I remember the day that President Obama was inaugurated – my center has a big screen TV and we let people stay after lunch to watch it. The whole center was darkened, and all of the clients were arranged in a half circle around the TV to watch. Despite the unusually large number of people in the room, they were hushed to hear the television commentator announce the different parts of the ceremony. When they announced a performance by Yoyo Ma, Empee’s voice piped up from the quiet darkness to announce, “Yoyo Ma’s my cousin!”
While I miss Reverend Bobo and Bubblegum, it was nice to be able to hug him hello today and to really be with Empee.
Epilogue: When I was working on a project in my practicum, I was working with prominent members of the faith community, and did, in fact, meet a Reverend Bobo. I spoke with other people about Empee, and they suggested that he knew Reverend Bobo, who is extremely involved in his community. And all this time, I thought it was a delusion...
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Another Outsider
One of the occupational hazards of working with the homeless is that I see them no matter where I am. Because, as I like to remind my friends, "The hobo shuffle is the same in every country." My latest international visit took the form of my first cruise in the Caribbean. Before I left, a friend of mine advised me to "take about 20 minutes to feel bad about the opulance and then get over it and have a good time, because its a lot of fun."
As the trip went on, I better understood what she meant. Not only could I pick out the many homeless people on each island, and furthermore, I don't know that I saw a single American face at work on the ship, though I did see plenty of Eastern Europeans and East Asians. On shore, the port area was extremely built up, pandering to the expectations of the "Northern" tourists, but the wealth disparity once one passed the inner circle was immense. I realized how insightful my friend's advice during the many moments of discomfort I felt. It raised a number of questions for me, the most important being: how does my life as a privileged American contribute to this disparity?
This ties into another significant aspect of my future a requirement for my Master's program in Social Work. I will need to do a practicum, or internship, however, and trying to select the site is a challenge. I know that I would like to work in poverty, homelessness, and economic equality, and in order to do this effectively, I've thought that I needed to get outside of my "first world" bubble and see poverty from an outside perspective. Something this past trip showed me, however, is that I will never be able to excape this bubble. There are a number of privileged categories that apply to me: white, educated, Christian, English-speaking, heterosexual. They always will. Even if I go live in community with the underprivileged, I will still be an outsider.
As the trip went on, I better understood what she meant. Not only could I pick out the many homeless people on each island, and furthermore, I don't know that I saw a single American face at work on the ship, though I did see plenty of Eastern Europeans and East Asians. On shore, the port area was extremely built up, pandering to the expectations of the "Northern" tourists, but the wealth disparity once one passed the inner circle was immense. I realized how insightful my friend's advice during the many moments of discomfort I felt. It raised a number of questions for me, the most important being: how does my life as a privileged American contribute to this disparity?
This ties into another significant aspect of my future a requirement for my Master's program in Social Work. I will need to do a practicum, or internship, however, and trying to select the site is a challenge. I know that I would like to work in poverty, homelessness, and economic equality, and in order to do this effectively, I've thought that I needed to get outside of my "first world" bubble and see poverty from an outside perspective. Something this past trip showed me, however, is that I will never be able to excape this bubble. There are a number of privileged categories that apply to me: white, educated, Christian, English-speaking, heterosexual. They always will. Even if I go live in community with the underprivileged, I will still be an outsider.
So instead of becoming like them, as though I'm from that community, perhaps there is another or a better way I can use my gifts, even though I'm an outsider.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Getting back up
I was present to another miracle today and I was so excited I wanted to share it with you. There was an alcoholic client I had several months ago that cared about a little more than most. I don't know what it is about some people, some of them just sit a little closer to my heart than others. Several months ago, he completely fell off the grid - he lost his job, lost his apartment, and lost contact with everyone he knew. Several clients and the mobile outreach team talked about seeing him once in awhile either passed out in the street or on a bench. He is a good and honest man and a hard worker, and his disappearance bothered staff and clients alike.
He re-appeared on Tuesday, slumped against my building. He had asked for me, and when I went outside to talk to him, he grasped my hand tightly. His face was swollen, his eye was blackened, and his eyelashes, eyebrows, and moustache were all singed from clumsy cigarette-lighting attempts. He was about ready to break, and heartbreakingly wanted to come back to the program, come back to acceptance. I rubbed his back and told him that he had a place with us. I was able to get him up to our facility for lunch. When he started to get sick and we started talking to him about going to the hospital to detox, however, he blanched. "Have you ever been in the hospital?" he asked my co-worker. She said, "What you need is outside of our scope of care - you need medical help." He wasn't open to any offerings of help. "I'll do this myself, get my own scope of care." He stumbled out of the center with promises to return, sober, the next day. The next day, however, he was nowhere to be found, and I was afraid it would be another two months before I saw him again, if I did.
This morning, another client came for me and told me he was outside. I went to him, his face was still puffy, his pupils still tiny black dots, tears already forming in his eyes, his self-loathing written plainly all over his figure, and I took his hand. He had whiskey and soda with him this time, and while he couldn't stay on property with that, I didn't want to send him away. I again brought up the idea of a hospital and pointed out to him that when he tried to sober up on his own, he couldn't. "You can do this again, but right now you need help, and the hospital is the place you go for that." He started talking about what happens when he goes to a hospital, and I said, "I've been in a hospital for four months; I know what it's like. I also know that's where I got better, and that's what you need." He softly agreed to be taken, and I scampered off to find the worker who could take him before he changed his mind. The worker was gone, however, and I had to stay, and suddenly I was faced with a dilemma. I felt terrible sending him away, away from help he needed, away from his willingness to go to the hospital, but he couldn't be around with that alcohol. I told him as much, and sugggested he come back in 30 minutes, lunchtime, for a ride. He said he wanted to do that, but he didn't move. Thinking he wanted to stay, I said, "Or, you can give me that bottle and let me take care of it, and come upstairs with me right now." "No ma'am," he answered firmly, "I'll take care of it." I helped him up, and he shuffled off in his too-big pants and socks (no shoes on), arms full of bottles and a sweater. "I'm going to throw this away," I could hear him tell people as he scooted past them, "I'm going to the hospital." It was ironically cute and laughable and saddening all at once. I was wracked with uncertainty in my decision - did I do the right thing? Would he come back? Did he think I blew him off?
He didn't come back for lunch, but folks told me he was around. About an hour and a half after lunch, he came to the door of my center, arms clear of belongings, shoes on his feet, and said, "I threw that bottle away. I'm ready to go to the hospital."
I could have cried for the many feelings I still have to think about it: relief, love, respect, humility. It's just another thing to love about the job.
He re-appeared on Tuesday, slumped against my building. He had asked for me, and when I went outside to talk to him, he grasped my hand tightly. His face was swollen, his eye was blackened, and his eyelashes, eyebrows, and moustache were all singed from clumsy cigarette-lighting attempts. He was about ready to break, and heartbreakingly wanted to come back to the program, come back to acceptance. I rubbed his back and told him that he had a place with us. I was able to get him up to our facility for lunch. When he started to get sick and we started talking to him about going to the hospital to detox, however, he blanched. "Have you ever been in the hospital?" he asked my co-worker. She said, "What you need is outside of our scope of care - you need medical help." He wasn't open to any offerings of help. "I'll do this myself, get my own scope of care." He stumbled out of the center with promises to return, sober, the next day. The next day, however, he was nowhere to be found, and I was afraid it would be another two months before I saw him again, if I did.
This morning, another client came for me and told me he was outside. I went to him, his face was still puffy, his pupils still tiny black dots, tears already forming in his eyes, his self-loathing written plainly all over his figure, and I took his hand. He had whiskey and soda with him this time, and while he couldn't stay on property with that, I didn't want to send him away. I again brought up the idea of a hospital and pointed out to him that when he tried to sober up on his own, he couldn't. "You can do this again, but right now you need help, and the hospital is the place you go for that." He started talking about what happens when he goes to a hospital, and I said, "I've been in a hospital for four months; I know what it's like. I also know that's where I got better, and that's what you need." He softly agreed to be taken, and I scampered off to find the worker who could take him before he changed his mind. The worker was gone, however, and I had to stay, and suddenly I was faced with a dilemma. I felt terrible sending him away, away from help he needed, away from his willingness to go to the hospital, but he couldn't be around with that alcohol. I told him as much, and sugggested he come back in 30 minutes, lunchtime, for a ride. He said he wanted to do that, but he didn't move. Thinking he wanted to stay, I said, "Or, you can give me that bottle and let me take care of it, and come upstairs with me right now." "No ma'am," he answered firmly, "I'll take care of it." I helped him up, and he shuffled off in his too-big pants and socks (no shoes on), arms full of bottles and a sweater. "I'm going to throw this away," I could hear him tell people as he scooted past them, "I'm going to the hospital." It was ironically cute and laughable and saddening all at once. I was wracked with uncertainty in my decision - did I do the right thing? Would he come back? Did he think I blew him off?
He didn't come back for lunch, but folks told me he was around. About an hour and a half after lunch, he came to the door of my center, arms clear of belongings, shoes on his feet, and said, "I threw that bottle away. I'm ready to go to the hospital."
I could have cried for the many feelings I still have to think about it: relief, love, respect, humility. It's just another thing to love about the job.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
What it means to be a lady
There's a lady, Shelle, that I have that I've known for a few years. I've seen her when she was "out there," the colloquial term that clients give to being in their active addiction. When I first knew her, she was still actively using and prostituting and had attitude to spare - she would lash out at someone before taking their help. This last time has been different and she's been more earnest about her recovery, and more successful. She hasn't used in over a year, after 20+ years on the street.
After several months of working together, she informed me that she watches me and my other women co-workers. She said, "I don't know what it means to be a lady, but I want to be. I want to learn how to be a lady. I watch all of you, the way you walk or carry yourselves, to see how you do it." She brings that idea up frequently in our one-on-ones as she and I talk about her efforts.
She has an 18 year old daughter who saw her while she was using and has begun to emulate those actions. She is living with a man 20 years her senior, and Shelle has seen her on the streets. She knows what her daughter is doing. For a short time, her daughter was living with her. Shelle remained firm in boundaries she was setting for her home, boundaries that any lady would set, and boundaries that were completely new to her daughter. Shelle did not know how long her daughter would stay, and she was trying to instill them into her daughter in the time that she had. At one point, after her daughter hadn't showered for several days and Shelle said, "It's time for you to take a bath. Ladies bathe themselves, and you're a lady. I know I didn't set that example for you when you were younger, and I was wrong for that, so I'm telling you now these things that I'm learning. You are a lady."
Her daughter left shortly after that interaction, again living with that older man, again living "out there." Shelle is distraught with concern about the best way to help and guilt about past errors. Despite this, however, or perhaps in anticipation of the day that her daughter comes back to her, she consistently strives to set an example of "ladyness," while simultaneously learning what it means to be a lady. The changes have been remarkable, and it's a blessing to be with her as she learns these new things. It's also profound to see her put faith in the hope that, though she can't see the effects of her choices now, little changes she makes will reap great rewards. This faith, I think, is one of the cornerstones of the definition of a lady.
After several months of working together, she informed me that she watches me and my other women co-workers. She said, "I don't know what it means to be a lady, but I want to be. I want to learn how to be a lady. I watch all of you, the way you walk or carry yourselves, to see how you do it." She brings that idea up frequently in our one-on-ones as she and I talk about her efforts.
She has an 18 year old daughter who saw her while she was using and has begun to emulate those actions. She is living with a man 20 years her senior, and Shelle has seen her on the streets. She knows what her daughter is doing. For a short time, her daughter was living with her. Shelle remained firm in boundaries she was setting for her home, boundaries that any lady would set, and boundaries that were completely new to her daughter. Shelle did not know how long her daughter would stay, and she was trying to instill them into her daughter in the time that she had. At one point, after her daughter hadn't showered for several days and Shelle said, "It's time for you to take a bath. Ladies bathe themselves, and you're a lady. I know I didn't set that example for you when you were younger, and I was wrong for that, so I'm telling you now these things that I'm learning. You are a lady."
Her daughter left shortly after that interaction, again living with that older man, again living "out there." Shelle is distraught with concern about the best way to help and guilt about past errors. Despite this, however, or perhaps in anticipation of the day that her daughter comes back to her, she consistently strives to set an example of "ladyness," while simultaneously learning what it means to be a lady. The changes have been remarkable, and it's a blessing to be with her as she learns these new things. It's also profound to see her put faith in the hope that, though she can't see the effects of her choices now, little changes she makes will reap great rewards. This faith, I think, is one of the cornerstones of the definition of a lady.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Black Boots
I was at work one weekend when a former client dropped in. Nida (not her real name) was a chronically homeless addict with two sons in prison, and her time with my program was the first time that she was truly serious about her recovery. She has an incredibly humble spirit, works extremely hard, and its precious to be with her as she discovers this world sober. It's much the way I imagine a parent would feel to watch their children make discoveries.
She and I were catching up on her job and her upcoming move from transitional housing into her own apartment when a yellow-shirted woman approached me for a pair of shoes from the downstairs clothing room. It was a Saturday, and I don't have access to that room on Saturdays. I told Yellow-Shirt as much, and she lamented that she needed them for work that evening. After several minutes of silence, Nida pointed out, "You know, you could get pair of black shoes at Wal-Mart*...it'll only take one bus ticket to get there." A few seconds of silence streched between us as Nida studied Yellow-Shirt's face. "You don't have it, do you?" Yellow-Shirt shook her head. "I can see how bad you want this; I can see it on your face," Nida said, knowing from years on the homeless street. "If I give you $10, will you take it to the store and get shoes?" Yellow-Shirt said yes, and silence fell as Nida weighed the decision. To take the heat off her, I said, "Let me check the back room," referring to a small closet on our floor with toiletry items and socks and underwear.
I knew there weren't any shoes back there, and if there were, they wouldn't be black, but I was absolutely blown away by the "Pay it Forward" gesture that Nida was making. I know she was thinking about people who had helped her when she was struggling, and she may have been making an amend for those she hadn't helped when she was using drugs. I opened the door to the closet and turned on the light. Chills covered me as I spotted one pair of shoes on the low shelf - black boots. I flipped them over to see the size, and they were just right.
Another good thing about the job: miracles happen everyday, and sometimes I get to be present to them.
Epilogue - I still don't know Yellow-Shirt's name, but the shoes are very comfortable and exactly right for the job. She enjoys it and is doing well in it, and she is interviewing for a second job in a few days.
She and I were catching up on her job and her upcoming move from transitional housing into her own apartment when a yellow-shirted woman approached me for a pair of shoes from the downstairs clothing room. It was a Saturday, and I don't have access to that room on Saturdays. I told Yellow-Shirt as much, and she lamented that she needed them for work that evening. After several minutes of silence, Nida pointed out, "You know, you could get pair of black shoes at Wal-Mart*...it'll only take one bus ticket to get there." A few seconds of silence streched between us as Nida studied Yellow-Shirt's face. "You don't have it, do you?" Yellow-Shirt shook her head. "I can see how bad you want this; I can see it on your face," Nida said, knowing from years on the homeless street. "If I give you $10, will you take it to the store and get shoes?" Yellow-Shirt said yes, and silence fell as Nida weighed the decision. To take the heat off her, I said, "Let me check the back room," referring to a small closet on our floor with toiletry items and socks and underwear.
I knew there weren't any shoes back there, and if there were, they wouldn't be black, but I was absolutely blown away by the "Pay it Forward" gesture that Nida was making. I know she was thinking about people who had helped her when she was struggling, and she may have been making an amend for those she hadn't helped when she was using drugs. I opened the door to the closet and turned on the light. Chills covered me as I spotted one pair of shoes on the low shelf - black boots. I flipped them over to see the size, and they were just right.
Another good thing about the job: miracles happen everyday, and sometimes I get to be present to them.
Epilogue - I still don't know Yellow-Shirt's name, but the shoes are very comfortable and exactly right for the job. She enjoys it and is doing well in it, and she is interviewing for a second job in a few days.
*In no way is this an endorsement of Wal-Mart. I'm just sayin'.
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