One Thing I Learned from Joel Belz

 

Joel Belz

August 10, 1941 – February 4, 2024

I first met Joel in December of 1993 when I as a very young adult interviewed for a position in the God's World Book Club.

It didn’t feel like an interview. It just felt like an introduction. Rather than grill me with questions about my experience and qualifications, he enthusiastically shared with me what God’s World Publications was about by quoting the verse 

The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof,

The world and they that dwell in it.  (Psalm 24)

Over the next few years, I discovered that Joel and I shared a personality trait: We are both idealists. He is more of a visionary idealist and I a metaphorical idealist, but we still found connection in the struggle that is living as idealists while being people who fall short of even our own ideals, in a world that has fallen also from the ideal. We both had the capacity to reach real emotional and anticipatory highs—and to fall low when our expectations weren’t realized.

I remember one time when both of us were at a lower point, we had a conversation about the sanctification process for idealists, who can so readily turn our “shoulds” into idols. Letting go of those “shoulds,” those idols, is a painful part of spiritual growth. 

And through those types of conversations, I began to form a more right view of how to navigate this life, this work, this world, relationships with family, others, and God himself.

We tend to think that the opposite of Idealism is Realism, but I no longer think that’s true, and I learned this because of living and working alongside Joel for three decades.

The real opposite of Idealism is Cynicism. Both are incorrect—out of focus, but easy to slide into one or the other. We are either/or people. Either it’s all perfect or it’s all rotten. Either we worship utopian perfection, or we declare it all worthless nihilism, and essentially worship nothingness. 

But People of the Good News ought not see it that way. 

Instead, if we turn the lens of scripture on our tendencies, we don’t see Either/Or. We see the Both/And of not Idealism and Cynicism, but of

Optimism and Realism.

God is at the same time realistic and optimistic about us, because of WHO he is and what he is able to accomplish, and we have reason to be both realistic and optimistic as well.

“He who began a good work in you WILL see it to completion,” he promises.

I cling to that personally and optimistically—about myself and about each of you.

“I know the plans I have for you,” DECLARES the Lord. “Plans to prosper and not harm you. Plans to give you a HOPE and a future.” 

I cling to that for all of us, corporately. For the universal church. 

Because of this hope that grounds all of life for believers—and did so for Joel—even the idealists can tuck away their “should bes” and open themselves up to live in the real: We each have a cross to bear, and under it, we will stumble. We will fail. We will harm ourselves and others, and circumstances beyond our control will also crush expectations, cause harm, weary us… but never rob us of the hope that is finished already in Christ’s entrance into our weary, broken world, the life he lived, his death, resurrection to overcome it all, and ascension as proof that all truly is settled and accepted as good. The Father knows our frame. He is realistic about us. He says that he will uphold us with HIS mighty right hand, so that when we fall—and you and I will—we will not be cast headlong. Realistic, and optimistic at the same time.

A few years ago, after Joel had received his Parkinson’s diagnosis but he was still coming in to the office regularly, he and I met in the kitchen here at #12. If you’ve spent any time in the kitchen at #12, then you know that many good things happen there—that don’t have to do with food.

We were having another rich talk, but both of us were feeling the weight of the realities of this life, and I asked him a rather naïve question—or a question that was seeking a naïve answer. The idealist was trying again to come to the surface.

I asked, “Joel, when do we get to coast a bit? When does life become smooth sailing?” 

The normal answer even believers give to that question is the idealist’s fuel and fodder: It's just over the next life hump. When the deadline is past; when that degree is complete; when the kids move out; etc. We’re always waiting for what comes next—and it never seems to come.

But Joel didn’t give me that answer. He looked at me lovingly, like a father, and he said directly but gently, “Rebecca, it’s uphill all the way.”

That statement didn’t immediately give me joy, but I will tell you that I think of it

every. single. day.

Every day, as I pray to take up my own cross for what’s ahead, I think with thanksgiving of the honestly of that statement. That’s reality.

It is uphill all the way.

So, Rebecca, lay aside your idealism, and pick up the reality of today’s requirements and challenges, but not without hope; with optimism—because Christ has taken my actual burden on himself, and he said, “It is finished.”

We labor on, uphill all the way, and that is true. But it is grounded in the optimistic reality that our future is secure. We have a living hope, born out of Christ’s resurrection, which is held for us even now, an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading! Joel knows that face to face now. It is not at all like my earthly ideals, and it will never disappoint.

And because of Joel’s “brutal” honesty to tell me the truth that it is uphill all the way, I am compelled every morning to set my sights on that eternal hope, and take the next step that today holds, to press on toward the goal, as Joel did.

Joel has finished the race, and he now joins that great cloud of witnesses who surround us. So, let us take up our crosses but lay off the weights of both cynicism and idealism, and run with endurance that real uphill race that lies before us.

In the studio in Asheville with Joel and Carol Esther Belz, August 2021.

The Untorn Robe

 Let Earth Receive Her King image of print by G. Carol Bomer

John 19:23-24

When the soldiers had crucified Jesus, they took his garments and divided them into four parts, one part for each soldier; also his tunic. But the tunic was seamless, woven in one piece from top to bottom, so they said to one another, “Let us not tear it, but cast lots for it to see whose it shall be.” This was to fulfill the scripture which says,

“They divided my garments among them,

    and for my clothing they cast lots.”

So the soldiers did these things.

This was what I was reading this morning when I was internally stopped to ask and wonder: What was the significance of the seamless, untorn tunic? It was the words “woven in one piece from top to bottom” followed by “Let us not tear it” that got my attention—because we’ve seen some of those words in other books of the Bible recounting this very same series of events, but used differently.

What was torn, almost immediately after this scene? The Temple curtain. How was it torn? From top to bottom. Surely John’s choice of language is not accidental. Is there a connection to be made?

In John’s account alone, this detail about the tunic is given. And from John’s account alone, the detail about the Temple curtain is omitted. So I ask, “Why, John? Why the maverick approach? Why the different focus but the similar language? What is it you want to show us by taking this very specific but alternate track?"

Matthew, Mark, and Luke all affirm that while Jesus is being crucified, his garments are divided near the foot of the cross. All three also tie his death to the curtain being torn in two. Both Matthew and Mark specifically say the curtain tore from top to bottom. (The word used actually means “from above.” Fascinatingly, it’s the same word that is used for Jesus who came “from above,” and for the power Pilate has, which would not be his if it were not granted him “from above.” The curtain tore “from above”—perhaps implying that the power that tore it was not earthly. This robe, then, woven in one piece “from above”. . . what might you make of that?)

But, Matthew, Mark, and Luke don’t mention the single-piece robe among the garments. Only the curtain and the garments in general.

Scholars all seem to be in agreement that the mention in all four gospels that the garments are divided is a reference meant to show that Jesus filled the prophecy of Psalm 22:18: “They divide my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots.” From this same Psalm come the words Jesus cries out from the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” and also the imagery, “They have pierced my hands and feet.” These are all signposts: Evidences that the Christ who was prophesied to come is indeed this very Jesus now upon the cross. A thousand years passed from the time Psalm 22 was written until it was fulfilled. 

But that answer, while good, doesn’t completely satisfy. They divided his clothing to fulfill the prophecy, to show us that he is that fulfilment. But why clothes? And why these particular clothes? What is the meaning of the single-piece tunic that was woven from top to bottom (or from above) and not torn? Who cares if it was torn or not? Does it matter? Indeed, I now think it does.

First, I think, we need to address what this garment was to Jesus and to people of the day. The tunic was not an outer robe. It was an undergarment, worn close to the skin. (There was likely also a loin garment as well, but the point is that it covered nakedness. Its purpose was not to signify status or role, outwardly—like the purple cloak that the soldiers put on him at his scourging, when they mocked his kingship.) When did the need for these undergarments first come about in human history? Let’s go all the way back to Genesis chapter 3.

After the first six days of creation, when God had made it all and set it into motion, he rested. After all that creative activity, the next thing that we are told about God making is a pair of tunics. (Genesis 3:21) Adam and Eve initially enjoyed complete fellowship with one another and with God and all was very good—with nothing at all standing between them. Not even a thin layer of fabric. There was no shame in their nakedness because there was no reason for shame. There was no reason for them to be at all divided, disunified, from one another and from their Creator, whose image they bore. But it didn’t last, because they sinned. They broke that fellowship and created a division. Their nakedness was no longer a sign of unity, but of shame and guilt and rebellion. (Treason, one might even say.) They could not stand uncovered before him and live.

So in his mercy, God created again. He made tunics for them, and he covered them. 

The need of a tunic was established at the beginning of our story. 

But that clothing that we now must wear that keeps us separate from one another and from God isn’t always maintained in its own unity. Most of our clothing is made with seams and we all know what happens with seams eventually: They give up. They tear. They rend. Rending clothes is symbolic too, not just a practical matter of use and age. In 1 Kings 11: 29-33, the prophet Ahijah tears his new garment as a symbol of coming disunity. God is going to divide the kingdom over sin. Separation is a reason for mourning. The garment is torn in grief as well as prophecy. When Job learned of the calamity that had befallen him, he tore his clothes in an act of both great mourning and worship—recognizing that he came naked into the world, that all he had was from God, and therefore God’s to take. (Job 1:20). The Bible is full of clothes-tearers: Reuben, Joshua and Caleb, David and his men, Athaliah, Mordecai, Hezekiah… the list goes on and on.

But there was one person of great biblical importance who was not to tear his clothes: Aaron, the high priest, and the high priests who would inherit their position after him, for generations. While the people mourned their separation from God, the high priest donned a tunic that could not be torn, and in it, he entered into God’s holy presence in the Holy of Holies, behind the curtain. With his unrent tunic against his own skin, covering his own shame, Aaron did not mourn. Instead, he dealt with mourning. He brought atonement for the people’s sin that was the reason for mourning. Exodus 28:32 tells us about this garment that went beneath the ephod. “You shall make the robe (or tunic) of the ephod all of blue. It shall have an opening for the head in the middle of it, with a woven binding around the opening, like the opening in a garment, so that it may not tear.”

That certainly sounds like a garment of all one piece, doesn’t it? No seams to reinforce but only the opening for the head. And it is emphasized: so that it may not tear.

These garments were preserved and passed on to other generations of priests. Exodus 29:30 says “The holy garments of Aaron shall be for his sons after him; they shall be anointed in them and ordained in them. The son who succeeds him as priest, who comes into the tent of meeting to minister in the Holy Place, shall wear them seven days.” Each time the high priest entered into God’s presence, behind the curtain, he had to be clothed in these garments, “so that he does not die.” (Exodus 28:35) It’s not time yet for all the shame and sin to be exposed in full. The annual ritual atonement that Aaron and the next generations of priests will perform are always partial, and must be repeated and repeated. 

When Jesus went to the cross, he went in this very significant and noteworthy piece of clothing. He was dressed to make an atoning presentation to God. On the previous Thursday evening, he had received the burden he was taking on, for which to atone. He had become sin then, taking onto himself not just my sin and the sin of those men with him that night, but “the sins of the world.” Aaron declared the sins of the people imputed to an animal. Jesus knelt in Gethsemane, and called it all onto himself. Past, present, future. No wonder he sweat drops of blood. If we think he stumbled on that so-called Via Dolorosa under the weight of the wood he was carrying, perhaps we are not fully aware of the weight he had actually accepted, which set him on that path.

As we work our way through the Stations of the Cross during Holy Week, we note that “Jesus is stripped.” We are reminded to reflect on his humility, that God would be exposed, naked, before the world. But in reality, so great is our union with him in his purpose, that it is not just his nakedness on that tree. It’s all of mine. It’s yours. It’s the apostles, the soldiers, his mother Mary’s. We are bound to him and it is our shame and humility that he purposefully takes there—when his garment is removed. We are exposed with every bit of the ugliness that we brought to Gethsemane. We are naked on that cross, before God and the entire world, for both Jew and Gentile were present there.

I believe two things happened there with the stripping: 1) All the burden of separating sin was laid bare for all the world; and 2) Jesus’ own covering was removed in preparation for his death: He is accepting the forthcoming death—as Aaron could not enter God’s presence uncovered and live.

The atonement complete, the separation is over. This is what he came for. God’s presence is accessible again, without the need for covering and ritual. The curtain is torn completely, “from above,” opening his presence to all who accept the way. As it was in the beginning.

And now, the high priestly garment is . . . gone. There is no need for a next generation priest. Mourning is ended. Separation is ended. Atonement is secured. 

It really is finished.

The Case for Odd-Numbered Place Settings

Today, a young couple gathered with friends and family to receive gifts in anticipation of their upcoming wedding. Their gift registry was modest, by anyone’s standards. Only four plates. Four glasses. The most basic kitchen needs. 

It was charming, really, the simplicity with which they are looking ahead to their union and housekeeping. I appreciate the minimalist approach. There are far more important things to think about and invest in than the maintenance of much STUFF.

But even as I pieced together my gift selection for them from their registry, to try to help in meeting their needs as well as their expectations, I did invest in one item that they might consider superfluous: a fifth dinner plate.

My daughter, through whom I know this couple, had already purchased for them the four plates they had registered for and requested. I added a fifth, and along with it, an explanatory note, which was inspired by my own long history of life at this point, and the knowledge that these young two truly desire to honor Christ in their marriage. 

So I wrote a note, and it said something like this, or at least, this is what I intended to say in that dashed-off missive:

Blessings of grace and peace and mercy and joy to you in your new marriage! The gift you find here of the fifth and odd-numbered dinner plate is to serve a purpose as a reminder in your marriage as you gather with others to nourish bodies and friendships, to remember the sojourner, the widow, the orphan, the single person, the lonely elderly neighbor, and to set a place for one who might not be so embraced at the table as those who are bound in pairs. For this is true religion: to visit the widow and the orphan and remain unstained by the world.

I myself have recently married after six years of singleness. It was a long six years. In that time, I realized that while I have far more than four plates (I do enjoy inviting in), neither my “good” china nor my everyday stoneware inhabit the cabinet in even numbers. There are 13 of one and 15 of another—and that wasn’t intentional. Over time, a piece here or there was broken. But the odd number still serves as a reminder.

I don’t have an extra plate to be left off as I fill the table with pairs and couples. Even now that I’m married, I don’t have an extra plate to leave in the cabinet. I have an extra opportunity. An opportunity to bring in one more, someone who, like I was all those years, may be eating alone on the night of . . . whatever event we’re having, whether it’s our annual Friendsgiving—a gathering of mostly singles I have hosted for several years and intend to continue even though I am married again now—or just dinner, at home when someone single crosses my mind.

And this I would offer: If a single person crosses your mind, don’t dismiss it. That’s very likely a God-nudge to bring that person somehow into fellowship. Clearly, God wants to talk to you about that person, and maybe what he wants to say is “Reach out. Include. Visit. Invite.”

And if you too have an odd number of plates on your shelf, think of setting an odd number of places at your table, and find that lonely soul who needs you. 

Thoughts on Day 40: Life in the Time of Corona

Quarantine. The word literally means “a period of 40 days.”

40. A significant number. Today is day 40 in quarantine or lockdown or “safe at home” for us. 40 days. Like Jesus in the wilderness. Like the time it rained while Noah and his family and all those creatures were on the ark.

I’ve been wondering about this number. It comes up so often in the Bible, but why does our English language have a word for this particular number of days? The word goes all the way back to Italy in the early 1400s. As people attempted to manage and avoid plague, travelers were sometimes required to spend a full 40 days, a quarantino, in isolation to allow for potential infections to incubate and run their course before risking transmission via contact with others in an uninfected area.

Perhaps there’s some epidemiological science behind that. It seems reasonable to think so. But I also think there’s some Creator-inspired psychology behind it. I think of how we started out 40 days ago. Sure, we didn’t like this—didn’t relish or enjoy it—but it felt like something of an adventure, and I for one dive into adventure with vigor. At first. My intuition had told me as far back as early February that something was likely to “go down,” and so I had made a little game with the girls of selecting strategic items to add to our normal weekly grocery shopping. Before there were even rumors of isolation, we had a small surplus store of pasta, peanut butter, beans, rice, applesauce, pet food, and acetominaphen. (Always ridiculed by my daughters about my personal dread of running out of toilet paper, I failed this time to stock up on that precious commodity in advance, however.)

We made some plans about how to address a temporary isolation. Schools sent home student laptops. We baked a little. We pulled out games and a puzzle. We planned movie nights and took youth group to Zoom. We were so going to do this! And we did, without much strain despite the uncertainty for the first two weeks.

And then we felt the restlessness creeping in. We felt the end of our own resolve and resources. Trips that kids were excited about got canceled. That hurt. We got cranky. Moods have stayed pretty good overall, but it is clear that our own bootstraps have grown much, much shorter as the days creep on. There have been a few teary meltdowns (mea culpa—even more than the younger ones here in the household). We miss our friends. We miss our families. We miss sports. We miss church. We miss classrooms and offices and lunches out. We miss the movie theater and the spontaneous errand. We miss… everything.

We’re not hungry. We’re not cold. We’re not even alone. We have each other and we connect with people by text and phone and social media and Zoom. But even so, we know we need something else. It’s not enough. And I think this is where the development of real patience and perseverance and healthy dependency upon someone other than ourselves to sustain our whole-image health has opportunity to get roots and grow… around the 40 day mark. It’s too long for us. We want it to end, now—just as it has the potential to develop something lasting within us. Endurance. Endurance doesn’t come easily. It isn’t born into us. It’s nurtured into us. It doesn’t spring up like a weed but grows like an oak—from something small but lasting, that takes a long time to become mighty.

I think its unlikely to be coincidence that Psalm 40 claims, “I waited patiently for the Lord.” And then, the Psalmist goes on to ask God to “make haste” to deliver him. We hold both truths simultaneously. That’s simply honest.

We’re becoming more aware of our needs beyond the physical. We’re becoming something. We’re becoming.

I don’t want to miss this. I want to welcome it. I want to receive it. Despite all the hardship, I’m trying to open my hand to what this is working in us—individually, as a family, as a community, as a nation, as a world. May there be fruit in the future.

Life in the Age of Coronavirus, Day 9: The Tears Come

Nine straight days of quarantine didn’t do it.

Moving a disappointed college freshman home without a chance to say goodbye to the friends she made didn’t do it—even though she’s changing colleges and really won’t see them again.

The lost eighth grade track season didn’t do it, nor the lost running club for the youngest. The lost hostess job for the oldest didn’t do it. Not even, NOT EVEN, the very real possibility that my own wedding might be canceled later this summer—or at the least radically altered.

Hearing my 80-year-old dad say, “Becca, I reckon you better not come visit” didn’t quite do it.

No, none of those things yet had brought tears. But this one did.

This face. This gentle, smiling face of a stranger, which I sat mesmerized with in Twitter’s feed, posted by a stranger.

I looked him up. I needed more. Who was this man?

Don Giuseppe Berardelli was a 72-year-old Catholic priest in Bergamo, Italy. Though the account of his life I found online was awkwardly translated from Italian to some assortment of English words and phrases, I could pick out enough to grasp that he loved and was dearly loved by his parishioners. So much so that when he contracted COVID-19 among the throngs of others in his community, his parish knew: He won’t let himself be treated above others.

The parishioners went in together and bought a ventilator. Who of us has thought of that? They bought him his own, to be sure he wouldn’t refuse one at the hospital.

And still, when there were not enough, he opted to give his ventilator to someone else. I don’t know who. Someone younger. Maybe someone not yet so secure in his eternal inheritance.

And there they were. The tears, for a stranger. For the man, yes. For his parish, yes. For love, for sorrow, for anguish. For anger at this stupid virus that is sweeping our planet. Taking away Don Giuseppe Berardellis abroad and at home.

For something else too. For the sheer, perfect beauty of it. It’s a beauty that can’t be grasped without tears. Self-sacrifice. Greater love has no man than this, and we know it. We know it so much that we can’t experience this kind of beauty with glee. It has to hurt. It’s too foreign to us. Too vast. Too other. I recognize it but can’t take it in. The tears and sobs push it OUT, OUT! It doesn’t belong in me.

After Moses saw God face to face, his face was too radiant. No one could look at him. He had to veil it until it faded. That’s it. I can’t look. I can’t take this in. It is too wonderful for me.

Mercy, mercy! God have mercy on us all.

And thank you for Don Giuseppe Berardelli. May his memory be eternal.

Life in the Age of Coronavirus, COVID-19: Tuesday, 3/17/20

Tuesday, 3/17/20

My daughter who isn’t “supposed to be here” told me today was St. Patrick’s Day. I hadn’t realized it. On a normal weekday in mid-March, I would likely have been surprised to learn it was a holiday requiring specific attire the morning of as we were rushing to get to school and work on time, and WHERE IS IT? THAT GREEN SEQUINED HEADBAND I BOUGHT LAST YEAR TO WEAR TODAY! would have been expressed in profound despair from behind a closed bedroom door no more than four minutes before my own WE MUST GO NOW! declaration would add to the desperation of the morning.

But that was then. This year, it was quiet. The children were not even awake yet at 7:09 am, when all that would have been happening. No one particularly cared about wearing green.

I was sitting in front of my computer when she passed by to tell me and to give a sharp pinch. I felt its sting for minutes afterward. That was good, actually. I was feeling numb there. Blank. Not at my office in the Village, but at home at the dining room table. A bit disoriented. The house is more full than normal. The pincher is one of my college girls, home, presumably for the rest of the semester, as her college has closed dorms. She moved her things out yesterday. All but one rug and one shelf that she couldn’t manage to get. She might go back for them. She might abandon them.

Very exciting, planned-for-all-year, paid-on-all-year field trips to Atlanta and Chattanooga for the younger girls have been canceled. Our $550 so far investment may not be returned to us. No one knows how this is all going to work.

All three girls are waiting for virtual school to start: sixth grade, eight grade, and freshman university classes are all going online. My oldest chose to stay in her city, where she rents a house and has a job. Or had. She’s a senior, hoping to graduate in December—IF her summer internship, which is needed for credit toward graduation, doesn’t get canceled. She too is waiting for virtual classes to begin. Her university has already said that all in-person gatherings on campus are suspended through the end of the semester. No students will return to dorms or classes. Everything will be online. On-campus residents were asked to move back home. She chose to stay in her house with her roommates. I catch myself praying for her protection out loud as I rinse my coffee cup or try to make the ice maker stop that grating sound it makes or wipe the dog’s feet after she’s been out. Pray without ceasing. My baby isn’t a baby any longer, I know. But right now the mother hen’s wings feel her absence. I wish she was here with us.

We’re not going out beyond our yard right now. I needed soap. I ordered from a local craft soap maker. Her prices are now completely reasonable compared to the “market demand” prices for the supply available online. She brought my order in person, in a brown paper bag, and left it at the street. It feels like a treat even while it’s a necessity.

We have enough food to last us a few weeks, I’m sure, though we won’t love what we’re eating. Fresh vegetables for probably another day, maybe two. Fruits for three or four. And then it’s frozen, and then it’s canned unless things restock. Pickup for orders isn’t available at Walmart. No clue when it will be. Many of the things I would have ordered are not in stock anyway.

While I’m trying to work from home, there are interruptions frequently. We’re going to have to find a way to have a schedule, or a routine at least. Maybe once virtual learning actually starts we can define dedicated blocks of time. For now, it feels very fractured. I like order. I don’t like this, though I’m not as anxious as I might have expected to be. We’re doing what we can. We’re in. We’re supplied. We’re praying Psalm 91 daily at dinnertime together, asking for provision, protection. Expecting it. That’s comforting.

This is Day 3 of home quarantine for me. It’s only Day 1 for my college girl since she had to leave to go move out of her dorm. As the extrovert in the family, I expect to struggle the most with the isolation.

My fiancé and I have chosen to honor the time apart. His job still requires him to travel to various sites as needed. Yesterday and today, different sites. Tomorrow already has one planned. It’s less contact than normal but he is still more “out there” than I would like. So to protect my household, we are staying separate.

We text throughout the day and talk on the phone at night when we can. It’s something. Long ago, people wrote letters. They waited weeks for a reply. We can do this.

Our wedding is planned for August. At first we thought, “Surely…” Now we’re thinking, “Maybe not…” We may not have the wedding we’d planned—small though it was to be. We agreed tonight that even if we can’t have the wedding, we will still get married on schedule. “It will be,” he said. I love that.

At the end of the day we did the dishes—again. There are so many with everyone home all day. We played Monopoly. We’ll continue that tomorrow. And now we sleep. We’re really OK at home, without class and sports practice and physical therapy. For now. It feels surreal. It feels like we can’t see what’s happening outside, but we hear. We hear and we accept and we wait. For now.

So this is life. What a rapid, sharp turn it took.

This Is the World We Live In: Reflections of a Reluctant Adult in the World

 I had hoped to have my kitchen counter clear of clutter, polished to a shine, and ready for making holiday treats and feasts by now. But instead, it is completely covered in gallon zipper bags, a case of water bottles, fleece blankets, multi-packs of lip balm, peanut butter pods, sanitizing hand wipes, breakfast cookies, tuna packets, potted meat pop-tops, squeeze packs of applesauce, plastic spoons, tissues, Tide pods, and feminine hygiene supplies. Why?

Because there are just too many people standing at street corners, cold, hungry, lonely, and hopeless right now. So my second daughter and I began building these bags of goods. Her friend Mia keeps several in her car, so when she comes upon someone asking for help, she has something to offer. The gift bags equip her with a kind of freedom we rarely think about. With one of these in her car, she is free to make eye contact, to share a word, to offer something more than a blank stare as she hits the accelerator. And if it has to be this way, then I want to be like her.

At first, I thought I would just make four bags. But researching protein sources led me to buy in bulk for dramatic per piece savings and now the kitchen counter is swamped and I don’t know when or how I will find that surface underneath again. Except that I know all these will be gone too soon—because there are that many people out there, without their own tribe picking up the pieces after it all fell apart.

None of them have the same stories—how they got there. In my young adulthood, I always heard really simple summaries, assumptions really: It was drugs. They get on drugs and they spend all their money and lose their jobs and end up on the street. I have heard that story. It is the story for some, but it’s not everyone’s story.

Some trusted the wrong person without a safety net of their own. Some were scraping by, already on the margin working low-wage jobs in our high-rent area, when >insert random trauma< happened, there was nothing to cover the gap. For more than one, grief landed them here. Grief. Did you ever think about that? “I was taking care of my mama,” says M as we stand shivering on the pavement on a cold Saturday morning, “and then she died. I didn’t have anyone left in the world after Mama died. I couldn’t live in that house without her, so I came here. I had a job for awhile, but I lost it. I didn’t know how to fill out the paperwork so I got that wrong. I think I got it right now, so there’s some money coming, but until it gets here, I’m sleeping in the post office or the bus station most nights. The shelters are full on cold nights. Someone stole my backpack the other night. I lost my clothes.” He’s holding a black trash bag now with a few “new” things in it. He picked them up here, where donations are spread on a tarp.

He’s young. He looks strong and fit enough, but his teeth are missing and he speaks with a strong local dialect. He’s not dirty, though it’s surprising to me how it is that he’s stayed so clean on the streets for the last week. He asks if there are any gloves. They’re all gone, the few that were available taken already. The woman beside me whips off her own and gives them to him without a thought. There’s another one. If it has to be this way, then I want to be like her.

I think about my own company’s hiring processes—how much alike everyone is. I wonder… if an accident took my two front teeth and I couldn’t afford to get them repaired, would I be safe here? Would I ever be hireable commensurate with my education, ability, experience, and aptitude if my front teeth were gone—in this culture? Appearance matters so much. There’s an assumption about where a person belongs based on how well they’ve been able to care for their physical shell.

All the gift bags we assemble at home contain soft foods. Nothing with seeds or grains. Not even soft oatmeal bars with their flaky, grainy topping. Dental issues are rampant and many of these people are living in pain, unable even to chew an apple. My former boss’s wife had an abscessed tooth once. It went on for a long time, as they first tried homeopathic treatment over the standard (and very expensive) root canal option. I had one long ago too. I remember the intensity of the pain—and I lived with it only a few days before getting it resolved. There was pretty good insurance back then. My boss’s wife was in agony much longer. I remember talking with her about the sense of being “shaken” that one has to work through after suffering tremendous pain over time. There is a kind of trauma that you’re left with even when the physical pain is over. And for many of these, it doesn’t get to be over.

I don’t have solutions. Something’s not working the way it’s supposed to. The problem seems to be growing. Shelter is just not reachable for far too many people—even the “working poor.” Just simple shelter. That doesn’t even begin to address something like restorative health care. I can’t see where I have much of anything to give into the problem, to make a real difference. I’m thankful for those who do have resources and will use them—will use real estate in this high-demand area to provide walls and a roof sometimes. I’m sure those properties could be sold at enough profit to make some individual more than safe, more than comfortable, but lavished in luxury. Somewhere, someone is making a sacrifice, setting aside his or her own potential gain to serve those who can give them nothing in return. I know there’s beauty in that. But I can’t help but wish it didn’t have to be this way.