AmeriCorps, Poverty, and a Pinch of Inspiration

I am officially an AmeriCorps Vista member! After four days of training in Indianapolis me and my fellow Vistas publicly took our oath of office - the same one verbalized by the president of the United States! So official. Really though, training was such a cool opportunity to be surrounded by like-minded people who have decided to devote the next year to joining the battle against poverty in communities all over the country.

My thoughts were running wild from the start, when our first training session had us answer two simple, but difficult questions: What is poverty, and what causes poverty? As we went around the circle and all described our personal definitions of poverty and its causes, I realized that I am limited by an international mindset when it comes to poverty. I have met more people who are happy and impoverished than those who are happy and extremely wealthy. But that's not the case in America, because if you think about it, those who are in poverty in America are constantly faced with the realization that they are impoverished. Surrounded by media that defines a person's identity and value by their material possessions, disregarded by the wealthy by being labeled "lazy" or "unintelligent," discouraged by those who only see what they lack and expect nothing more of them then the situations they are currently in.


The poor in America have it rough.
So what are we doing about it?

If there is one thing I've noticed, it's our limited mindset on how we define poverty. It is easy to stereotype and judge, and that's something I understand - because I've done it. It is easy to quickly label the homeless as lazy and drunk. It is easy to judge those in poverty as uneducated, unmotivated, undetermined, and all sorts of other "un's." But it's simply not true. The fact is, there are thousands of middle-class families only a paycheck away from being considered impoverished; one of the largest populations of the homeless are our nation's veterans; and a large majority of those in poverty have master's degrees.

Poverty is so much more than just lack-of material resources. The book that best helped broaden my understanding of poverty was When Helping Hurts. It describes poverty by four broken relationships:

"Poverty of Spiritual Intimacy: denying God’s existence and authority, materialist

Poverty of Being:  having god-complexes (thinking too highly of oneself) or low self-esteem (thinking too lowly of oneself)

Poverty of Community:  self-centeredness, exploitation and abuse of others

Poverty of Stewardship:  no sense of purpose, laziness or workaholics, materialism"

  

Any of those strike a chord with you? We are all impoverished in some sense. Understanding poverty by broken relationships helps teach us how to serve others without that classic savior mentality. When it comes down to it, poverty can be defined as a mindset of hopelessness and shame that comes from lack of opportunity and a low sense of self-worth.

46 million Americans live in poverty

So I ask it again - what are we doing?

And Jesus said to His disciples, "Truly I say to you, it is hard for

a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 19:23

Jesus says it will be hard for a rich man to enter the Kingdom. Let's face it - that means us. Even the impoverished of America are rich by world standards. So when the members of our upper-class churches tend to lean more towards the habit of judging rather than uplifting, condemning rather than loving, critiquing negatives rather than acknowledging positives - just what are we doing?

The Lord commands us to "be angry and do not sin" (Eph 4:26). We are to be angry about the injustices of this world. That includes the orphans of third world countries, just as much as the homeless in our own backyards, welfare communities, and minorities of all kinds; groups of people we are all too often quick to condemn.

We should be encouraging, showing people their positives and building their confidence, instilling love and hope, and sharing the truth of God's grace that places a crown on us who are but dust. It is the Lord who sits on the judgment seat, not us, and for that - I am truly grateful.



My Sunshine

On behalf of every man, looking out for every girl,

you are the god and the weight of her world.

So fathers be good to your daughters,

daughters will love like you do.

My dad and I used to sing a lot of songs. I'm not really sure how it all started, but we would sing old songs on our way to school, before bed, and on our many trips to the grocery store. I sang those songs to him many times after he was sick, even when he couldn't hear or understand. I refused to sing them after his death. And now I'm finally at a place where I can sing them happily with joy and remembrance.

I was always a daddy's girl. He took the term "Superdad" to a whole new level. A military veteran, hockey player, and mechanical engineer; my dad was a man. After taking an early-retirement he stepped up to become a stay-at-home dad while my mom went to work. He did all the cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, and driving for our family. Ladies, they say you tend to choose a husband who's like your father...this man has much to live up to.

I have so many memories of being daddy's little princess; everything from throwing a fit when he didn't invite me to get my mom's surprise birthday cake, to cuddling in bed with him to watch National Geographics, to having him drive all the way to school to bring me a forgotten cheerleading scrunchie. I was his baby and he was my "pilot," "policeman," "superhero" and a variety of other random nicknames I gave him. I'll admit, I was completely and utterly spoiled by him. Everyday, my dad would personally come and wake me up; I would walk out into the kitchen where my cereal, milk, and orange juice were all set out and ready for me; and then would be driven to school each and every morning. I relied on him for everything.

So at 2am on my 14th birthday, when my dad fell to the ground and experienced a major seizure right in front of me, I just lost it. I remember calling 911 as my brother held my dad and my sister stood in shock, I remember meeting the paramedics and praying all the way to the hospital. Afterwards, we were told that my dad had severe blood hemorrhaging on the left hemisphere of his brain and had to undergo emergency brain surgery. At 14, I didn't understand the magnitude of major brain surgery. It wasn't until a visit to the ICU when I saw dad with tubes and wires everywhere and his body hooked up to a machine that I realized he might never fully come back.

For two years, my dad went in and out of almost 10 rehabilitation centers. My mom and I slept in the hospital each night as dad re-learned how to breathe, talk, and eat. I could go on and on about those two years. The pure joy of watching him take his first steps after every doctor said he'd never walk again. The misery of a legal case that landed him mistakenly into a mental hospital. The responsibility of tying his arm restraints, transporting him to his wheelchair, and dressing him. The need to hold it together while everything and everyone seemed to be falling apart.

After a year and a half of rehabilitation, dad was readmitted home. I thought for a second that he might actually have a full recovery when I got off the bus and saw him standing in the front window waiting, just like he did when I was younger. He was re-admitted to the hospital after only a few months when his health began declining again. When he caught pneumonia a couple of days later, the doctors told us that he only had a few weeks - I denied it. They had said he would never walk again and look how he defied those odds. We had come so far, there was just no way. On the morning of Mother's Day I went to work and then met my mom and sister for dinner. In the middle of dinner, my mom got a call. The rest was fuzzy from there. I remember driving to the center and thinking they were wrong. My dad was a fighter, my superman, they had to be wrong. But when we walked into the room, it was obvious - he was gone. One thing that might not surprise you about me... I'm not a silent mourner. I started yelling at the nurses, why weren't they doing anything?! Call 911 - Do something! Only to find out that my mom had signed the papers "DNR" - do not resuscitate. She hadn't even talked to me about it, how could she?! I just remember screaming and screaming, realizing there was absolutely nothing I could do. Finally my sister told me to calm down and say goodbye.

The 5 stages of mourning are pretty accurate, I'm pretty sure I went through them all at one point or another. I remember the community. I remember those who brought us meals, friends who brought flowers, pastors who told us to ask for anything we might need. I'll admit I resented it all. All I could think was "you don't understand, you just don't." I remember feeling like I didn't need or want anything from anyone.

Death is a funny thing. We all know it's there. We know it will happen to all of us. Dad was a believer, and even knowing about Heaven I just couldn't handle it all. It's like we know, but we don't. We've experienced it to an extent, but it has this strange power over us all that is unexplainable. We feel like no one else in the world understands, and yet almost everyone has experienced it in some way.

In the years following my dad's death I denounced a lot of my values and beliefs almost completely. Cheerleading had taught me well how to hide my true feelings and put on a show. So when I did have sorrowful moments I think a lot of people took that as a stuck-up attitude. Maybe it was partly true, not that I thought I was better but just that I did resent a lot of those people who did have their mom and dad, while I pretended to be okay with not. I'm just now learning how many of my actions were probably me seeking to fill a void with the broken cisterns of this world rather than the living water of Christ. I didn't find the real saving grace of Jesus until my first year of college. Even then I've had ups and downs, seasons of depression, and plenty of spiritual warfare. There are still so many things I struggle with, but you know, I think I've finally reached the last stage - Acceptance.

For anyone who had the opportunity to know my dad you might notice that I am so much like him. I thirst for knowledge like his strange love affair with National Discovery, I'm an early riser, I can be weird and goofy but serious and deep, I drink a glass of water before bed every night because my dad would always make me, I like to sing even though I'm not good at it, and cuddle with those who I hold closest to my heart. When my dad was in the hospital, I would sing to him all the time.

 

"You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey. You'll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my Sunshine away"

My sun now shines with the grace of my Heavenly Father and the remembrance of my Earthly one. The Lord promises to walk with us through the darkest valleys and carry us over the tallest mountains, and that my friends is a reason to sing... in every circumstance.

The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.

He makes me lie down in green pastures,

he leads me beside quiet waters,

he refreshes my soul.

 

He guides me along the right paths

for his name's sake.

Even though I walk

through the darkest valley,

I will fear no evil,

for you are with me;

your road and your staff,

they comfort me.

 

You prepare a table before me

in the presence of my enemies.

You anoint my head with oil;

my cup overflows.

 

Surely your goodness and love will follow me

all the days of my life,

and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

 

Psalm 23