There is a murky line between the practice and purpose of the Catholic Worker house and respecting the rights and liberties of the individual. I don't want to blow the whistle on a fella who is a volunteer and hasn't been showing up to help out in the morning so when he came in this evening (he has a key to let himself in) and filled a bag of food from the walk-in fridges, I watched him as I washed dishes and didn't say anything.
The Catholic worker credo is everything in the house belongs to everybody though it is understood it is better ten men each get a new pair of socks than one man taking ten pair of socks. Therefore I understand the distribution of goods for the majority must precede over one who takes all the donated cold cuts and walks out with a Panama hat pulled down over his eyes. Should the men who live in the house be denied the food so that one man eats well?
One never knows what is going to be donated and that may be the reason I feel unsettled about the cold cuts that walked out the door. I didn't pay for them. They don't belong to anyone, yet I think now there are people in the house who won't have ham sandwiches if, that is what they wanted if it was there for them to have. I should have called the man with the Panama hat and said why don't you make a few sandwiches and take a few extra slices of the turkey and salami, but he took it all and I said nothing. Wimp.
I feel bad about staying mute but I would have felt bad stopping him. I should have intervened, but imagining later how it might have played out left me angry. What if I had come across in a way that triggered an angry response? Would I have been in the right if I stopped him from taking it all? If I had never been there, it wouldn't have happened and no one would have said a thing. But I was there and I saw it and I did nothing. Wimp again.
***
I've been attending a trio of Catholic Churches here for nine weeks, all within walking distance, and despite uncomfortable pews, screaming toddlers, and a strange mural of an ancient white dude towering behind an altar, the brief times of transcendence have helped me deal with my days of volunteering at St. Joes. I've also benefited from reading the kinds of books that help me see how to be a better steward of my time and relationships.
I finished the first half of 'The Way of the Pilgrim' and unceasing prayer is essential, in whatever form you gotta have a mantra of sorts in your head, especially when crazy spirits roar around you. I've also been gleaning much wisdom from "The Delight of Duty". Dorothy Day is candid in her journals and she was no saint as far as she was concerned, but she had a bigger heart for the poor than I do, and in my humble opinion, the poor were far worse off in the 1930's- 40's than today, and she was always working with really difficult people though she managed to keep it together. I attribute that to her complete dedication to the cause, regular church going, reading, a daughter and grandchildren, and time away from it all.
I am coming to know a few of these difficult people, and like someone said, I am being schooled and am seeing where I need improvement. A man whom I will call Oscar, seemed to me at first a suspicious character, walking around everywhere he wasn't supposed to be, helping himself to coffee and donuts, reserved for the volunteers who help out in the kitchen and dining room, or getting into the house before we opened the doors in the morning so he could put his clothes in the wash. Normally he just hung around, his egg shaped head covered with a morning frizz of hair, thick glasses that make his eyes look 3-D, along with a dumbfounded laugh that led me originally to guess he had fallen from a 20 story building and landed on a hot dog kiosk.
But Oscar's story is much sadder than that and as I learn about the suspicious ones I am humbled and look, like I do at Oscar now, as a victim through no fault of his own. Brain surgery. Five years ago. He says half of his IQ was taken away, he couldn't and still can't manage numbers, and for a while his colors were mixed up. He lives in the back seat of a truck now. What hope is there for Oscar? Well, he's volunteering more in the kitchen. Small steady sets of instruction help, he can't wander off if someone is right there to keep him on task. You don't want him at the bottom of a ladder while you're at the top because he'll wander off, but will he ever recover? How long do patients who have cancer removed from their heads return to normalcy?
I think he knows he is not the man he once was, and knowing that may be an impetus to improving himself. But has surgery completely robbed him of becoming a self sufficient, independent individual? Can you trust someone whose brain has been scrambled through no fault of his own with a little? You have to. You have to try. You have to see what he is capable of doing and until then, he needs the encouragement and the support to stay on track. Don't let the pancake eyes spook you, and don't let the R-rated laugh you'd hear if he was going to stab a bread knife in your throat while you're taking a shower dissuade, listen instead closely to his heart, and hear what he needs.
The Catholic worker credo is everything in the house belongs to everybody though it is understood it is better ten men each get a new pair of socks than one man taking ten pair of socks. Therefore I understand the distribution of goods for the majority must precede over one who takes all the donated cold cuts and walks out with a Panama hat pulled down over his eyes. Should the men who live in the house be denied the food so that one man eats well?
One never knows what is going to be donated and that may be the reason I feel unsettled about the cold cuts that walked out the door. I didn't pay for them. They don't belong to anyone, yet I think now there are people in the house who won't have ham sandwiches if, that is what they wanted if it was there for them to have. I should have called the man with the Panama hat and said why don't you make a few sandwiches and take a few extra slices of the turkey and salami, but he took it all and I said nothing. Wimp.
I feel bad about staying mute but I would have felt bad stopping him. I should have intervened, but imagining later how it might have played out left me angry. What if I had come across in a way that triggered an angry response? Would I have been in the right if I stopped him from taking it all? If I had never been there, it wouldn't have happened and no one would have said a thing. But I was there and I saw it and I did nothing. Wimp again.
***
I've been attending a trio of Catholic Churches here for nine weeks, all within walking distance, and despite uncomfortable pews, screaming toddlers, and a strange mural of an ancient white dude towering behind an altar, the brief times of transcendence have helped me deal with my days of volunteering at St. Joes. I've also benefited from reading the kinds of books that help me see how to be a better steward of my time and relationships.
I finished the first half of 'The Way of the Pilgrim' and unceasing prayer is essential, in whatever form you gotta have a mantra of sorts in your head, especially when crazy spirits roar around you. I've also been gleaning much wisdom from "The Delight of Duty". Dorothy Day is candid in her journals and she was no saint as far as she was concerned, but she had a bigger heart for the poor than I do, and in my humble opinion, the poor were far worse off in the 1930's- 40's than today, and she was always working with really difficult people though she managed to keep it together. I attribute that to her complete dedication to the cause, regular church going, reading, a daughter and grandchildren, and time away from it all.
I am coming to know a few of these difficult people, and like someone said, I am being schooled and am seeing where I need improvement. A man whom I will call Oscar, seemed to me at first a suspicious character, walking around everywhere he wasn't supposed to be, helping himself to coffee and donuts, reserved for the volunteers who help out in the kitchen and dining room, or getting into the house before we opened the doors in the morning so he could put his clothes in the wash. Normally he just hung around, his egg shaped head covered with a morning frizz of hair, thick glasses that make his eyes look 3-D, along with a dumbfounded laugh that led me originally to guess he had fallen from a 20 story building and landed on a hot dog kiosk.
But Oscar's story is much sadder than that and as I learn about the suspicious ones I am humbled and look, like I do at Oscar now, as a victim through no fault of his own. Brain surgery. Five years ago. He says half of his IQ was taken away, he couldn't and still can't manage numbers, and for a while his colors were mixed up. He lives in the back seat of a truck now. What hope is there for Oscar? Well, he's volunteering more in the kitchen. Small steady sets of instruction help, he can't wander off if someone is right there to keep him on task. You don't want him at the bottom of a ladder while you're at the top because he'll wander off, but will he ever recover? How long do patients who have cancer removed from their heads return to normalcy?
I think he knows he is not the man he once was, and knowing that may be an impetus to improving himself. But has surgery completely robbed him of becoming a self sufficient, independent individual? Can you trust someone whose brain has been scrambled through no fault of his own with a little? You have to. You have to try. You have to see what he is capable of doing and until then, he needs the encouragement and the support to stay on track. Don't let the pancake eyes spook you, and don't let the R-rated laugh you'd hear if he was going to stab a bread knife in your throat while you're taking a shower dissuade, listen instead closely to his heart, and hear what he needs.
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