Two Roads Diverged

Two months ago, a beautiful young woman walked into my life at Joseph's House. She is a loving woman. She craves love and gives love in a way that I have not seen from anyone when they first move into Joseph's House. When you meet her for the first time, you'd think she's my age, though she is 43. She is no taller than me and is pretty tiny when it comes to her weight. She carries herself with such grace and pride, but it does not take long to witness that she also carries a cross. She has AIDS and became very sick before coming to our community. She also suffers from crack addiction, from bipolar disorder, has a history of suicide attempts, and has spent a lot of time in the psych ward at a university hospital nearby. She has "baggage," and her medical history is only a fraction of it. She has four children, a couple of siblings, and a mother who kept her at a distance before she got really sick and was in the hospital. There are somedays that, even through the love, I can tell that she is not whole. Her craving of love is so real because so much of her life she has been held down by her illnesses and held at an arm's length by the people whom she loves most.

It is really easy for me to forget all of this, though. I've watched her grow stronger each day. She eats like a champion, when there was once a time when she barely ate at all. She takes pride in how her body is gaining fat and muscle and that she can often times walk without her cane. She is very honest with herself. When she began to hear voices that told her to kill herself with pills, she reached out to us in the hopes that we could help. When she feels like she really wants to get high, she talks openly about it. She does not hide herself from our community. She trusts us because we trust her.

My relationship with her has been like that between two sisters. We have beautiful days when we can talk for hours - about men and relationships, about hopes for the future, about our struggles and our joys, about our families and our pasts. There is a love between us that really seems like it existed before we knew one another. When a friend of ours died a couple of weeks ago, she sat with me and held me while I wept. She is a comforter. But...then there are those days when we just don't see eye to eye, where we argue about silly little things. It really is a sister-like bond that we have. And because I love her so much and know that she can get better, grow stronger, and one day be healthy, I want nothing but the best for her. I want to see her walk out of Joseph's House one day, with her head held high, knowing that she can take on the world.

Now imagine my shock, surprise and confusion the day she told me that she did not want to start HIV medications - a treatment that will save her live and help her to thrive.

The news came after a memorial service at Joseph's House for a great man who really did touch the lives of each person in our community. I saw my friend sitting in a chair in the living room after the service was over and most of the guests had left. Earlier in the day she had gone to see her HIV doctor, who told her that it was time to start her medications. She knew that this was what the appointment would be about. The day before, she told me how nervous she was to start taking "so many pills" with "so many side effects," but together we had said, there's no reason to worry when we really don't know what treatment plan the doctor will recommend or what side effects that specific treatment plan would carry with it. Naturally, as she sat in the chair after the service, I asked how her appointment was and what the doctor said. I could tell that she was really upset. She began to tell me how awful the appointment was because she really didn't want to start the medications. When I asked why, she responded (and I paraphrase), "I don't want to ever leave Joseph's House. If I get better, I have to leave. I have nothing to go back to except crack. My family didn't even talk to me until I became sick. You guys are my family. You guys love me. If I leave here, I have nothing. I do not want to leave here. I want to die at Joseph's House. I saw how peaceful our friend was when he died and I want that peace for myself."

I sat and listened, and held her hand, and dried her tears. How do you just sit back and listen as someone you love tells you they would rather die than live when there is every possibility that they can survive? I couldn't help but think "WHAT?! Why wouldn't you want to get better and go out on your own and start your life over again?" As I looked into her eyes, though, I remembered that she and I are very different people. She grew up in poverty, unlikely to break through the cycle that holds people in the ghetto. She grew up without much love or support. She has only a high school education. She is an addict and suffers from serious mental health disorders. I am none of these things and have never experienced the things she has. It is easy for me to say there is so much to live for when my reality is not hers. But it is still so difficult to reconcile it all. How can I listen to this wonderful, loving woman say she wishes to die and still express my great love for her, let her know I support her and I'm here for her when I do not agree with what she wants to do? I still do not know the answer, but I just find the strength within me to listen, to hear her out, and to keep saying that I love her. I will never know what it is like to walk in her shoes or wear her skin...all I can do is meet her where she is and offer my love and support...and hope that she accepts it.

Love You Back

Sometimes I think it is so cliche to say, "He changed my life." How can we point to one person and so easily say that he or she is the reason for a transformation in our lives? I wonder this often, as I have found myself so steadily saying things like "Joseph's House has changed my life" or "That man really taught me something that has transformed my perspective." I want to tell the story of a man who I really believe has changed me...perhaps my path in life has not been altered because of him, but my approach to relationships has definitely been impacted.

The first time I met him was in a nursing home. I was instantly struck by how tall and skinny he was. He held himself with great pride, but it took me a while to get past the fact that he could stand up and walk with so little fat and muscle on his body. One of the first things he told me that day was, "I'm scared. I'm anxious." When I asked him why, he was quick to say that he had been given a death sentence, that he didn't know when he would die, but he knew that it would be soon. He was so honest with me in our first meeting. It was as though he saw something in me that told him he could trust me. And when he moved into Joseph's House, I instantly became his confidante, his secret-keeper, the one to whom he told so much.

I took such pride in being his confidante. I felt special. I felt strong. I felt worthy. For a 70 year old man to look at a 23 year old and say, "I trust you"....let's just say, that's never really happened to me before. Most folks who are older than me, whether it be clients whom I have worked with or colleagues I've met along the way, have a tendency to love me, yet only share so much with me because of my youth...because I may not understand where they are coming from because I have grown up in a very different world. Not my friend, though. He treated me like an equal, took interest in my life, and was never hesitant to tell me about his. I loved spending time with him because we could talk for hours about a diverse range of things - life, love, friendship, joy, sadness, and even his impending death. I loved our conversations, so much so that my "husband" at Joseph's House even got a little jealous.

This was all until I really started to see how much my friend had sunk into depression. Once I realized that he was suffering mentally and emotionally, aside from just physically, I got scared. I found myself backing away, spending less time in his room, making excuses as to why I couldn't sit and hang out. I didn't know how to deal with his depression, as each time I tried to show him the possibly joy in a situation, it was never good enough. I did what I have always done in my life when someone I love is suffering like this...I ran away. And he knew I was doing it.

In the last two weeks of his life, something changed. I started to really reflect on how easy it was for me to run away but how challenging it was to admit that I had done so. One day I had gone into his room to bring him dinner. I sat down besides his bed and my entire body language kind of screamed "Get me out of here!" My legs were bouncing up and down, I was humming and staring at the TV, afraid to engage in conversation because I did not want to confront depression. I didn't want to hear my friend talk about his internal pain or his anger because I didn't want my friend to hurt anymore...and I knew there was nothing tangible that I could do to help him, to heal his pain, to end his suffering. Suddenly, by the grace of God, I looked at him and asked the strangest question: "Do you feel like I am rushing you each time I enter this room? Because I feel like I am rushing you...and in no way is that fair to you." What happened next is why I say that this man has changed me.

He answered with a simple yes...and then told me not to leave, but to sit. That he was now determined to teach me to slow down, to stop rushing, to just sit and engage in conversation. And so we talked and for the first time in my life, I didn't run away when things got uncomfortable. Even when our conversation reached a point in which I recognized that no matter what I said, no matter what differing perspective I offered, it was his life and he would approach it in the way he chose to approach it. Our conversation grew so deep that day. We discussed how difficult life is when we can no longer find joy or happiness; how hard it is when people who love you hurt you; how much it hurts when you let yourself down. Through our conversation, I found peace with him; and God reminded me that love is enough. I don't have to have some tangible way of healing someone. Love is enough. I don't have to be able to see that I have taken away someone's suffering. Love is enough. Love is enough and it will always be enough and running away is no solution. Love is the answer...

The next two weeks are difficult to explain, but I was full of love. I spent as much time as I could with my friend so that he would know that someone was there, that someone loved him despite his flaws, despite his weaknesses, despite his past actions. Someone loved him unconditionally. I watched as my dear friend died...but died with an awareness of what was happening to him. He never slipped into a coma. He spoke in metaphors of going on a journey. One morning, for three hours, he explained to me that we were in a car, that he didn't know where we were going, but that he knew we had to get there. He told me that we would see friends along the way and that we would have to say goodbye. Each day I sat with my phone beside me whenever I was not at work, waiting for the phone call that my friend had gone home to God. But each day when I went home, something in me told me it wasn't time yet. When the day came that it was time for me to leave Joseph's House for the weekend, I knew that it was the last time I would see my friend again. I help his hand and told him it was time for me to say goodbye. His confusion was so clear and he mumbled something under his breath about what it means to say goodbye. I kissed him on his forehead and said, "I love you, friend." Through the confusion, through the suffering, he looked me in the eye and said, "Love you back, Britt."

Words cannot describe the power that love has, especially love between two people. I felt it in that moment. God was there with us, and I believe God healed us both that day. My friend died very peacefully on February 19th before dawn. His journey is complete, and I know that he was able to say goodbye to his friends along the way. I am forever grateful.