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| Downtown Aberdeen |
As
I have settled back in this place, I have taken to walking the streets, meeting
people where they are, and being present in community. It is a practice that
fills me with joy. When I am on the street, I always know I am exactly where I
am meant to be.
Some
days, I have to force myself out; as an introvert, I can always find another
letter that needs to be written or another book to be read. But I am always
glad when I consistently go out. I am just getting started, just getting to
know the area again, so I am taking small steps.
Today,
I split my time between two small towns on either side of where I live. Elma, a
small town of around three thousand has a soaring poverty rate and increasing
number of people who are living on the edge. A local church offers lunch twice
a week, so I arrive a little early. A sweet man whom I have met before eagerly
engages in conversation. He must know half the people living in this county and
he loves to quiz me on all my local relatives. As I begin to talk with a group
of women, I am struck by how differently trust works in small communities.
People who live in cities seem to rely on a certain anonymity. In a small town,
where gossip travels faster than you can put your shoes on (as we say), people
watch you and get to know you before they open up. It seems like it has been a
long time since I have lived full time in a rural area. I will have to get used
to this again.
After
lunch, I take a break to run a few errands before I head west to Aberdeen, a
much larger town at the mouth of the relatively empty harbor. Once a boom or
bust logging town, Aberdeen has seen bust for longer than I can remember.
Poverty and homelessness are highly visible. I park in the Wal Mart parking lot
and start walking, covering much of downtown.
I
meet all sorts of people, my natural introversion breaking down as it always
seems to when I am in my element. People here, in a larger town, are more open to conversation with a
stranger and I even get a date request, followed by a hasty, “I know you can’t,
you’re a minster.” A man on crutches explains how he is heading up the street
to panhandle, since he and his family don’t have enough to get by that day. I
walk for a bit with another man, past boarded up store fronts and seedy taverns. He just returned to the area where he was born
and raised, but like so many is unable to find work. In a small town, the stigma of
unemployment runs deep. I notice his shoes were nearly torn to shreds for all
of his quiet dignity.
I
turned up another street to head back on another road, exchanging pleasantries
with numerous people about the beautiful weather—the sun had finally decided to
show itself after a damp morning. Just as I was turning away, I saw a familiar
face and waved. He came up to me with a big smile and we stood for a while,
looking over the river. “Do you know what the river is saying?” he asked. He
explained, in English for my benefit, but in his native language as well, what
he heard the river say. We watched the kingfishers for a bit as he told me
parts of his story.
Heading
for my car, I noticed a woman with a large suitcase, clearly struggling. I made
a detour and asked her how she was doing. We walked her suitcase to her
destination across the parking lot and to a bus stop, as she told me stories of
her life growing up back east and her visits to Europe. I have made it a habit
to accept people’s stories as they tell them—real or imagined, they are always
true on some level. And I have often found my assumptions to be completely
wrong about a person’s life. I gave her a hug, heading back across the parking
lot, where I stopped for a chat with two young men, passing through the area,
with their adorable puppy and their signs that were meant to be funny.
As
I head back home, I am struck again by the joy I find in this work. It is, more
than anything, a sense that I have seen the face of God. That I have learned
about community. That I have learned about dignity and courage in the face of
impossible and harsh realities. That I have learned to listen to the voice of
the river and find the voice of God. I go to the streets to find God and I
never fail to find the face and voice of the divine.
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