Where to begin?
I am not a social worker. I am not a counselor. I am not a life skills coach. I am not a teacher. I am a pastor of a small, rural congregation in a high poverty area of Wisconsin and I am expected to fill all of those roles.
Despite what I was told in Seminary and by more experienced colleagues, it has not gotten easier with practice. And it makes my soul hurt.
Follow me over ye olde Kosymbol of squiggle for a moment in my life and an everyday hell in anothers.
Names have, of course, been significantly altered.
Fridays are my day off. I protect them with the ferocity of the Honey Badger. But when I see a certain number pop up on my cell phone, I answer it. For it means that a new fresh hell has fallen upon Andrea’s life, and I cannot refuse to hear her and respond.
We are, of course, all familiar with the cycle of poverty. It takes many forms, and I have seen a few. My own family is just barely avoiding it at this time, and we have been in and out of it in the past. So I know a little bit about that sinking and burning in your gut when one more fucking thing hits at exactly the wrong time, that sense of knowing that you cannot change anything-you are powerless, utterly dependent upon the assistance of others and subject to their myriad judgments upon you. I know a bit about feeling desperate and letting that desperation color your relationships with the people you love with all your heart.
But, I know nothing, really. I am white, from a middle class background, with a professional degree and standing in the community based upon nothing more than my job title. Andrea knows to the depth of her being what it is like to be considered a burden to a community that would just rather she go away and take her struggles somewhere the good Christians don’t have to see it. She wakes in pain everyday-physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.
And she trusts me. I don’t know exactly how it came about, but through providing some assistance to her family from time to time, I have become someone she can bring her heart to. That level of trust is an honor to receive, and most fervent prayers for her and her family include a request that I be worthy to hold it.
Andrea is a single mother of three children. Her oldest son, Calvin, is 15 and chronically ill. He has Muscular Dystrophy and he is deteriorating rapidly. Calvin is not expected to live more than another three years or so. Her oldest daughter, Sarah, has just entered Middle School and became an instant bully magnet. Her youngest daughter, Amy, is a sunny first grader with some learning issues and a constant chatter. Her mother, Sammie, lives in town, as does her stepfather and an assortment of siblings and their families. All of them are deeply enmeshed in the cycle of poverty, most receive some sort of assistance. While they can be a source of support and strength for one another, they are all struggling mightily and are often in conflict.
Enough backstory. This has been the summer of Hell for Andrea and her extended family. Her mom was diagnosed with kidney cancer and had to undergo surgery to have one removed. Andrea fell and cracked her kneecap trying to help Calvin up the stairs to their second floor, public housing apartment. Another branch of the family found itself abruptly homeless after the premature birth of their fourth child-there are six of them with four children ages five years to fragile newborn. I have been involved with them throughout all of this, mostly on the periphery providing gas vouchers for them to travel around in the one vehicle all of them share.
Andrea called me this last Friday and her voice was so heavy and shaky that I was immediately worried that someone had died. But the only thing that died was the brakes on the car. And Calvin had an appointment with one of his specialists in a town twenty miles away. The only medical care he can receive in town is his physical therapy.
So I drove them. We chatted about her daughter’s troubled start in Middle School, her knee which needs surgery, and about Calvin’s prognosis, which is not good. And we talked about the veritable army of doctors and social workers trying to help her family and the difficulty she had in even getting a straight answer about school bus service for her kids from the district.
I waited for them, wandering around the hospital, visiting with the Chaplain on duty, and just settling my mind and spirit. If you know the right corners of the hospital to go to, there is much peace to be found there. Unfortunately, there was no peace for Andrea that day.
Calvin’s doctor verified that the MD had begun to effect his heart and lungs. And then he scolded Andrea for not moving into a handicapped accessible home, as all of the folks assisting her have been telling her to do.
Andrea tries so hard not to cry or break down in front of her children. She feels that her strength is the only thing she can offer them in their hand to mouth life. But when the doctor essentially accused her of dragging her feet in the care of her son, she stood up and began physically responding to him-pushing him in the chest as she spoke her fears, frustration and grief. I became aware of the situation when Calvin’s frightened face appeared at the door of the waiting area and the hospital security was making haste to respond.
Being a pastor can give you access to situations sometimes. I followed the guards in as if I had some sort of authority to do so, and no one stopped me. Andrea had collapsed back into her chair by then, and the situation was being defused. Calvin asked the room at large why his momma did that. No one answered him but me.
“Because she loves you so much, Calvin.” He nodded sadly.
The doctor, to his credit, realized that he had not handled this well, and spent some time actually LISTENING to Andrea, who held Calvin’s hand while she talked as if it was the only thing keeping her from being drowned in an emotional sea.
Andrea cannot move. There are no handicapped accessible public housing facilities where we live, although there is abundant handicap adaptable Senior Housing. When she inquired about the possibility, she was bluntly informed that she had children and that disqualified her. Habitat for Humanity does not build in our area. Her calls and messages to them have gone unanswered. She cannot buy property and modify it, even with assistance, because no bank would ever give her a loan. The modifications needed for Calvin are extensive, and he needs physical therapy machines in his home, but they cannot be installed in a second floor, two bedroom apartment. Her pleas for information and help from the local government have gone unanswered, for the most part, and have been singularly unhelpful when a response is forthcoming. Usually, she is told she had better just go somewhere else.
Would she leave this area, leave her family and community behind? She would, if she had even an inkling of where to go and how to do it, although it would sadden her and deprive her of what little supportive community she has. There is help available for her, but she doesn’t know how to get it. And her well meaning social workers and medical professionals never communicate with each other.
The doctor and I listened. The security guard stood at the door, looking very uncomfortable. Calvin patted his momma awkwardly on the back. Andrea ended by asking, “What do I do? Please, just tell me...what do I do?”
Do you know how much I would have given to have had an answer for her? Can you imagine how much I wanted to lift her from that chair and tell her that she and her family will be cared for- so that her daughters will know what it is to live in a home and have stability, so that Calvin’s remaining time will be eased and he will able to live life to the fullest he can, so that Andrea can just, for one fucking damn day, REST and not have to worry.
No one could answer her. The doctor promised to communicate with the social workers and put some heads together. Andrea has heard that before. She, her dying son and daughters, and the rest of her family have never been at the top of anyone’s priority list.
As we drove back, Calvin refused to sit back in his seat and wear his seatbelt. He leaned forward the whole trip, so that he could hold his momma’s shoulder. We talked briefly about the actual doctor visit-Calvin needs yet another specialist for his heart. After a few moments of silence, Andrea said, “If this is some sort of test, I’m failing, Pastor Heather.”
“The test is for your community, for those who claim a common humanity with you, and they have failed you miserably,” I replied. “They try,” she said, “and I’m thankful for whatever I have.”
She’s thankful. She’s thankful. That statement has been ringing in my skull since it left her lips and every peal breaks another little piece off my heart.
I told her that she has more faith and courage than the vast majority of people I know, and I include myself in that statement.
Andrea is my neighbor. There are thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of Andreas out there. This is what poverty looks like for one Andrea, and this is an all too common life. And as jobs become scarcer and offer less, as the necessities of life become more difficult to obtain, as this grim anxiety grows and pervades every aspect of our society, there will be more Andreas. If we fail them as badly as we have failed her, we will be failing ourselves as well.
Andrea knows nothing about politics, the nuances of Washington insider-ship, or what, if anything, is being done on her behalf at the national level. She has a high school education, has never owned a computer or surfed the net, and lives in terror of her rent going up. She just knows that she is not cared about or cared for in her hometown, that she lives in poverty and sees no way to ever get out of it. She just knows that, tomorrow, life will drop another load of shit on her, sure as eggs is eggs. And she’s grateful to anyone who will hand her a shovel with a duct taped handle and cracked blade.
She’s not concerned with how bad things can get; she’s a little preoccupied with how bad things are. Any small difference I can make in her life probably won’t elect a Democrat. But it will be a small difference. And it will be a start.
I’m going to get her breaks repaired. Its the very, very, very least I can do.
If you are the praying sort, pray for the Andreas and their families. Look for them, listen to them, hear them, love them. We cannot continue to fail them. We just can’t.