#MicroblogMondays: Election Reflection

I am SO glad it's over! Fortunately British politics is always about pink or pale blue shades of centralism, so I am hopeful that there won't be too much to worry about over the next five years, I suppose you couid say I got neither what I wanted, nor what I feared, and that's a result.

I do wonder though, if there might be a better way of doing things. If our nation is in such dire financial trouble, why can't we have a government of national unity? Or at least a government that leaves polemic and division to one side for a bit, and works to draw opponents together to work in the interests of everyone?

Last Wednesday, I went to the cinema in Gloucester with Carol. As I walked down Southgate Street towards the Cross, I heard shouting. It was Samantha having a very public row with Vince over - something - that she clearly felt was unfair. Later I met Robbie, who was drunk, and Robin who was sore from a beating, and I stopped - to hug Sam and calm her and remind her of her worth, to commiserate with Robin, to make sure Robbie knew where he was ...

To me this work, as a Missioner, is a joy and a privilege. It's me doing what I love with people I love.

Yesterday I went to a BBQ with friends and family from Church. These are people I love too, whose life experiences are so different from my street friends. Something in me wants to battle with them, to force them to understand the impact of austerity on the vulnerable who are beyond being able to cope. I could feel the old class war begin to break out, but something different happened. I listened, I got off my high- horse and I let these friends tell their stories too.

 

No great conclusions here, but for me, a bit of a change of heart. I'm not going to metaphoricalky shout slogans over a class wall. I'm going to carry on bringing the two sides together in myself and reconcile in me whar I want reconciled in politics.

 

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

MicroblogMondays:All Real Living Is Meeting

I am taking a break from serving tea, and am sitting relaxing with three of our guys.: Alan, Phil and Sam.

 

I wonder how I would have reacted to them four years ago before taking on this job. I expect I would have hurried past the line of weary-looking men and women, poorly dressed, down at heel, waiting for the doors of the Salvation Arly Citadel to open for a free lunch. (There IS such a thing, no matter what they say, and it's good. )

 

"How are you?" I ask Sam, really wanting ro know.

 

"Alright," he replies with a grin. Sam has Huntington's disease, and he won't be alright for long, but we don't speak of it.

 

"How are you Mary?"

 

I'm aright too.

 

"How about you, Phil?"

 

"Oh! I'm alright as well."

 

I feel a game coming on.

 

"What about you, Alan?" You don't look alright to me. Can you rise to an 'OK'?"

 

Alan laughs. He has severe arthritis, and and is in pain.

 

"Oh, I think I can manage an OK."

 

"Three alrights and an OK! I need to go round the other tables and collect statistics. "

 

Checklists, flipcharts, spreadsheets. We explore the possibilities.

 

Alan moves us on with, "I dreamed I failed my degree exams last night. Took them forty years ago. And passed. Funny things dreams ..."

 

The conversation drifts on. Famous dogs and their antiquity ( Sam's speciality) tattoos ... Sam has a tattoo of Pluto. Did Pluto, friend of Mickey Mouse, have a wife? I think he did, and that she was killed off. Why kill off a cartoon dog, and can a cartoon dog actually be said to be dead?

 

No conclusion is reached.

 

12:50 and I have to run. I explain that I almost missed the bus last week. The driver saw me, and turned round to pick me up. Everybody marvels at this.

 

I leave.

 

"All real living is meeting." A quote from Jewish philosopher Martin Buper. I've commented on it before, because it is profoundly true.

 

I guess there's a choice: stick with our prejudices about faceless street people, or sit with a mug of tea and three friends trying to remember if Pluto had a wife.

Posted with Blogsy

Performance Indicators

I loathe and despise The Annual Review. Mine own were conducted by well-meaning examiners with no concept of the complexities of my role, which was great, because I agreed to stupid 'goals' that needed no particular effort to 'achieve'. This was easy for me, because I'm a very bright woman with an honest face.
My true performance indicator was to engage in (legit) projects with an element of travel to clock up as many miles as I could without spending a penny. I made 100,000 miles before my career ended. Of this, I am unjustifiably proud. ( You know I'm not a good person, don't you?)
My staff got PI's like:" You've got children, get yourself home on time and don't take work with you." This paid dividends in staff loyalty and excellence of performance that far outweighed the "gains" obtained by stressing them out with unrealistic numbers of Level 3's or whatever the current nonsense was. The pendulum will swing back my way, one day, you'll see.
I am so reminiscing because of Baroness Jenkin's weigh-in against The Poor and their lack of ability to cook. You know what your Baronessness, I know Poor who have nothing to cook ON, or WITH but she doesn't, so I guess I should be making allowances. (Thought about it: Naw, she's not excused.)
Sometimes, I am a born-again Christian. That is, until other born-again Christians engage in gay-bashing, or in other ways show themselves a lot more interested in other people's bedroom habits than is healthy for their souls. " I am not of you," I get to thinking, "So I guess I must be something else now. Don't know what, but there you are. "
Make no mistake, I still embrace and revel in the teachings of Jesus, especially when practised. I puzzled for ever over the enigmatic, "The Poor (whom he blessed by the way, it was the rich he sent away empty) will always be with you." Well, yes, so it seems, but why? I read of the Baroness's 'apology' - for saying that being hungry was The Poor's own fault because they were too something (Idle? Ignorant? Stupid?) to cook. Then I knew what the Bethlehem Babe meant: The poor will always be with us because the powerful will do anything to hang on to their riches. If Baroness Jenkin went out and talked to The Poor, and involved herself in their lives, she would become a whole, new, and much better person.
Have I lost the plot. This piece was about Performance Indicators wasn't it? Yes.
One day, and every day, I have to give account of my stewardship. The checklist doesn't have boxes for: Did you make a lot of money? Win any wars? Believe all the right doctrines? Belong to the right church? Get an enormous number of converts? Or even, God help us, Sleep with the right people? No. (I expect you've got where this is going...) I get rated on these criteria: Mary, tell me, did you: Feed the hungry? Comfort the afflicted? Visit those in prison? Clothe the naked?
Did I? Sometimes.
How about you? Find someone who's hungry and feed them this Christmas/Saturnalia/Sun Return ... ! It will make you both feel better. Yes, really, it will.

Report:
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/politics/tory-baroness-poor-people-go-hungry-because-they-dont-know-how-to-cook-9910671.html

PS Only three vouchers are allowed for Food Banks. Just sayin'.

#MicroblogMondays: Graham

I am watching a miracle unfold.
I first met Graham, an unemployed labourer when he was optimistic. Funny, grounded, determined, and full of faith. He'd lost his job in the recession, but was certain he'd find another soon.
Three years passed. Despite attending all the courses available from the Job Centre, and applying for forty or more jobs a week, he was still unemployed. Rumours began to circulate about Graham having, "anger issues" he became cold, bitter, resentful, and yes, bloody angry. I daren't enquire about his faith...
Today he bounced into the Salvation Army lunch club full of excitement. The new Aldi store that employed him last month is opening next Thursday. Graham is laughing and joking, he is calm and present and alive once more.
I see so much depression, sadness and misery amongst the unemployed. When I hear the rich, the powerful, the ignorant rant about ' welfare scroungers', I want to weep. Yes, I really do.
But then there is a miracle ... Not the getting of a job, but the anazing transformation when belief and self-respect are gained once more.

The New Pilot Inn

Looks empty doesn't it? The New Pilot Inn closed some time ago. I used to frequent it, and I still do, though these days in it's new incarnation as a refuge centre for the homeless and street people. They call it 'The Vaughn Centre ' now, and it does good work as the centre for the BRILLIANT Homeless Healthcare Team and GEAR, the Homeless charity that offers facilities for aforementioned fellow-citizens down on their luck.

My mum and dad used to play darts here. In my (very) late teens, I used to accompany them on match days, drink half a pint of cider and blackcurrant, and marvel at how my father could hit the bullseye and calculate what he needed to 'finish' in seconds. Mum, not so good at either, but a worthy member of the team anyway. I was never good enough to play in the team, but I could occasionally hit the board ...

Two weeks ago, I learned from my friend Tony Hipkins, who majors in holding Gloucestershire County Council to account for its provision for vulnerable people, emailed to say that GEAR has no funding to open the Vaughn Centre at Christmas this year. I shall find out why, in due course, to see if a fuss needs to be made about it, but in the meantime there is some cash to raise. £200, in fact.

Abigail and I went to church this morning. Not together, because she goes with with her mum and dad. When I arrived she was crying becauss she'd lobbed her pet dinosaur across the aisle and hit somebody. When mummy requested that she desist from such behaviour, Abigail took offence and started to howl. She's my granddaughter, and I love her to bits, but I know mummy is right, so Abs just has to get over it without sympathy from grandma.

Father Aidan gave me permission to make an appeal for a second collection for GEAR and Christmas, and I sit preoccupied through the Mass wondering what I am going to say, as the "Feed The World" angle has already been taken.

Abigail returns from Little Church, dinosaur trauma forgotten, with an activity book all about Advent. "Look grandma!" She announces, loudly, because that's her volume setting, and she reads, "No room at the inn!"

A light goes on in my brain:

"I'm not sure of what I'm going to say, because this is so close to my heart, (and here I tear up) but Abigail has just reminded me of when I was a teenager and used to go with my mum and dad to play darts at The New Pilot Inn in Gloucester, which is now a refuge for the homeless, and which can't open at Christmas this year because it has no money. Honestly, if the church can't open the inn door to the lonely and the lost at Christmas, we might just as well pack up and go home... "

Not sure how I ended up, but the result was a collection that raised far more than £200

That's Christmas sorted, now let's see what can be done for the new year ...

 

 

Awakening

My friend Alex finally has it taped. Full, as usual of his exuberant excitement, he announced, "These people don't receive bacause they don't give. There's this church in San Franscisco that has people following the 2,4,7,10 routine. Church twice a week, ( forget), (forget), and give10%! They get £144. (I'm pretty sure he forgot this is £144 every two weeks. Surely?) That's enough to live on, they just waste it ... " Mike stopped him, and brought the reflection time back on track. I had just spent a harrowing thirty minutes with a homeless alcoholic who'd arrived at this place after being forced to watch her son be tortured and raped. Sometimes, this work is just too hard. I had no words for her, I just held her, and let her sob. I wasn't paying much attention to Alex.

That was yesterday. Today I am warm and comfortable, and having done all I can to let Michelle's nughtmare pass, I am returning to Alex's formula for getting street people into church.

I see several rather obvious flaws in his argument. If it had been a matter of arithmetic, wouldn't Jesus have thought about it first?

"You are Peter, and upon this abacus I will build my church!" No. The whole point of the gospel is to wake people up to the wholeness and fullness of life that is the discovery of the Kingdom of God (heightened awareness, full consciousness) that is within us all. You don't get there by acquiring a set of religious brownie points. You open yourself up to your suffering and to the suffering of others and let it teach you what is true. This is the foolishness of the cross. This is the heart of Christian teaching.

I do try playing the numbers game, and I always lose. Pray every day, go to confession once a month, and, and - all the other musts and shoulds that afflict religious people. Such nonsense just brings failure with attendant guilt and feelings of unworthiness and hopelessnes. Which might be preferable, come to think of it, to the pride and superiority that would ensue from succeeding ... Jesus was tender towards we failures, but awful towards the proud. I have to think of some way of letting Alex know I think he's talking out of his arse. I will, perhaps, tell him a story:

"About a year ago I met a funny looking young man who bore an uncanny likeness to Matt Smith. 'He's gone to park the Tardis' I remember saying when someone commented on his disappearance one day. He was burning with this vision for street people. He carried a notebook with him everywhere, he was determined to discover what our people needed. He wrote down what they said. He was listening.

Then he discovered a church in San Fransico who found a magic formula. He wrote it in his notebook, and now he he is telling people what they need. He has stopped listening."

 

 

 

#MicroblogMondays: The Meaning of Vulnerable

I found this idea on my daughter's blog, and thought it a great one: to blog up to eight sentences on a Monday, just to keep going. Well that's one (and two) sorted.

I had a long chat with Gordon today at the Salvation Army Lunch for the homeless and vulnerable people on the streets of Gloucester. We talked about God and Brian - not that either of us have a very conventional view of the deity, just a feeling - Brian is our friend, who has been bullied out of the B&B he and Gordon shared, and I can't get hold of him to find out if he's OK. The word, 'vulnerable' suddenly takes on a whole new meaning. I hope by next Monday to have tracked him down. I'm about ready to bring him home.

Confessions Of A Tea-Lady

Is everything in place? I survey the Tea Table with a critical eye:

Urn:  full and switched on.    Check.

Tea, coffee, juice: All present and correct.

Mugs, milk, sugar, juice cups: OK

We're ready for the off. Some Mondays a vital element is missed, and chaos ensues when our people roll in. The importance of getting everything just so, cannot be understated. The Tea Table is the first port of call. The 'meet and greet' of the Salvation Army Monday Lunch. Volunteer Meryl offers to help. She's good, but unfocussed; regarding the Tea Table as a stepping stone to the job she's really on fire for, chatting to the clients. Me, I'm in my element. Smiling and saying hello is a particular strength of mine and I play up to it. I am glad of Meryl's help with the initial rush: she wields the teapot whilst I serve the coffe and oversee juice distribution. 

We are going to serve sixty or more lunches today. I see that we have three new faces, I make a mental note to follow up on the hello when things quieten down a bit. 

Johan takes two coffees for himself and Cordelia. I slip him a lawyers business card. Cordelia has an injury acquired at the chicken processing  factory and can no longer work. They sleep in a car. 

Andrew takes his tea black. He's a retired librarian and a polyglot. He once taught me to say hello in Serbo-Croat, but I have long forgotten how. He's Jewish, and very accommodating to we Christians. He knows the Law and The Prophets far better than we do, and loves an argument.

Dave's in today. Haven't seen him for weeks.  He's lost four and a half stone. He looks brighter, having just had his benefits reinstated. An official at the Job Centre sanctioned him( ie stopped his money) for non- attendance at a scheduled appointment that he hadn't attended because she's omitted to notify him about it Her superior eventually overrulled her. "You were lucky this time," the unrepentant official told Dave. 

Dave lost weight because he couldn't  afford to eat. "I'll come with you next time." I promise. 

Alex appears and offers to serve drinks whilst I move round the tables and chat.

Chris is looking rough. He's South African, a Catholic: former seminarian. I don't ask why he never became a priest. I discover he is a member of Opus Dei  "Do you know about it?" He asks. "Only from Dan Brown!" I laugh. Andy hears him say that he has no money, and having been in that situation himself, he butts in on the conversation and tells him where to get vouchers for the Food Bank.  

Welfare Officer at the Council Offices. I'm grateful to Andy. I'm often asked and usually refer people to , "Help The Aged", because that's where my brother got his vouchers when he needed them. Chris isn't old enough. 

I have a stack of books for Brian who now has his driver's license and  is looking SO much better now that he's receiving treament for PTSD. He opens the bag and rummages with genuine delight. 'Just what I wanted!" He exclaims at Darwin's 'Origin of Species'. I knew that, and having never more than glanced at it, was happy to hand it over. I hope, with all my heart, the more fundamentalist of the helpers didn't spot it! We Catholics have no problem with Darwin, or any human attempt to fathom the miracle of Creation. I gave him "99 Things To Do Between Here and Heaven" too,  having reasoned that I've done all the ones I want to (including starting this blog) and there's a spiritual reflection on each, that will lead Brian a little deeper, if he so wishes. 

I'm called over by Karen and Anthony to sort out a problem. My very favourite occupation, truth be told. "What's the difference between a Catholic and a Christian?" They want to know. Anthony's RC, Karen's C of E, and they are planning to marry in Church. Somewhere.

I throw myself eagerly into the fray. It's a useful discussion that involves everyone on the table. I was expecting hostility, but discover none. "Marry in the RC Church, and the Anglicans will bless it. That's how my daughter and son-in-law managed it. And you, young man," I wave my finger in mock-menace at Anthony, "Had  better get yourself off to Mass and book the Church!" Everyone laughs. 

"Look," I finish, "We volunteers are from many Christain denominations. We're here to do the job  Christ left us to do. What's important is this coming together, all of us, and sharing the love of God." 

Brian asks where I go to church, "Newent."I reply, "But if youre looking for somewhere, you couldn't do better than here." 

God Bless the Salvation Army. 

PS: All that I know of Opus Dei may be found here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opus_Dei

Marie-Therese

She knits. The same scrap of cherry-red wool, over and over, unwinding her rows and click-click, endlessly reworking her masterpiece: keeping her hands busy and her thoughts at bay.

"No thank you." "No thank you." Every time I ask. Would  you like something to eat? Would you like a drink? So quiet, she draws no attention to herself, she doesn't want it.

This time, I sit beside her. She dresses in a rag-bag of clothes. She carries a rucksack and she wears a scarf. Summer and winter. I should have guessed, but, she's Caucasian you see, Irish in fact, and I didn't think... .

"My name is Mary," I say holding out my hand. Tentatively, she takes it, "Marie-Therese". She speaks softly. "Catholic?" I ask. I always ask, sometimes someone will want to rage aginst the church, or reminisce, or ask where to hear Mass. I listen. 

"Muslim."So softly, I have to lean forward to hear.

Her story unwinds. Her husband, not here, her children in Birmingham. Gloucester is a smaller town, she says, she feels safer here. Her own faith community doesn't know her whereabouts, she has no contact with the Mosque. She's alone. Completely. So she sits in the Day Centre for the disposable and the dispossessed and knits the same cherry-red block over and over again. 

"I was a member of the Legion of Mary when I was a child." 

I am at a loss. This gentle woman left me with a deep sense of disquiet. Mary and Jesus are both honoured by Islam, but I do not care to dishonour her faith, so I pause. 

"Shall we say a Hail Mary?"

Unhesitatatingly, she joins in. 

"Please, light a candle for me." she whispers, as I leave. 

Life Of Brian

His name's Brian and he's 29 years old. Long, lean and undernourished with bright blue eyes and bad teeth.

He first dropped in for lunch a few months ago, and my heart went out to him. Some of our people are so obviously vulnerable. 

Three weeks ago, I sat at his table to talk to Eddy ( A pensioner who comes to the Mission so he doesn't have to stay in an unheated house, and for the company.) I finally asked the new-comer his name and felt that he was sufficiently at ease for me to start being nosey. Yes he has a room - at The Kimbrose Hotel, and he's tucked away on the top floor with two others in similar circumstances and he feels safe there. 

Today I was joshing with Eddy about some minor misdemeanour. "You would never do anything wrong!" (Eddy was just being polite. ) " Ah no, I just never get caught! It's these blue eyes of mine." I demonstrated opening them wide with a "Who me? Couldn't be! " expression.  Brian joined in, and the opening came to get even nosier. 

Brian needed to update the photo on his drivers licence. He has tried to get help, and help IS available - to get a provisional license, some lessons and test fees. About £600 worth. But no, Brian couldn't have the £25 to go to the Post Office and have his license renewed. 

"I have £25 in The God Fund. I said, I'll take you to the Post Office and we'll get it done."

Everybody should have a God Fund. Most of you would probably want to call it something else, but it works like this. You acquire some money more or less accidently - lottery, tax refund, found it in the street ... however,  and you wait until something or someone moves you sufficiently to want to give it away, then you do. It comes with strings though. Whomsoever gets the money never owns it, but at some time, when they can, they give it away again, under the same conditions. 

The God Fund has been burning a hole in my pocket ever since my friends Chris and Robin thrust it  into my hand for sorting out their computer back in January. I can't wait to tell them where it went. 

This afternoon one young man suffering from PTSD is two weeks away from having his license back, and is filled with a sense that someone cares: and one elderly woman has a very broad smile on her face. 

I suspect The Fund Manager does too. 

I left Brian in good hands... 

Sometimes, It's Good News

I haven't seen Alice for months. The last time I saw her, she was in bits. She'd broken an agreement not to see the drug-dealing, violent scumbag who'd fathered her twins, and as a result, was about to lose them.

And so she should. I take a hard line on this one. The Social Services had rehoused  her in a a refuge, in a distant town, away from danger. We, who care for, her breathed a sigh of relief: we thought she was safe. Then she listens to one , "I'm sorry, I've changed" story, and herself and her babies are once again at risk. Her Key Worker had no choice but to remove them. 

I know this, and wouldn't argue with it, but I am a mother. I felt my heart breaking for Alice who thought she'd lost her children for good, and I cried with her. Sometimes, that all you can do.

That was six months ago. I saw Alice today, and she was a different woman. She radiated happiness.

She doesn't have her babies back, but neither have they been adopted away from her. Alice has been given a second chance. Someone, in authority, decided to go the extra mile. It must have been hard work, and intensive. A lot of effort and a calculated risk. 

She is being rehoused a second time, in another town. She has goals to meet: regular testing, parenting classes, and another agreement to stay away from 'dad' when he leaves prison in April. If she stays on track, her children WILL be returned to her. The Alice i saw today, is willing and capable, to do all that is necessary. I'm sure she will succeed. 

Practically all the stories you hear about Social Workers are negative. It's a sad fact that when they make mistakes, there's a possibility that someone dies, and those mistakes are paraded in front of us so that we might pour scorn on the 'failures' that led to this or that scandal. My mistakes cost me a slap on the wrist, theirs, cost them their jobs. How anyone ever wants to take it on in the first place, beats me. 

In my work, as today's story bears witness to, I see another side of the story. A compassionate person who might not have been able to weep with Alice, did something far more dramatic. He, or she, put their  career on the line to give Alice her life back.

Thank you, whoever you are.