One time a long while ago I was having a conversation with a dentist.
Which you don't often get to do, what with the chair and the bright light and the pointy metal things and the Floss-Brush-Don't-Chew-Gum lectures.
But I digress. Rather earlier on than usual.
So this dentist was telling me that it was his dream to someday "work myself out of a job." To educate and train and repair people to the point where he was, professionally, no longer needed. To be so effective as to render yourself redundant.
To work yourself out of a job.
What a concept.
There aren't many jobs where that's really an option. Parenting comes close. But not really.
Teaching 4th graders, maybe. You can work yourself out of that job for a couple of months, at least. Until the next wave rolls in.
Maybe there's just no such thing.
Except I think I just may have done it.
Tonight, while I was home, there was a packing party going on for the folks at the Motel. The amazing J. had made her church's basement available for a group from a local Catholic congregation. They'd provided Dinner a couple of months ago and come up with a plan to put together care packages of practical items - TP, toothbrushes, paste, soap, shampoo, coffee, peanut butter... - to be handed out in January. Specifically tomorrow at Dinner.
So they've gone out and bought all of the stuff and some bags to put it in. Somebody's arranged for a boat load of bread from a grocery store. Everything was set up in the Baptist church basement and we'll see the grand results tomorrow.
A fairly cool idea.
With which I had absolutely nothing to do. I nodded. That's about it.
The number of people who've become involved in running this little adventure is quite something. There's the 10 or so of us who call ourselves regulars, then another 7 or 8 from each of 6 churches plus 3 teams of 8 or 10 from another church.
You do the math.
Plus quite a few who've never been to Dinner, but who are very concerned about the housing side of the question. Real estate people, lawyer people, health care people, surveying people, contracting people, building people - people with actual skills and education - all talking about what's going to happen to our little flock when the doors close.
There's even a brand new just born NFP. We're not exactly sure what it'll be when it grows up. But it's there.
Which is all a bit bewildering for me.
I'm an idea person. A noticer. A thinker. A pioneer spirit. A person who starts things. A catalyst.
And I'm not sure where that fits in with being a director of an NFP.
So the logical thing would be for me to bow out. To surrender the whole thing to people who know how and to look for what's next.
But it's not that simple.
Because it's not an organization. These folks at the Motel - they're in my life. They've coloured my thinking and shaped my heart for several years. I've seen some rise and shine and others crash and burn and yet others just keep putting one foot in front of the other over and over and over which is a miracle in itself.
I've seen perpetual drunks and addicts pull out of a tailspin and turn their lives into actual lives - some for years, months or even just weeks.
I've held my breath, watching those first few tottering steps and then wanted to cry whether they kept on their feet or not.
I've heard a friend talk about his kids and how he hasn't seen them in 4 years but last month at the Christmas play at the church he sat lost in the audience and watched and listened and was so proud at how great his kids did and how they've grown.
I've got to know a man, probably in his 70's, who lived there with his partner and left, then moved back when his partner broke his hip and needed care.
I've been regaled with stories of how things are going to get better soon that are masterpieces of denial and self-delusion and hope.
I've seen a lovely educated woman follow blindly the man she loves, even when he's being sought by both the cops and the dealers he was muling for, except he kinda forgot to give them their money.
I've known a man who can't walk away from the woman he loves even though she gets drunk and stabs him in a jealous rage. I've visited her in jail.
I've sat in what has passed for 'church' at the Motel and had the chance to tell a mom that - contrary to what she was feeling - she'd actually done the right thing in not taking up a pair of scissors to stab the man who punched her teenage son. If only because she'd be arrested and then her son would be on his own.
I've ached and ached and ached.
I've been hugged and kissed and thanked, sometimes for things I didn't do.
And, most of all, I've wondered where Jesus fits into all this. He's the reason I started down this wacky little sideroad. When I started going to the Motel, I found he'd been there ahead of me. So I followed. But I have a harder time finding his fingerprints there these days.
I've tried to figure out whether we're actually making a difference. Sometimes I think yes. Sometimes I think we're just along for the ride.
But on being along for the ride, we've had the chance to pull in all of those other dozens of people most of whom had had no idea who lived at the Motel and what life there was.
And now they know. Now they know someone by name who lives there. Now they're doing something about it. Whatever they can. It may not be enough. It may simply be to serve as many hot, nutritious meals, to have as many conversations, to laugh at as many jokes as possible before the doors close.
But, I guess, no matter how many of them there are and no matter how little I actually do, I can't work myself out of this job. 'Cause it's not a job. It's a life.
As my wise friend has written,
Which you don't often get to do, what with the chair and the bright light and the pointy metal things and the Floss-Brush-Don't-Chew-Gum lectures.
But I digress. Rather earlier on than usual.
So this dentist was telling me that it was his dream to someday "work myself out of a job." To educate and train and repair people to the point where he was, professionally, no longer needed. To be so effective as to render yourself redundant.
To work yourself out of a job.
What a concept.
There aren't many jobs where that's really an option. Parenting comes close. But not really.
Teaching 4th graders, maybe. You can work yourself out of that job for a couple of months, at least. Until the next wave rolls in.
Maybe there's just no such thing.
Except I think I just may have done it.
Tonight, while I was home, there was a packing party going on for the folks at the Motel. The amazing J. had made her church's basement available for a group from a local Catholic congregation. They'd provided Dinner a couple of months ago and come up with a plan to put together care packages of practical items - TP, toothbrushes, paste, soap, shampoo, coffee, peanut butter... - to be handed out in January. Specifically tomorrow at Dinner.
So they've gone out and bought all of the stuff and some bags to put it in. Somebody's arranged for a boat load of bread from a grocery store. Everything was set up in the Baptist church basement and we'll see the grand results tomorrow.
A fairly cool idea.
With which I had absolutely nothing to do. I nodded. That's about it.
The number of people who've become involved in running this little adventure is quite something. There's the 10 or so of us who call ourselves regulars, then another 7 or 8 from each of 6 churches plus 3 teams of 8 or 10 from another church.
You do the math.
Plus quite a few who've never been to Dinner, but who are very concerned about the housing side of the question. Real estate people, lawyer people, health care people, surveying people, contracting people, building people - people with actual skills and education - all talking about what's going to happen to our little flock when the doors close.
There's even a brand new just born NFP. We're not exactly sure what it'll be when it grows up. But it's there.
Which is all a bit bewildering for me.
I'm an idea person. A noticer. A thinker. A pioneer spirit. A person who starts things. A catalyst.
And I'm not sure where that fits in with being a director of an NFP.
So the logical thing would be for me to bow out. To surrender the whole thing to people who know how and to look for what's next.
But it's not that simple.
Because it's not an organization. These folks at the Motel - they're in my life. They've coloured my thinking and shaped my heart for several years. I've seen some rise and shine and others crash and burn and yet others just keep putting one foot in front of the other over and over and over which is a miracle in itself.
I've seen perpetual drunks and addicts pull out of a tailspin and turn their lives into actual lives - some for years, months or even just weeks.
I've held my breath, watching those first few tottering steps and then wanted to cry whether they kept on their feet or not.
I've heard a friend talk about his kids and how he hasn't seen them in 4 years but last month at the Christmas play at the church he sat lost in the audience and watched and listened and was so proud at how great his kids did and how they've grown.
I've got to know a man, probably in his 70's, who lived there with his partner and left, then moved back when his partner broke his hip and needed care.
I've been regaled with stories of how things are going to get better soon that are masterpieces of denial and self-delusion and hope.
I've seen a lovely educated woman follow blindly the man she loves, even when he's being sought by both the cops and the dealers he was muling for, except he kinda forgot to give them their money.
I've known a man who can't walk away from the woman he loves even though she gets drunk and stabs him in a jealous rage. I've visited her in jail.
I've sat in what has passed for 'church' at the Motel and had the chance to tell a mom that - contrary to what she was feeling - she'd actually done the right thing in not taking up a pair of scissors to stab the man who punched her teenage son. If only because she'd be arrested and then her son would be on his own.
I've ached and ached and ached.
I've been hugged and kissed and thanked, sometimes for things I didn't do.
And, most of all, I've wondered where Jesus fits into all this. He's the reason I started down this wacky little sideroad. When I started going to the Motel, I found he'd been there ahead of me. So I followed. But I have a harder time finding his fingerprints there these days.
I've tried to figure out whether we're actually making a difference. Sometimes I think yes. Sometimes I think we're just along for the ride.
But on being along for the ride, we've had the chance to pull in all of those other dozens of people most of whom had had no idea who lived at the Motel and what life there was.
And now they know. Now they know someone by name who lives there. Now they're doing something about it. Whatever they can. It may not be enough. It may simply be to serve as many hot, nutritious meals, to have as many conversations, to laugh at as many jokes as possible before the doors close.
But, I guess, no matter how many of them there are and no matter how little I actually do, I can't work myself out of this job. 'Cause it's not a job. It's a life.
As my wise friend has written,
"And since I have no clue what to do next I'll just keep on doing what I'm doing now - even if it isn't accomplishing anything. Because, really - what options do I have? What options do any of us have? What option is there?"r
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