Friday, December 17, 2010
well behaved women seldom make history
http://www.glamour.com/women-of-the-year/2010/dr-hawa-abdi-and-her-daughters
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
As the sun shines magnificently through the paper snowflakes haphazardly taped to the glass blocks of Isaiah House's westernmost wall I can't help but be overwhelmed by this amazing sanctuary for those experiencing mental illnesses.
As Ms. Shirley walks through the door, smelling of urine, wearing sweatpants tucked into her baseball socks, three hats, and a couple of hooded sweatshirts, the only disturbing thing about her appearance to the other Isaiah House participants is her swollen and bloodied finger. Ms. Debra calls up to my office, not to inform me that Ms. Shirley needs to bathe, but that she needs a doctor.
Isaiah House has introduced me to the most beautiful people. People who are often overlooked and even considered expendable. People who wave and call out my name as I bike down Georgia Avenue, or stop and chat with me in line at the MLK library, or come sit in my office and keep me up to date on current events.
The Isaiah House community has taught me that it's not scary to share a meal with someone who mutters and mumbles under their breath to no one in particular; it's actually a moment spent with Christ. They have taught me that the only thing disgusting about a man sitting in the bathroom, too drunk to pull himself off the floor, wearing clothes full of holes, is that he doesn't have clothes WITHOUT holes, or a place to go once the sun starts setting, and that he is probably drinking so that he won't be aware of that.
My supervisors, Jamie and Joy, have pushed me to do everything that I can for anyone who walks through the glass doors of this place. Meeting someone where they’re at and serving them to the best of our ability is what we are here to do. Jamie told me once that it doesn't matter whether something that someone says is real or not. What matters is that whatever they say is THEIR reality. What matters is that what they feel is real.
As Ms. Shirley walks through the door, smelling of urine, wearing sweatpants tucked into her baseball socks, three hats, and a couple of hooded sweatshirts, the only disturbing thing about her appearance to the other Isaiah House participants is her swollen and bloodied finger. Ms. Debra calls up to my office, not to inform me that Ms. Shirley needs to bathe, but that she needs a doctor.
Isaiah House has introduced me to the most beautiful people. People who are often overlooked and even considered expendable. People who wave and call out my name as I bike down Georgia Avenue, or stop and chat with me in line at the MLK library, or come sit in my office and keep me up to date on current events.
The Isaiah House community has taught me that it's not scary to share a meal with someone who mutters and mumbles under their breath to no one in particular; it's actually a moment spent with Christ. They have taught me that the only thing disgusting about a man sitting in the bathroom, too drunk to pull himself off the floor, wearing clothes full of holes, is that he doesn't have clothes WITHOUT holes, or a place to go once the sun starts setting, and that he is probably drinking so that he won't be aware of that.
My supervisors, Jamie and Joy, have pushed me to do everything that I can for anyone who walks through the glass doors of this place. Meeting someone where they’re at and serving them to the best of our ability is what we are here to do. Jamie told me once that it doesn't matter whether something that someone says is real or not. What matters is that whatever they say is THEIR reality. What matters is that what they feel is real.
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