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It’s 3 o’clock and I’m on duty.
I rummage through refrigerators packed with a random assortment of leftovers, dumpster dove food and food donations in search of viable dinner options. SoCal’s June gloom has broken just enough to let sunlight filter down, warming the earth and giving the illusion of summer heat. The LACW is lazy and quiet, house sounds echoing through its thin walls, a testament to the 24 people who call this old Victorian house home.
I’m at home.
Waiting for the new interns to call from Union Station to picked up and arrive to begin the whirlwind of the summer internship program.
I can hardly believe I’ve been here almost a year. Life in community, serving the poor travels a different trajectory than the rest of the world. We’ve experienced death, funerals, weddings, police harassment and the joys and sorrows of intentionally living life hand and hand with others. Perhaps I’ve aged the calendar year like everyone else, but it seems I’ve weathered enough things this year to fill seven years.
It’s heavy work to consistently choose to enter into the mess and gunk that permeates the essence of what it means to be human; so heavy that the joys found in the midst of sorrow some days barely outweigh weapy tired strains of life. Yet I cannot help but to give voice to the melody running through my head.
How can I keep from singing?
