sitting on a desk in a small stifling hot office space of
the lancaster homeless shelter, I suddenly came face to face with a realization
about myself: I had no idea. literally. that was my realization: I had no idea
of the hardships the women coming into the shelter had/were were going through.
I was sitting on the desk, my usual spot to sit during the
lull right before dinner is served at 5:45pm, when a woman, who I will call
“Maria,” was talking with the ladies resident assistant on duty. Maria and the resident assistant were talking exchanging stories on a subject so far removed
from my world I felt like I was watching a documentary on homeless women rather
than sitting in a room with two people having a conversation. their conversation was about life problems so hard they threaten to beat a person to the point of
impossible recovery. I sat there and listened, realizing (VERY early on) this
was a conversation I had no right to participate in. all I could do was listen. which is what this post is about.
listening.
a friend jokingly asked me a couple weeks ago what it was
like to be homeless. I had not yet started volunteering at the shelter, so I
did not have an answer for him; I do now. humiliating. And that is no joke. three words that describe lancaster, ca. in the summer: HOT, windy, dusty. a
triple threat combination leaving a body smelly, dirty, and tired after being
out in those conditions all day. when you smell and look dirty no one wants to
be around you. as if asking for help were not hard enough, try asking for help
when no one wants to be around you. I am not so naïve as to think that the reasons
above are the only ones preventing those who are not homeless from wanting to
be around those who are. but are these major contributing factors? think about
it.
I tried to observe how I could best serve the homeless women
of the shelter during the short amount of time I would be there. I was there
for three weeks. only 60 hours total. that is nothing. as I began interacting more
with the women in the shelter I discovered that people like to talk. not all
people…but most. and people who have no one to talk to all day, have no one to
care about his or her life or well being, yearn to be heard. I do not have the
gift of listening. but God always knows what He is doing.
I joined women’s ministry at moody. before I come back to
school I am required to read a book called “can you hear me now?” I am not
enjoying the book. however I have learned one useful thing. it was found in a quote by henry david thoreau that caught my attention as I glazed through the book during a
movie at the children’s ministry camp I helped with at my church last weekend.
“the greatest compliment that was ever paid me was when one
asked me what I thought, and attended to my answer.” —Thoreau
asking and listening.
these women want to be heard. asked about. cared for. who
doesn’t? when I come home, I talk about my day. when I read a good book, I want
to discuss the book with someone willing to hear my opinion. when I am angered
or hurt or frustrated, I want someone to vent to.
these women have days they want to share. opinions they want
heard. a listening ear they want to vent to. that was my job at the shelter. not officially. but it seems to be one of those God-given things. I have
listened to conversations about hurt and violence, stories of abuse overcome by
grace; conversations too sacred to be given over when they are not mine to
give. stories told by weary women when they come “home” for the night.
listening involves responding. not necessarily with words,
but with actions. and, with these women, listening involves follow up. one
woman, (a lady I will call “Anna”) told me on monday she would tell me when I
came back in on wednesday how her day trip to L.A. on tuesday went. I will
never forget the look of surprise on Anna’s face when I asked her on wednesday
how her day trip to L.A. went the day before.
on my last day a woman (who I will call “Jenny”), a lady I
had come to know a little better than the rest, tapped the glass window of the
office I was sitting in. I looked up and saw Jenny was holding one of the
wheels to her cart that carried all her possessions. all of them. she told me
later that when her cart broke on the way to the shelter she felt like she had
to tell someone when she got there. she needed to talk the situation through
with someone; how would she handle the handicap of a cart with three wheels
instead of four? she found a solution on her own, I offered no advice. but she
needed someone to listen to her.
I learned that this summer God wanted me to listen. perhaps
the noise of the past school year taught me to tune out things that are hard
for me to hear. perhaps I struggle with only wanting to do what I want, and
thus only hear what I have to say. whatever the reason, I was in a place where
the only thing I was good for was listening.
“now that I have told you my whole story…and have stopped
crying…thanks for listening…”
-- Jenny (these were the parting words of “Jenny” just
before I left the shelter on my last day)
p.s. it at first seemed silly to me to give these women fake
names rather than use their real names. however, although I feel comfortable telling some of the stories that involve
interactions I had with some of these ladies, I do not feel comfortable using
their real names. personal conviction.
