10 things from the hardest job I've had

10- I had no earthly idea what it was I was applying for when I interviewed and got hired for the gig. Serving homeless people?  There's a hefty deposit in the good karma dept.

9- My training and/or bosses really did try and tell me how hard it could be.

8- Putting the two other part time jobs on the back burner turned out to be a smart move after all.  For the more practical reasons like my mental, and emotional health.  Not for the financial reasons though.  I'd be rich if we could cash in on feeling inadequate and courageous.

7- My mom was a bit shocked to learn about the job and warned me about the types of people I'd be working with and for.

6- Shit hit the fan and some days I felt like laying under my car, or pigeon holing myself in the corner of my garage.

5- I celebrated another year of life a midst the craziness.  Biggest celebration yet.  Was a great time.

4- Rituals and celebrations aren't overrated.  I had my own self-care habits and I'm grateful I looked just as mental and obsessed as anyone else trying to practice them.

3- God's people, my Church, and my faith were the only things that got me through this job.  Nothing like working 13 hours and still- the best two hours of the week were ahead.  Worship and fellowship gave me the courage to get through the next week.

2- The only stat that mattered, hearing "thank you for finally getting the job" from an elderly guy at the shelter.

1- The goodbyes and the handshakes on my last shift.  Softened the heart.  Being able to look those guys in the eyes and tell them I did the best possible job I could for them.  The discipline, the advocacy, the relationship building, the praying, the repenting, the serving, the laughter.

Priceless.

2 Saints, 1 sinner

Try to imagine, the more honorable people you can think of.  It is probably someone you know well.  Or maybe it's some historical figure.  I couldn't tell you my take on the matter.  But 2 men recently have really got me thinking about glory and rewards.

It's the work place.  Guy comes in and boasts about a celebration.  The celebration, not cause for concern is no big deal.  The guys action, however, is what got my attention.  "I was up on the counter, dancing, having the time of my life.  And then the cops got called and I got hauled in."  Dude had just gotten out of the joint some days after the matter, jovial as all get up and unremorseful.  Said he'd do it again. With an mischievous smile.  "Why, oh homeless dude are you so reckless with your life.  You're homeless.  A chronic bullshitter, a drunk, and guilt the youth into begrudgingly listening to a ten part sermon on a hard life."  This is the sinner talking.  Less than an hour later, the homeless bullshitter drunk, is offering to pray for the brokenhearted and the hurting.  How real can faith get?

Same work place.  Second guy.  This guy has the reputation of being the "big drunk Indian guy."  Reminiscent of a time passed.  The second guy hasn't lived on an Indian reservation really ever in his life.  The sinner, a young Indian, ridicules the accusers of sarcastically reinforcing the stereotype "Those God damned big drunken Indians"  The second guy asks the sinner "you ever jump rails?"  The young sinner professes his ignorance and says no.  Curious, the sinner asks the guy to describe what train hopping is like.  Guy describes a Captain's chair, with 365 degree spinning capabilities, and a small refrigerator with stocked bottles of water.  The feel of peace, distraction, and freedom permeates the room.  The guy's attention shifts back to the present, in which he declares he needs a new location to fly his sign.  Honestly and unconsciously he smiles as he scripts the visit to a gas station, to get his couple of cans of alcohol.  "Give me a couple of those and I'm hunky Dory."

These are the kind of people my faith champions. I'm going to spend an eternity with these men.  And they'd probably get a hearty welcome from heaven in the beginning of forever.  I don't know why, but I felt hopeful and encouraged that somehow in some way I'm worse than these two men. And I smile because that means there's still time and hope for me.    

I wanna go home

It's a dangerous thing to say aloud.

It's truth though, and at this point, it is well thought out.  I am not having an identity crisis.  I don't feel like I've lost any sense of my cultural and tribal knowledge.   A whole bunch of people invested years teaching me- through repetition and encouragement.  That never went anywhere.  In fact I find myself humming those Longhouse and Shaker songs as I wonder aimlessly through some Southwestern Montana City's streets.  I don't feel out of touch.  I just want to go home, to my family, to my people, to my snail paced circular view of the world.

I mean I'd like to go home, not permanently, but just to go.  I have no desire to immerse myself in anything, and I'm sure my elders have no desire trying to up my "nativeness"  They're confident they've done that and then some.  And I'm grateful.  I am not trying to prove anything, I don't have anything left. My uncle upon seeing my diploma from college said "well. ...  shit" in awe.  That's the only approval I'd ever need, considering I feel like he's the greatest storyteller I've heard of not named Twain.  It's definitely not out of vanity.  Reservation life doesn't halt in a grand parade just because one comes home, I learned that in my early years.  I'm not surprised that no one really notices I come home anymore.

No, I want to go home, not because there's a premium on knowledge I have yet to master.  I just want to love.  I want to love my family.  I can honestly say I am ready to simply enjoy them, all of their dysfunction, successes, setbacks, and failures.  One time I showed up at my great aunts not having too much of an expectation, just to chop fire wood.  That goes a long way.  And it felt good.   I want to go home.  Elders are getting older.  New babies are born.  There are nieces and nephews I've never met.  Love is what will get me back there.

When I left home, I never wanted to acknowledge my family as being apart of my success.  But now I want to thank them and commend them for their courage in what must have been a scary time, collectively struggling to raise a traumatized and broken young man.  Look at what it's done.  Yeah I'd like to be among my own for a bit, to give them relief, encouragement, to pray for them, to grieve and mourn with them, to laugh and wander.  They're important, more now than ever.

In sickness, In health

The first shift of the week tends to be the most difficult.  Mentally and emotionally, getting into a frame of mind, at best you anticipate affirmation, at worst, total abuse.  But then something totally unexpected comes along, something you forgot to take into account.  A stupid little sniffle.  At the end of hour seven or so, the despair sets in.  All that's left sounds something like "God damn it!  I'm getting sick again"  And like Job, a place among the rubble seems appropriate.

Some months in, I didn't anticipate having to be superstitious about my work.  Get to the shelter early enough to spread the 'good vibes' and 'mojo' around to set the mood of lesser evil.  Turn off the tele around midnight, so the Hooligans can get enough sleep.  Only they whine to you every hour on the hour about letting them watch something even if the volume is all the way off.  By 3am, some infomercial medicine man is deliberately and slowly performing some prep the coffee ritual.  And then there are the bathrooms.  Oh the cleaning and the in futility. "Please don't let anyone piss all over the floor."  It's the Psalm of the workplace.  An hour later- grab the mop and the lysol and clean the urine off the floor.

My immune system has constantly been attacked and compromised in the last few months.  Week by week.  My humanity though?  The fight or flight instinct sets in.  "When the Pharisees saw him keeping this kind of company, they had a fit, and lit into Jesus' followers.  What kind of example is this from your Teacher, acting cozy with crooks and riffraff?"

I need a Doctor, daily.  Someone who isn't afraid to reach out and touch me.  Comfort me, and mostly heal me.  I have the luxury of my own bed, a daily shower, decent nutrition, a working vehicle.  I don't take it for granted.  A dotted line and hours of training is all that binds me to these meek souls, who day in and day out battle their depravity and illnesses.

But mostly I get to be a set of hands, an extension of the Doctor to these people.  I thank God for my sickness- an all too real reminder of mortality, and smile and get on with it- usually wheezing and trying to pop an ear open so I can hear.  There's a freedom in being sick.  So why waste it?  "Jesus, overhearing them, shot back, Who needs a doctor, the healthy or the sick?. . .  I'm after mercy, not religion.  I'm here to invite outsiders, not coddle insiders."