Sitting with Suffering

Much has happened in the last couple of weeks at Joseph's House. We lost two dear friends in less than a week....and one of those deaths is what I wish to tell you all about today.

Tonya* moved out of Joseph's House the day I began work. She had regained her strength and was able to go back to her apartment, just a few blocks from my house. Her HIV was in check, with help from medication, and her cervical cancer had gone away. Full of excitement in her journey on, she left Joseph's House. About six weeks later, she moved back into the place she had left. Her cervical cancer had returned, and there was nothing the doctors could do to stop it. 

We built up a great friendship over the last two months. We watched football together, and I even rooted for the Cowboys with her (sorry Dad). We talked about boys, about friends, about family. We talked about our dreams and things we want to do. She really wanted to go on a Caribbean Cruise again because she had so much fun the first time. We watched soap operas together, her "stories", and laughed at how ridiculous they sometimes are. One evening, we were watching Extreme Makeover Home Edition, and she told me if she ever got a big house, there would always be a room for me. 

Her health was quickly declining. Her pain level seemed to be continuously increasing. She spent some time in the hospice inpatient unit, and when she came back, she was a different person. Her pain was in control, but she was pretty sedated. It was difficult to see a woman who I love so much unable to express herself with words, and sometimes unable to even open her eyes. I would spend a lot of my free time at work just sitting with her, holding her hand, watching TV, praying...just sitting.

The day after Thanksgiving, she began to have seizures. I had never seen someone have a seizure before, and witnessing this was really scary. I watched at she held her breath and clenched her jaw. I watched as she made deep fists, so strong that her nails were digging into her palms. I witnessed her legs lock up as they shook, and her body turn red. I heard as her teeth grinded against each other. It was terrifying. I was scared for her. I felt helpless. And one after another, the seizures continued. Along with a few co-workers and Tonya's dear friend, we held her close to us, constantly telling her we were there, that she was not alone, that we love her and that she will always be surrounded by that love. No matter how many times I said that though, I wished so much that there was more that I could do than just love her and hold her. I wished I could take the pain away. I wished that I could just touch her forehead and the seizures would stop or the fevers would go away. But I couldn't...and it is still so hard for me to accept that.

The seizures continued on and off for 6 days. Three days after the first one began, Tonya was taken back to the hospice inpatient unit, and we all knew that she would not be back at Joseph's House. My heart broke and for the first time in a long time, I questioned God. Why would he make her suffer for so long? If he was going to take her, why couldn't he do it sooner....and why did he have to take her from Joseph's House? Why couldn't she die with us? Why did she have to suffer? It didn't seem fair. She died on World AIDS Day, and my entire being wept.

I still feel the emotions so rawly. I miss her a lot and I wonder if she was ready to die when she did. The thing that stands out the most for me though, is my reaction to it all. Typically when things get hard or challenging, I run away. But not with Tonya...I stayed there as long as I could, and my heart is still with her. Yes, it is really hard to sit with suffering. My body aches when I do so. My heart cries out. My mind tries to tell me to do something to make the suffering end. But there is nothing I can do but sit, be, and love. I still want to run away sometimes, but something holds me there and allows me to be vulnerable, allows me to accept heart break. Sometimes I want to doubt God's existence, but something forces me to dive deeper into my faith instead. I want to cry out in anger, but instead I cry out in compassion. I am not sure what it is that keeps me there, but I am glad it does. 

At staff meeting yesterday, the administration shared with us a set of mantras by Roshi Joan Halifax. One sticks in my mind and I want to share that with you.

May I offer love knowing that I cannot control the course of life, suffering, or death.

God bless you all.

*Name has been changed.

Transition or Transformation

It amazes me how lives can change at Joseph's House, but I am also curious as to whether these changes will really be permanent. Is Joseph's House a place for transition or transformation, especially for those residents who become healthy enough to move out? Early last week, a resident was able to leave Joseph's House and move to a transitional housing program for men with a history of substance abuse. 

When Michael* moved to Joseph's House in July, he had a history of chronic homelessness. He had been living on the streets in the same neighborhood as Joseph's House for quite some time. He has HIV and was not taking medication. He is an alcoholic and a drug-user. He told me multiple times that his addiction always won. It was all he could think about. It dictated his every move. He did not care about people, he only cared about where he would get his next fix. As part of his agreement with Joseph's House - which is a clean and dry house - Michael began attending AA/NA meetings three times a week. 

I remember first meeting Michael. He was sitting in the chair in the living room, looking rather frail. I asked him how he was doing, and he told me his stomach had been really upset all day, causing him to feel incredibly weak. Later in the day, I began to hear more about his health, and found out that his HIV had almost won. He had a CD4 count of 1, meaning that for every milliliter of blood, he only had one white blood cell that would command the rest of the white blood cells to attack infections. A normal CD4 count is over 500. His immune system was far from functioning effectively. He had also just started on HIV medications that would help lower the amount of virus in his blood and allow his immune system to produce new, healthy CD4 cells.

Michael often seemed resistant to building relationships with any of the staff. He was busy dealing with his addiction, and sometimes it felt like he wanted to do it alone. Though he liked that people would travel with him to appointments or accompany him on walks around the neighborhood, he was constantly itching for his freedom. He seemed closed off, like he didn't want us around. I learned that his father had died from AIDS at Joseph's House just seven years earlier....and here he was, living in the same place as his father had lived, fighting the same health issue as his father had.

At community meetings, Michael would often tell us that it was hard for him to be at Joseph's House (especially when he felt locked down). He told us he didn't know how to love, or even what love meant. The only person he had ever told he loved was his mother...no one else. And here he was, at Joseph's House, where love is all around, and for some, may be overwhelming. He one time told Patty that it was hard for him to look at her because he saw his father...it brought back the memories of his dad's dying days in the house that he was now living in.

Michael was ready to move out of Joseph's House when the chance came. His health is much better and he has been clean and sober since July. He was ready to be independent again - or at least as independent as he could be. We were all excited to see him move on, but saddened and frightened because we did not know what would happen. During our goodbye ritual the day before he moved, each person in the community went around and said a hope that they had for him. Unfortunately, I was unable to be at work that day, but a co-worker told me the following. When it was Michael's turn to speak, he spoke profoundly about all that he had learned about love during his time at Joseph's House, and what the home and the community in that home has meant to him. Just the week before, he had stated that he didn't know how to love.

Our friend's life has been changed by Joseph's House in many ways. And while we don't know what the future will bring for him, there is so much hope in this transformation. I just pray that it is a permanent transformation....and that he will come back to visit...because we really do love him.

*Name has been changed.

A Mother's Love

A new resident moved in just over one week ago. Danielle* is a pretty twenty-eight year old who has HIV and heart disease. She was born with HIV, and my guess is her heart disease is the result of the virus working within her body. Her heart only pumps blood at 20%, whereas a normal heart pumps blood out to the body at 90%-100%. Currently, she has a medication that is constantly pumped into her (like an IV) assisting her heart in functioning. Without this medication, she would die within three weeks, and with it, she may only live for a year. 

When I first met Danielle, I was able to look past all the cords and tubes. At first, she really appears to be any other young woman. She has a strong personality; she is very funny; she likes to talk and loves Kit-Kats. She is very easy to become friends with because she is so open and friendly. She is the mother to two beautiful young boys, ages two years and nine months. She loves them so much, and seems like she would do just about anything for them. The boys are currently living with their father and grandmother in Anacostia, the poorest neighborhood in Washington, DC. Just a couple of days ago, the father and grandmother brought the baby to visit at Joseph's House. He is such a good baby - rarely cries, likes to laugh, and loves to cuddle. As I sat with the family, I thought a lot about some of my clients last year who would bring their children in. Sure, they, too, were living in poverty, as well as living with HIV. But at some point during the visit, it hit me....Danielle's situation at Joseph's House is so very different than my clients' back in Raleigh.

Danielle will most likely die in the next 12 months. I am not sure what her awareness level of this is yet. Perhaps she is still in denial, or maybe she has accepted it. I am not sure. As I watched her with her baby, though, I saw the true love of a mother; and witnessing that love brought tears to my eyes, as I remembered that she is dying. And here she is, at Joseph's House, unable to spend her days with her children. The boys live 30 minutes away, on the opposite side of town, and poverty really prevents mother and children from being able to be together. Her boyfriend and his grandmother both work full-time, wage jobs in order to provide for the boys. That makes it difficult for them to travel the 30 minutes to visit. Not to mention, it is easier for them to drive to Joseph's House than to take public transportation...and that costs money...and as we all know, gas is not cheap. 

I watched Danielle standing outside as her family got in the car and drove away. There was this longing in her eyes...longing for her boys, longing to be with her family, and maybe even a real fear of leaving it all behind. Just a twenty-eight year old mother, trying to do all she can for her kids, but her health and socioeconomic status as preventing her from even seeing them. I think about my friends, and what they would do in this situation. I think about new mothers I know and wonder how they would navigate all the barriers that are a reality to this young mother. What would you do? 

I just keep praying that we are able to make Joseph's House a home for Danielle...a place of comfort and companionship; a place of love and trust; maybe even a place full of family.

*Name has been changed.

Learning When It Is Not About Me

Joseph's House is not a place for the dying, I am learning. It is a place for the living. All of our residents are living each day, whether that living is nearing the end or if they are learning how to live all over again. One of our residents, who has become like a mother to me, is living with AIDS, has just been started on HIV medication, and is getting stronger each day. She has been a blessing in my life in so many ways, but mostly in her aggressive way of teaching me how to be patient.


With a strong personality similar to my own, she has a tendency to make demands. "Bring me a soda." "I asked for salt, NOT sugar." Pleases and thank yous are sometimes few and far between. There has been many a day when she pushed me so hard, I wanted to snap. I have cried because of her demanding nature and aggressiveness. I have found myself hurting inside because I feel like I am not being respected. But then she holds my hand and cries with me, apologizes for being so tough, tells me she loves me and she needs me....and suddenly the pain disappears. The next day I can laugh with her, get her a soda, and hopefully get the salt instead of the sugar. 


She has taught me how to love in ways I never knew how. Even through the frustrations that I encounter with her at times, there is this part of me that remembers that the little things should not hold me back. Those little moments should not be the source of anger, but rather a source of learning.


A week or so ago, a co-worker dropped her off at her family's house. She told us she would get a ride back home later that night. That night, she called around 9:30pm saying she had a ride and would be home soon...and she did not return. My initial instinct was that she had fallen and was in the hospital. She is not super steady on her feet, as she is gaining her strength back little by little. I became worried. One of our nurses talked to her brother, who told us that she was fine...so the worry disappeared and slowly began to be replaced by anger. Why would she call and say she was coming home...and not return? This continued for two days. She'd call, say she was on her way home, and then not show up.


I allowed my anger to grow to the point that I prayed I would not be the one at the house when she came back home...if she came back home. Two days later, I was working my late shift, and my co-worker told me that our friend was almost here and to let down the elevator for her. My heart ached. I expected the worst....that she had been out in the world again, using, hurting herself, when she was finally getting better and healing.


I watched as she got out of the car and walked to the elevator. I wanted to cry our of frustration, not knowing what I'd say when I saw her. My initial instinct was to say, "Where have you been? Why have you kept us worrying when you know we only want what is best for you? We only want for you to get better!" But when I saw her, I saw the fear in her eyes. Terrified she would be kicked out of Joseph's House, she practically walked by me without saying hello. My heart melted. The frustration disappeared. I hugged her and told her I love her and that I am so happy that she was home.


She sat upstairs with me and a co-worker and cried to us as she told us that the urine she just gave us was "dirty" and that she had been high multiple times when she was away. My heart ached as I saw the effects of addiction, but softened as I saw her courage and her bravery and her need to be loved. I sat with her for a while, just holding her hand. When I got up to leave, she asked me how another resident was doing, knowing that his health was declining. I looked her in the eye and told her the truth...that he is dying and would pass any day now. She began to cry again, looked at me, and said, "I have been so blessed and I don't know why." I told her, "I am just happy you are home," knowing that she could have died out there, especially if she never came home. As I began to cry with her, all of the anger and frustration finally went away. For the first time in my life, I was able to let go of the disappointment. I was able to get past the bitterness. I was able to truly love unconditionally. In that moment, I realized that it isn't always about me. This was about her, and I am just lucky and blessed to be a part of her journey.


Love is a special thing...but unconditional love - that true, beautiful love that knows no bounds and exists regardless of hurt or frustration - is the most amazing thing I have ever experienced.

A Peaceful Presence

There is a kind man living at Joseph's House whose presence for a long time intimidated me. He is very quiet. He spends much of his time meditating. His bedroom door is often closed. He doesn't speak too much English. Over the past few weeks, I have found myself avoiding his room. Our exchanges have been nothing more than simple "Good mornings" or "Do you need some pain medicine?" I have avoided him for so long, not because I do not know how to approach him, but because I am afraid to disturb his peace.

Like my friend who passed away a few weeks ago, this peaceful man is dying from liver cancer. Each day I witness his skin becoming more yellow, his body wasting away, and his feet swelling up as his body retains fluid. But for some reason, I still stay away from him. I have been told by many co-workers that this peaceful man has accepted that he is dying. He is ready to die. And still I stay away. As much as I say that I am fearful of disturbing him, or disrupting him in the middle of a meditation, I am realizing that I am actually scared of somehow messing up the peace that he has found. I am scared because it is so hard to fathom how some people can accept death and not try to run away from it or deny it like so many of us do.

This past Sunday, I worked the evening shift. After helping to clean up one of the other residents, I was getting some garbage bags from the hallway. I noticed that the bathroom door was closed and the light was on. Only one resident usually uses that bathroom, so I knew that our peaceful friend was inside. I heard the door open, met his eyes with mine, and next thing I knew, he was falling face first on to the hard wood floor. I watched as his swollen feet inside of sandals that didn't fit got caught on the threshold between the bathroom and the hallway. I watched as his arms flailed. Next thing I knew, he was on the ground. Two of my co-workers came flying up the stairs, along with our director. We helped our peaceful friend on to his back and got a pillow for him to rest his head on.

His chin was bleeding a bit, and he had chipped his front two teeth. He kept touching his teeth, as if to see if they had really broken. Each of us had a hand somewhere on his body - his arm or his head. Suddenly, he looked over at Cameron and said, "No CPR. No CPR." I was floored. Not for one second did I think this would be the moment he would die - and it wasn't - but to hear him say that, to so clearly accept that he is dying. My mind was really blown by that. How inspirational. How powerful. A few moments later, he looked as us, chuckled a little, and said, "Calm down." 

That's the kind of person he is, and I am really just starting to recognize it. Not only is he peaceful (which I admire so much), he also is full of joy. He puts others before himself. He is always giving - whether with a soft, gentle smile, or with some fruit that grows in China that his brother brings to the house. Even in the time that I avoided his room, I have learned so much from him about life. Every moment is special and is to be appreciated. Life is about being. I am really starting to understand what it means to be, and I am appreciative to this peaceful man for helping me see the light.

Redemption Song

My dear friend's battle with liver cancer ended this past Friday. My heart aches for him, wishing he was sitting on the front porch at Joseph's House to say, "Good morning, Shorty," or sitting in his room listening to Bob Marley. But I know he is still here in spirit. He still watches over me when I walk home, and he still greets me good morning when I arrive at Joseph's House.

Watching him die was one of the most challenging experiences, but also a very rewarding one. It was a time when I felt God's presence so clearly, when I was able to bear witness to the beauty that rises out of death. I spent most of the morning by his bedside Friday, writing him a little thank you note. I noticed a major change in him from the day before. He was breathing lightly. He was no longer moaning or wincing. It was almost like he was free of pain. As he slept, I sat there, watching, wrapped up in the mystery that surrounded me. A co-worker came in, and together, we gave him a gentle bed bath. Feeling his skin between my fingers was so intimate, so full of love, so powerful. As I moved his arm, his leg, his entire body, he peacefully obliged. Again, it seemed as though he was free from pain.

Early in the afternoon, our nurse came downstairs to find me. She said, "He is nearing the end. If it is important to you, and I know it is, you should go up to his room." I felt myself hesitate. I thought I could go to the bathroom first, but something inside of me pushed me and told me NO, you must go now. As I entered his room, I knelt at the foot of the bed and placed my hand on his foot. And that is where I remained until he took his last breath, and for many moments afterwards. 

He died peacefully, just as I had prayed all week. His breath slowly stopped and his heart slowly ceased beating. There was no groaning, no coughing, no evident pain. He so naturally died. My three friends and co-workers, entered the room after his death, and together we remembered. Balaji had his hand on our dear friend's leg and my hand in the other. My other hand rested inside Tina's while her other hand held Sam's. Together we mourned. Together we grieved. Together we remembered.

The mystery surrounded us in those moments. Where was he now that his spirit left his human body? We began to perform the Joseph's House rituals - lighting a candle by the bed, changing the body so the family can see him in all his beauty. As we changed him, we turned on the stereo near his bed. Bob Marley's "Redemption Song" began to play. The word freedom just kept repeating itself, and that was when I knew. My friend is now free. He has been carried to freedom. He has left this life for one of true freedom, true joy, singing his redemption song. The world lost a love-filled man, a teacher, a passionate human being, but we have gained a true angel. And for that...I am eternally grateful.

A Breaking Heart

In my first few weeks at Joseph's House, I have noticed that the current residents are not quite I expected. Though some are dying, they are still mobile and independent. For the most part, they do not need much assistance, other than providing them with their daily medications. Some are in a lot of pain, that we control with needed doses of morphine or methadone. But otherwise, I haven't really felt like I work at a hospice home...that is, until Monday.


One of our residents is an African-American man in his 50s who is dying from liver cancer. I still remember the day I met him - his smiling face, his ability to talk about practically anything, his humor, this instant sense of love he exudes. He has become a dear friend of mine. He always watches the Jets just so he can talk to me about them on Monday. He loves reggae - which I love so much. He has had adventures I can only dream of. He is like a father to me in some ways. He always checks to make sure I am ok. He endearingly calls me "Shorty" and loves the egg sandwiches I make for him. He tells me all the cool places to go in DC, but always cautions me not to get sucked into the tourist traps because I should never spend $4 on a hot dog. One night, when I worked 1-9pm, he made sure that my administrator let me take the van home so I wouldn't have to walk home by myself. I tell him I love him, and he always says he loves me back...and I know he means it.


Two weeks ago during staff meeting, we were talking about this dear friend of mine and updating each other on experiences we have had with him. I'm not sure what happened or what triggered my emotions, but I found myself with tears in my eyes, unable to speak, as I became aware of just how scared I am to see my friend die. It is not out of fear of not having him here with me; it is more a fear of having to watch him suffer. I wish that he wouldn't have to be in pain, that he wouldn't have to lose his continence, that he wouldn't have to become so weak that he couldn't walk. I witnessed over the past few weeks, his skin and the whites of his eyes becoming more yellow as jaundice took over. I listened as he began to forget simple things. I experienced his confusion when he asked if it was 3pm, when it was only 10am and we had just eaten breakfast. I watched as his appetite decreased and he nearly stopped eating. At the staff meeting that day, I was overcome with emotion as I became aware of my fear.


Right after the meeting, and a few days following, I found myself backing away from my friend. My fear was winning. It was taking over and pulling me away from a man who I have grown to love in such an amazing way. I had to convince myself that withdrawing from this friendship would help no one - neither him nor me. It would only hurt us both. I challenged myself to face my fear head on. I pushed myself to take those extra moments each day to just sit with him on the porch or to listen to some reggae upstairs in his room. I made him breakfast and lunch a number of times and always checked in to see how his pain level was.


Monday when I walked up the stairs to the front door, I felt an uneasiness within me. I walked inside and into the living room where my friend was sitting, asleep on the couch. I walked away, did a few things, and then went back to see him. I tried to wake him up, simply by saying his name. Usually, when he is asleep on the couch, it is easy to awaken him. This time, though, it took me touching his knee to bring him back. He looked at me with confusion in his eyes. Throughout the day, I witnessed as my friend began to decline. And now, I know, he is really dying.


My heart hurts. I cry often. Not because I cannot imagine being at Joseph's House without him....but because seeing him suffer breaks my heart in a way I have never experienced. Watching his body shake uncontrollably as he moves into sleep. Walking him to the bathroom, with my hands under his arms so that I can break his fall if need be. Standing in the bathroom with him as he barely makes it to the toilet. Having to change his pants, boxers, and give him his first pull-up diaper. Holding and tilting a cup of water to his mouth so he can swallow his pain medication. Seeing his brother's heart break, too. My heart is breaking while I watch the toll that alcoholism has on the body. My heart is breaking as I witness my friend dying from liver cancer. My heart is breaking....in a way that I cannot explain.


And this is why I am at Joseph's House.

When Love Finally Wins

I remember the moment, sitting in 8th grade English class early on September 11, 2001. Our teacher announced to us that something had happened, gave us a few details, and told us to be calm. We got sent home early from school early that day. I called my mom when I got home and she told me it would be best if I didn't turn the TV on until she got home. But I couldn't resist. I sat on my mom's bed watching the scene over and over again, sobbing. I was full of confusion, unable to understand what was going on. I just cried and cried - aching to understand...how could hate win?In the past ten years, I have had a life full of many blessed experiences. Yet the confusion has stuck with me, and at times has been even stronger than on that day in 8th grade when I was sobbing in front of the television. When Osama bin Laden was killed just a few months ago, Americans celebrated in the street. And again, hatred won. My heart breaks again and again when I see the footage from ten years ago or I hear the stories of friends who have lost a parent on that fateful day or friends who have lost a loved one in Afghanistan or Iraq. I ache. I cry. I pray. I hope...for a day when love finally gets to win...

Though I do not believe I have seen that day, I have found a place where love always comes out on top. In three short weeks, I have experienced love in so many new ways at Joseph's House - ways that restore my hope. Love is expressed in such a special way in this house. I have seen death and I have seen rebirth...and with each period of transition and transformation, love is at the forefront.

When I first began at Joseph's House, there was a resident who was dying. He quickly declined after an opportunistic infection caused his immune system to become overwhelmed. In the six days that I was allowed to be in his physical presence, there was no moment when his bedside was empty. Each time I walked by his room, someone was sitting there with him in the silence. Each held his hand to let him know they were there with him, that they love him, that they are forever grateful to have had the chance to know him. Watching this was transformative. The day he died, we all gathered at the house. His family came to see him, and together we stood - his two families - and comforted each other. Though I did not know him prior to his dying, and I surely did not know his family, the love I felt in the house was stronger than I had ever felt. There we were, side by side, black and white, old and young. So many things could have separated us if we allowed society to dictate that moment. But love got the chance to win.

Just the other day, we had the opportunity to say good-bye and good luck to another resident who is well enough to move out of Joseph's House. We all sat together in the living room and one by one, expressed our love and gratitude to her, as she did the same. She is not American and speaks little English. We were lucky to have a translator on the phone to help us communicate all that wanted to be expressed that day. But even if we hadn't...there was a mutual language of love present that day. Through the tears and the smiles, no words even had to be used. Love was present in the hugs, and the kisses, in the bows of gratitude. Love had the chance to win.

My heart is breaking today as I think about all that happened ten years ago. I remember the fear, the hurt, the confusion. I remember the tears. But I also remember the unification, the love, the pride that came after that day. So much could have separated us as Americans, and somehow this country came together.

My heart still hurts as I reflect on the ways that hate has won. But I am so grateful and blessed to be at Joseph's House where I finally have the chance to see love win.

This very day last year, I closed my blog post with a prayer by Pope Benedict XVI during his visit to Ground Zero in 2008, and I will do so again:

"God of peace, bring your peace to our violent world: peace in the hearts of all men and women and peace among the nations of the earth. Turn to your way of love those whose hearts and minds are consumed with hatred. God of understanding, overwhelmed by the magnitude of this tragedy, we seek your light and guidance as we confront such terrible events. Grant that those whose lives were spared may live so that the lives lost here may not have been lost in vain. Comfort and console us, strengthen us in hope, and give us the wisdom and courage to work tirelessly for a world where true peace and love reign among nations and in the hearts of all."

Please...never forget that together we can allow love to win every day. What will you do to make sure that happens?

Love in a New Chapter

I have found my new home in the city of Washington, DC. The past three weeks have been nothing but surreal and entirely bittersweet. The transition from a city full of people I love, to my hometown (and a visit to see my dad and brother) full of the people who have shaped my life, to a new city that I have already fallen in love with has been nothing short of a whirlwind. When I first left Raleigh, I became frightened...was I making the right decision? Did God really want me to leave so many people who changed my life this year? The eight days I spent on retreat helped me to realize that leaving Raleigh is not the end of the story. I cannot separate this past year from the year to come. They are simply two chapters in the long book of my life...and I honestly believe I can build a beautiful bridge between them.


I spent much of my time at Blue Ridge reflecting on love and the role it played in my life this past year. I have really struggled most with leaving Raleigh because of the uncertainty that it creates. I have fallen in love with many folks this year - clients, co-workers, community members. It broke my heart to walk away...and my heart still hurts. But I read a passage in a book my new boss gave me that talks about love as a bridge. It states that the bridge carries us into a place of non-judgment, of compassion, of adoration. Love is the way. I believe that this is one of the greatest lessons I've learned from my time in Raleigh. Life cannot be lived fully without love - love for self, love for other, love for God. My clients taught me what it means to love. They confided in me. They trusted me. They sometimes looked beyond the young white girl, beyond the privilege, and saw me for me. They even took the time to learn about me. There is something so beautiful about love. When it is truly unconditional, it is beautiful. When you can just love regardless of knowing, joy breaks through. This is what I found peace in the struggles I saw each and every day. My clients have this amazing faith and a tendency to look beyond. They have deep love for the people in their lives and a sense of security among all that is insecure. They challenged me to love, no matter what. Their stories pushed me to be compassionate, to be contemplative, to move beyond my judgments and beyond the stereotypes. They called me to look beyond the labels. Regardless of race, sexual orientation, gender, socioeconomic status, substance abuse history, mental health illness, mistakes made...regardless of all the labels society has cast upon people, my clients challenged me to love them anyways. Their stories changed my life and helped me to break down the barriers within me. They gave me a transformed worldview. They helped me to see the truth, to examine the reality, and to question the system. It is for them that I will continue to fight for justice. It is for them that I will love all unconditionally. For it is because of them that I learned how to love.


And this is the mindset that I come to Joseph's House with...


As I prepare to begin my new job tomorrow, I will remember each of the people I have loved in my year in Raleigh. My dearest friends - thank you for bringing me to this point. It is because of you that God has shown me that Joseph's House is where I am supposed to be at this point in my life. It is because of you that I was able to say yes. I know this year will not be a simple one, but I feel so blessed to have this opportunity to learn more about love.


Here's to a new chapter...and finding love once more.

Amazing Grace

Eight days ago, a dear friend and client of mine met his maker. It has been a long and trying eight days for me as I struggle with the many emotions I have been dealing with in response to his death. You may recall his story: He was diagnosed with HIV in 1989 and with AIDS in the 1999. When he was diagnosed with AIDS, he was told he only had 6 months to live. His sister dropped everything to take care of him at the end of his life. She quit her job so she could dedicate herself to his care. Six months turned into 12 years, and my dear client took his place with God just a few days ago.

I had visited John at the beginning of May, right after his sister told me that it looked like his suffering was coming to an end. The three of us talked for a while about life. John was constantly making jokes, even in the last days of his life. The day before he died, I went once more to see him and his sister. I had spoken to his sister that morning and she asked if I could bring them some food from the pantry. She told me that she couldn't leave the house because she feared leaving him alone. I drove down there after work that afternoon and spent some time sitting at John's bedside, watching him breathe, and talking to his family. It was the first time I had seen someone on the verge of death. He was skin and bones; his body had wasted away to practically nothing. The most he could muster up was "Hey," and then he went back to sleep. His sister began to tell me that he had been very unresponsive the day before - he wouldn't eat and wouldn't take his medications. When he called out to her and she went in his room, he would say nothing and was unable to tell her what he wanted. She told me how hard it was for her to see him like this. Above his bed was this beautiful painting of an angel. His sister told me that every time she walked into his room, she would say a quick prayer to the angel: "Please do not let me cry in front of him."

She has cared for him for 12 years. She literally dropped everything to be there for her brother. She took him to every doctor's appointment. She reminded him when to take his medications. She called the ambulance each time it became clear that he needed to be in the hospital. Every step of the way, she was there. For 12 years. Each time he had a panic attack, she was there. It was rare to see one without the other, and when I saw only her at the beginning of May, I grew concerned...that's when I knew that John's earthly life was coming to an end. The beautiful relationship between the two of them has taught me so much about God's love. She did more than just help John bear his cross; she carried it with him. Each time his suffering increased, you could see her own suffering increase ten-fold. That is true, unconditional love. That is God's love. It is a love unlike any other. A love that knows no bounds. A bond so strong that no matter how much suffering exists, that love will endure. I have never seen God's face so clearly than in this sister's love for her brother. At John's funeral, I watched as his sister kissed his casket and said goodbye. She let out one last gripping sob, and with it, she released him. It was truly beautiful.

I have been thinking so much about sickness and suffering these past couple of weeks, as we have lost four clients in 6 weeks. Sometimes, I find myself getting so angry. Why does AIDS exist? Why do we allow people to suffer? How do we stop it? Is love really enough?

I recently came across a quote by Paul Claudel: 

Jesus did not come to explain away suffering or remove it. He came to fill it with His presence. 

And this is what has allowed me to keep going, even when surrounded by such suffering. John's beautiful sister is a testament to the power of love. Even in his dying days, John was joking around. He kept telling his sister that if his funeral was not arranged exactly as he had asked, he would haunt her. That was the John we all knew and loved. Maybe his sister could not take away his suffering and she surely couldn't end his pain, but her presence, her love, and her compassion for her kin allowed for God to really be present in that suffering. 

I keep asking myself, if the loss of John has been such a struggle for me, how can I possibly work in hospice starting in August? How will I make it through? And then I am reminded of his sister and her unconditional love for John. All I can do is open myself up to God - through suffering and helping others to bear their crosses - and pray that I will be given the chance to love fully, wholly, and unconditionally much like the amazing woman I met in September did by dedicating her life to caring for her brother.

French Fries on the Ground

This is a piece I wrote for our monthly JVC Newsletter:

He walked into my office one afternoon, looking handsome in his slacks and dress shirt. We had met once before and had chatted on the phone a couple of times, as he kept me posted on the latest news in his life. Just 12 days older than me, I find I can connect with him on a different level than I can with my other clients. All he wants is to be independent; to go to college and get a degree; to go to work each day and leave smiling, knowing that he is doing what he loves. Yet, here he was - twenty-two years old and HIV positive, living with his grandparents, working part-time, longing to be back in the Army where he felt he belonged. That afternoon, though, all of his fears and longings seemed to have disappeared. He walked a little different and seemed to hold his head a little higher. When I asked him what had changed, he told me, with a huge smile, that he had moved into his own apartment and had bought a new car, after having saved since he left the Army. Excited for him, I gave him a high-five and told him how happy I was that he was happy. We chatted for a while about his life, his family and then about my life and my family. As our time together came to an end, he asked me to walk outside with him to see his new car. We turned the corner into the parking lot, and there it was: a "new" 1998 Subaru hatchback. We walked towards it and as I looked inside, he said, "Don't look at the french fries on the ground!"

The funniest sentence carried so much meaning for me. All the baggage seemed to melt away. I was no longer looking at a twenty-two year old afraid of never being his own person. I was no longer looking at a young man scared of dying. No. I was looking in the eyes of a friend who will not allow HIV to define who he is.

Working with clients my own age has been one of the biggest struggles for me this year. With each 20-something that walks into my office, the faces of my friends, cousins, and classmates flash before my eyes. I spent most of my senior year of college researching how students view HIV/AIDS, and found that many are educated about the epidemic, but few believe that they could become infected. My clients once thought that, too, until that fateful day when they walked in to receive the results of their HIV test and were told that it came back positive. The fear in their eyes when they come into my office is real. One client once asked me, "Am I going to be ok?" These new friends of mine have taught me so much and it is in their fear that I find beauty; it is in their joys that I find my biggest reward. When they realize that HIV does not have to define them, that they can define themselves - God has shown me something beautiful. Life is not about how much money you make or what people think of you. Life is about learning. Life is about the journey. Life is about realizing that we form our own paths and we define our own lives. HIV positive or HIV negative - all that matters is our love of self. That is what I learned on that day when I was told not to look at the french fries on the ground, and I am forever grateful to that twenty-two year old friend who taught me.

Unite the Fight

AIDS Walk and Ride, an annual fundraiser that benefits the agency I work for as well as other agencies that serve those living with HIV/AIDS, took place a week and a half ago. I was pretty excited about it, after having missed AIDS Walk New York for the first time in four years. I was looking forward to seeing how many people would show up and how much money would be raised. I was also curious to see how the event is run, especially when the only thing I have to compare it to is AIDS Walk New York - an event attended by tens of thousands of people and raises over $1 million dollars annually for agencies in NYC. Maybe I wasn't too pumped about having to be at the registration table at 5am, but I was excited nonetheless.

I didn't know what to expect as I drove to the area where the event would be held. I was kind of holding my breath, afraid that very few people would show up. North Carolina is a pretty conservative state and Wake County is growing more conservative as the Tea Party moves into its government. When it comes to HIV/AIDS, this state seems to have been swept up in the abstinence-only sexual education movement of the George W. Bush era. The funding necessary to save the lives of those living with HIV across this state is short. The AIDS Drug Assistance Program (ADAP), a program that assists those who are uninsured and living in poverty by providing them with the HIV medications necessary to save their lives, has a waiting list. This is something I had never heard of in NYC or in Connecticut. And now, even with a recent study stating that HIV medications not only save lives but can also help prevent the transmission of the virus, things don't seem to be changing down here. As I drove to the event before sunrise that Saturday morning, I didn't know what to expect. Part of me actually expected to see protesters like I did at PRIDE Day in Durham back in the fall. HIV/AIDS is stigmatized, as it has been for the past 30 years, and the generally conservative environment of the South makes it even more difficult to talk about the epidemic - and thus to prevent further transmission of this virus.

Cyclists began to arrive at the registration table, 89 in total. Each had registered to ride either 30, 60, or 100 miles. With each person who approached the table, I felt my heart soften a little. I do not know the stories behind each of these riders and I don't know their reasons for choosing to ride in our fundraiser. What I do know is that there was a clear passion among the crowd. As I glimpsed out at the group preparing to start their long rides, I was overcome with emotion. Team LLAMA, Team VIIV, and Team Tarhealers all stood there proudly with their race shirts. There had been a bad accident that morning on I-40 between Chapel Hill and Raleigh, so many of the team members from the Tarhealers were arriving late, as they are from UNC. It amazed me when one of the young men approached the registration table to say that the other riders could take off but the Tarhealers would wait until each of their team members arrived to start their ride. Riding together; riding in solidarity. 

A few hours later, many folks began arriving to the Children's Garden to register for the walk and to visit our festival. Things had settled down a lot after the riders left, but after a couple of hours, tons of people were arriving. People of all races, genders, sexual orientations, and ages were coming to walk for the cause. They were all coming to show their support for the fight against HIV/AIDS. I was blown away when we literally could not keep up with all the people coming to the registration table. I was baffled - amazed that hundreds of people were showing up to walk. I saw some of my clients, which made me so happy and proud. They were there to stand up for themselves and their friends, to say that HIV will not define them, and to show that they could not be stopped, that they would fight until the end. The people just kept coming, too. Every time I looked up, there were more people in line to register. Sure, not everyone had raised money to support the work of agencies like mine. But that did not matter to me. What struck me was the number of folks who had shown up; who had decided that HIV/AIDS is an issue they care about; who made up their minds to walk in solidarity with those that have been lost to AIDS and those who are living with this virus. There was this one group of people who all had a shirt on with the picture of a man on it, below which were listed the dates of his birth and his death. On the back it said, "AIDS may have taken your body, but your spirit lives on through each of us." 

That's when it became real to me. The negativity in my mind disappeared. There were no protesters there to stop us. And even if there were, it wouldn't have mattered. The political battles were put aside. All that mattered in those moments was the reason why everyone was there - to continue the fight; to show others that HIV/AIDS is a cause worth fighting for; and to walk with those living with the virus and in honor of those that have been lost. As the pair of empty shoes was brought on stage and we all paused for a moment to "Remember those lost, those living, and those we need to protect," tears began to fill my eyes. My passion was fueled even more by the hundreds of people gathered there that Saturday. It was a great reminder that there are many people willing to fight to end this epidemic, willing to keep their heads held high, even willing to open up their minds. This state may be conservative and a lack of understanding surely exists, but in those moments, none of that mattered any longer. I was proven wrong and that was the greatest thing I have learned here in Raleigh. There is hope - hope that this epidemic will come to an end and that one day, there will be no more names to add to our lists.

The Gift of Silence

When we left for our Ignatian Retreat last weekend, I kept thinking to myself, how the heck am I gonna be silent for 48 hours? How can I possibly be around people - my friends, for that matter - and remain silent? (For all you doubters....somehow I made it through.) And then, of course, there were the other questions directed more at the spiritual aspect of the retreat...is God going to speak to me? Am I actually open to hearing what God might say? A week after returning to Raleigh, I can honestly say that silence is a blessing and that weekend was a gift.

So often, my days are pretty busy running around, meeting new clients, talking to old clients, chatting with my roommates, and such that I rarely have time just to sit back and relax. I love my work and I love the young women I live with - don't get me wrong - but sometimes it is so nice just to be able to stop, listen to the birds or the rain coming down and simply reflect on all that life has been. This year, as you all know, has been amazing for me. It has provided me so much opportunity for growth, has shaped my worldview, and allowed me to think more deeply about justice, peace, and faith. Our retreat last weekend provided me with the chance to be with myself, to be with my thoughts, to reflect on where I've been and where I'm going, and to talk with God about how my work is His work. Some of you may think I'm a quack for talking about God in such a way - as though He is right there with me and I can engage Him in conversation. I used to think that, too, but much of this year has been a continuous dialogue with God - maybe not a dialogue in the sense of two people talking to each other using words, but a dialogue nonetheless. 

On April 28th, I lost my first client to AIDS; the first person I've lost to this epidemic. When I found out that he had died, I was shocked. I had just seen him at the beginning of April when he came in for financial assistance because he had lost his job. He didn't seem sick to me; he seemed very much like himself aside from the fact that he was upset over being let go by his employer. I don't know if I was most bothered by his death and not having recognized that he was ill, or if I was bothered by the fact that I never reached out to him in the time that I knew him. He always struck me as an angry person, someone who often seemed mad at the world. Because of this, I selfishly avoided him a lot. I didn't want him to bring me down, and I didn't want to fuel his fire in any way. So I tried to keep my distance. This was often pretty easy because he would come to the pantry pretty late in the day, when I could just let him go back there himself. I didn't want to get caught up in his anger, and I didn't want him to take it out on me, like I've had clients do in the past. I rarely gave him my time; I rarely took the time to listen or to simply chat about whatever, like I do with so many clients. Leading up to the retreat, I really felt like I had turned my back on him...and now he is gone.

During the retreat, two phrases were on repeat in my mind: Harden not my heart and Do not be afraid. Along with those phrases was one other word: Forgiveness. I have struggled with forgiveness for such a long time - a Cavaliere through and through. When I was a kid, my dad had a "list" upon which he would place the names of establishments that had some how ticked him off. If I wanted to go to Pizza Hut, for example, Dad would say, "No way. They're on the list." Forgiveness. What does that even mean? And why is it playing through my head over and over as I sit in silence. Every Sunday at mass, when I say the Lord's Prayer, I find myself saying "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who have trespassed against us," a little bit softer than the rest of the words. In my silent reflection and in my prayer, I was able to finally recognize a breakthrough for myself...

Forgiveness is not so much about accepting the apologies of those who have hurt you. Forgiveness isn't about fixing relationships or getting past the hurt or the anger. Forgiveness is about letting go of the bitterness. Forgiveness is about moving forward and continuing to love. Mother Teresa says, "Non-forgiving can destroy you for life. We keep thinking of that word that sister said but we need to acknowledge our sin, to be able to forgive." Forgiveness is about forgiving ourselves; it is about recognizing our own faults. So much of what I have learned this year is the importance of making myself vulnerable: to hurt, to heartbreak, to grief, to a lack of understanding, to anger. In the silence, God reminded me of the connection between love and forgiveness. I know that I cannot fully love God, others, or even myself, until I have forgiven.

The day after returning from retreat, I found out that a client I care deeply for is growing more and more frail with each passing day. His sister, who has cared for him for the past 7 years, came into the office recently seeking assistance financially and emotionally. I spoke with her for a long time in the pantry as she told me about her brother's current suffering and about her own struggles. As he lives in pain, though, his light shines through and gives her hope and strengthens her faith. I went to visit them with Ms. Jeanette a couple of days later. When I saw him, I first noticed how his legs have deteriorated. He easily weighs less than I do, and his legs are so frail, they look like they may crumble right under him. But, his light continues to shine through. We all talked and talked about all kinds of things - family, food, faith. As Ms. Jeanette and I got ready to leave, John looked up and started talking about his faith. He told us how he longs to have someone to study the Bible with and to talk to about his sins. He said that he believes some of his sins have not been forgiven and he cries so much over that. Ms. Jeanette said that tears are a symbol of repentance. I could see it in John's eyes and hear it in his voice. He was saying, "I cannot leave this Earth until I have forgiven myself. I cannot let go until I have forgiven."

My time in Raleigh has shown me so much about the world and exposed me to the reality of the social injustice that exists in our world. With each person I meet, I learn more about myself because with each person, God is showing me something. In silence, I truly thought that God was leading me to forgiveness, but it was not until hearing John talk about forgiveness that I really knew that I am ready. I am ready to let go; I am ready to move on; I am ready to forgive myself and move forward with my life. The silence was a gift and a blessing, but I could not have found the beauty in the silence without the experiences I have had this year.

Washing Of The Feet

It is rare that I write about my faith on my blog, but I am realizing more and more how my passion for social justice goes hand in hand with my faith and my beliefs. This became incredibly clear at Holy Thursday mass, when I was overcome with emotion as I heard the Gospel, watched the washing of the feet, and reflected on the things I saw and the things I heard this week after the tornadoes ripped through my city.


During the day on Thursday, my co-worker Donna came into my office to update me on the destruction she had seen in northern Raleigh that day. We talked about the feeling of speechlessness that overwhelms us each time we see new damage or even drive down the same streets. I had yet to see any of the damage in the northern part of Raleigh because I never travel up in that particular section of the city...hence my focus in my last post about southeast Raleigh (my section of town). As Donna talked to me about what she had seen - roofs off of big commercial properties, large trees down everywhere, trees snapped in half - I was once again left without words, unable to describe how I was feeling. The word that kept running through my head was "why"...why such destruction? Why such pain? The feelings came and went as the day went on until Kristin came into my office a couple of hours later. She had just visited a client of hers who lives in the trailer park where three boys were killed during the tornado last weekend. When she walked into my office and began to tell me about what she saw, I could see that she was visibly shaken by the sights. She pulled out her camera and began to show me the pictures she had snapped while she was there - huge trees literally snapped like toothpicks, trees smashed right through trailers. Speechless again, I just stared at the photos, unsure how to respond, unsure of how I was feeling...confused, startled, scared, feeling my heart break for those affected by the storms. Kristin looked at me and said, "I'm going to bring my client food later today if you want to come." I knew that I had to.


As we pulled up to the entrance of the trailer park, I saw cars parked on both sides of the street and some tents set up just outside of the entrance. Volunteers were cleaning up after handing out food to the families in the neighborhood. A police officer was patrolling the entrance so that only people who needed to be in the area were there. After Kristin showed the police officer her Wake County ID, we headed into the trailer park. I quickly caught sight of some of trees that had fallen, but the devastation was not yet clear to me. We visited Kristin's client for a few minutes, bringing her new food from the pantry because her food had spoiled after being without power for five days. After the visit, Kristin drove me around the trailer park. Her client's trailer had been unaffected by the storms, and most of the trailers directly surrounding her home were unharmed - maybe a broken window here and there, or some siding that had come off, but nothing devastating. We drove a little bit and then I started to see the real devastation. Entire trailers were ripped to pieces with trees right through them. There is no way these trailers can be repaired. Families have lost everything. I looked at those homes and all I could think was, that was someone's life...and now it is all gone. I saw a bed cut right in half. I saw clothes everywhere. I saw the insulation of a home wrapped around a tree. Entire lives...gone. How can they rebuild? Mostly immigrant families living in deep poverty...how will they rebuild?


That night at Holy Thursday mass, a powerful feeling came over for me as Fr. Ray read the Gospel and then got down on his knees and washed the feet of 12 parishioners. For those of you who do not know, in the Gospel of John (John 13:1-15 to be exact), John recounts the story of Jesus getting down and washing the feet of his disciples. An act that servants would not even perform for their masters, Jesus sat before this disciples and washed their feet. The Bible says that Jesus said to them afterwards: "Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord; and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have given you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you." Fr. Ray stood before us and helped us to understand this part of scripture, explaining that Jesus has provided us an example. Jesus is not necessarily saying, "Go forth and wash the feet of all the people," but he is telling his disciples to go forth and do as he has done...be one with the poor, the sick, the marginalized, and spread his message. Or as St. Francis once said, "Preach the Gospel, and if necessary, use words." Jesus says it himself...when I die, do not let me die. Continue to live in the example that I have set for you. As Fr. Ray washed the feet of the 12 parishioners, I cried and cried. This year has been a spiritual journey for me in so many ways. I have come to be able to articulate my faith in a new way and have realized how my spirituality and my passion for social justice go hand-in-hand. Jesus left an example for me...be Jesus for others. Spread the compassion. Look at the people of the world and recognize that we are all brothers and sisters; one people; one humanity. As such, we must all work together to bring about peace on this Earth. We must give to each other in order to bring about a reign of justice. It is together that we can bring about a better world, a peaceful world, a just world.


It is so fitting that I visited the trailer park on Holy Thursday. When I heard the Gospel that night and watched as Fr. Ray followed Jesus' example and washed the feet of my brothers and sisters, it was then that I realized how powerful of a sight I had witnessed in the trailer park devastated by the tornado. Among the destruction and my own feelings of helplessness, I witnessed something beautiful. Compassion. Hope. Through the devastation I saw volunteers everywhere. Helping to inspect homes, giving out food and clothes, working to cleanup...around each corner, there they were. I saw neighbors helping neighbors and strangers helping strangers. Brothers and sisters working together. Men and women following Christ's example and "washing the feet" of their fellow people.

"In a spirit of thankfulness, 

we wash each other's feet, 

uphold each other's lives. 

In a spirit of joy and praise, 

we serve each other now, 

at the table of the Lord."

Serving You

This Is My City.

As most of you know, this weekend was a scary one here in Raleigh. Severe storms ripped through central North Carolina, producing tornadoes - one of which touched down less than a mile from my house. Hanna and I were at the YMCA, hoping to workout at the same time the thunderstorms came so as not to drive through the rough rain. Never did we think that within five minutes of our being there we would be evacuated into the locker rooms because of tornado warnings. Who would ever think that there would be a tornado in Raleigh, NC? NOT ME....or any of my roommates for that matter. As we watched the meteorologists track the storms on TV in the locker rooms and told Samii and Kate to do the same, they began to talk about a possible tornado in the downtown area. That surely scared us and once the storms passed and we couldn't get ahold of the girls at home, we rushed home to make sure everything was ok. Thankfully, all was in order back at our house and in our immediate neighborhood (aside from the giant tree up the block that was ripped in half).

Once the initial fear disappeared, we decided to drive through town to see what really happened and if it was as bad as we had originally heard on the TV before we lost power. As we drove down Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd, the impact of the tornado and severe storms became instantly clear. All of the streetlights were out; huge oak trees had been completely uprooted and had fallen into the street; small trees had been snapped in half; big green highway signs had been destroyed; trees were resting on houses; the roof of Shaw University's student union had been blown right off and windows in the residence halls were blown out. We drove through the neighborhoods closest to ours, feeling so blessed that we were ok and that the tornado had missed us. The fear vanished but was replaced by other powerful emotions, namely sadness and anger. On one of the busiest streets in the city, all of the streetlights were without power. Some of the heavily traveled intersections had police officers directing traffic, while others were without traffic control. It was at these intersections that the anger and lack of understanding began to take over. Rather than treating these intersections as 4-way stops, people were breezing through them without regard for oncoming traffic. Each time a car would stop at the intersection, taking the precaution of avoiding an accident, a car from behind would beep. How could people be so impatient at such a time? Did they miss the news that this neighborhood just got hit by a tornado? It was impossible that they did because on the same street we were driving on, there were trees everywhere, destruction that was clearly evident. I couldn't (and still cannot) understand how people could breeze right on through as though they had the right of way, when, in reality, getting to our destination should not be the most important thing on our minds. 

Without power, we were completely out of the loop, unaware of how much damage there was aside from what we had seen right after the storm. We had no idea that people had died or that there was another neighborhood in north Raleigh that was equally as destroyed as the one in the southeast section of town. On Sunday, we drove through southeast Raleigh once more on our way to the ordination of my old supervisor. Her church is smack-dab in the middle of one of the toughest neighborhoods in town. A place where poverty is ingrained, this section of Raleigh happens to be one of the areas most devastated by the tornado (the same neighborhood described above). My anger from the previous day turned to sadness as I began to witness the devastation to the neighborhood. Entire roads were blocked due to fallen trees and fallen power lines. Many houses had trees inside of them. There was still no power. Cars were smashed. The next day I talked to my co-workers about how they had been impacted by the storms. My boss' neighborhood is  a mess. Another colleague's mother's home is devastated. I instantly began calling clients that I am close with to see if they were ok. It was then that I realized the impact the storm was having on the most impoverished part of Raleigh.

With each call, I heard the fear in voices of clients who live in southeast Raleigh. Fear because their food had been spoiled due to the power outage. Fear because they don't know what to do about the damage. Fear because there is no money to rebuild. Dwayne told me that he was still without power, that he had no food, that his neighbor's truck was destroyed. Jabbar told me his mom's car was literally sitting on top of another car and that he had no more gas in his truck because he had helped her get the insurance agent and run other errands. These are just two of the stories. My hear broke and continues to break as I realize the impact this tornado is having on those who already struggle each day. Why did the tornado have to hit that neighborhood of all places? Why did it have to devastate a section of town that is already devastated by poverty? The things that I know I take for granted each day are the things these people need most but are struggling to get in such a time of need - food, gas, money to rebuild. I keep thinking that if the tornado had struck a little further west, the devastation would still be bad but rebuilding might take less time. Those who already have so little have now really lost everything. Why southeast Raleigh?

I never would have thought I would be able to say I made it through a tornado - and maybe I can't really say that now. But I have definitely realized how those feelings of invincibility are a part of who I am. I have never witnessed a natural disaster...sure we have blizzards back home and pretty bad thunderstorms from time to time, but I've never seen a tornado, never been through a hurricane, never felt an earthquake, never seen a wild fire. Every day on the news, I witness the sad stories of homes lost to fires (like in Texas right now) or entire cities destroyed from earthquakes (like in Haiti). But here I am...in Raleigh, NC...seeing it with my own eyes. A tornado ripped through one of the most impoverished areas of the city and many have lost so much. This is my city. This is my life. These are my clients, my friends, my brothers and sisters. What can I do to help? What can I do to ease the pain? I feel blessed that this city and county are responding to the tornado in such a positive way and I hope that I can lend a helping hand somehow.