Getting Over Myself

My old habits are getting in the way of getting over myself. And I guess it’s fair to say that my suffering of this predicament is not a solitary one. Everywhere I look I see folks displaying their baggage. Each time I catch myself, I say, “help me.” I’m back at the shelter this week, helping out on a couple of evenings. After a month’s absence, I still recognize lots of faces, although the names didn’t come to me last night. The volunteers wear nametags, so many of our guests called me by name. “Hi, Harold.” How nice that feels, to be acknowledged, to be named. The name Harold derives from the Old English and means “army”, “ruler”, “power”. I doubt that my parents gave that even a thought when they chose my middle name in honor of the doctor friend who delivered me. “Harold be thy name,” a friend in Houston used to greet me 25 years ago. It’s not a common name. I’ve known only a few Harolds all of these years. We all like being called, being honored. It’s akin to a firm handshake. Let me know that you are glad to see me, and that you just might remember me the next time we meet. Call me by name.

Our dear mother was not a regular churchgoer for most of her adult life. She was raised in the German Missouri Synod Lutheran tradition, which she honored all of her 90 years. In her last few years she became enamored of a well-known, young Texas evangelical minister, who, along with my oldest sister Joan, she watched regularly on Sunday mornings. One of the metaphors he used that caught my ear concerned the baggage we carry around, and that we like to unpack on a regular basis. Not particularly attractive things get lovingly unfolded, held up for display, drawn to our sad, angry, hurting chest, and then put away again, until the next time we need them.

I know many consider homelessness some kind of choice, perhaps the result of many poor choices. The other day, during a noontime meeting of a group that gathers at church twice a month to discuss their current book selection, our church’s volunteer responsibility at the shelter this week was brought up. As people talked about who had signed on to prepare food each night over the seven-day run, I guess it was inevitable that the guests who come to the shelter needed comment. Alcohol abuse and the subsequent evolving rules relating to drunken or disruptive behavior made their way to the table. With minimal clucking and nods of dis-something or another, we made our way past the judgment throne to more important considerations, namely the food ministry, which is only part of our volunteer responsibility for three hours each night of the week. In truth, most of the guests at the shelter don’t want to deal with disruptive behavior any more than the volunteers who are giving of their gifts, in whatever fashion. Most guests at the shelter are mightily aware of what has brought them to this place, although most of the volunteers are not privileged to share toward understanding what surely must beg each of us to say, there but for the grace of God go I.

I heard last night that one of the women is a substitute teacher, who works most days of any week, in the Santa Fe Public Schools. Another guy—the one who by the smile of Providence received one of the articles of clothing I took to the local organization that redirects goods to those in the community who are need—is writing a book. That’s what I heard. This same guy sold Christmas trees during the holiday. That’s what I know.

Yes, we all have our baggage, but everyone I know as friend and close acquaintance has shelter, food and ample warm clothing. The needs on the shelter wish list include coats, gloves, warm caps, and socks. The stories of the shelter guests are many. Some have cars—some of which aren’t reliable. If we saw many of these folks walking down the street any day of the week, we wouldn’t mark them as any less together than you and I. If we engage them in conversation, we quickly discern intelligence, polish and a healthy dose of decency which most of us take for granted. Yes, some of these folks clearly have baggage that you and I are blessed not to have, or at least we have it under control. It hasn’t put us on the street.

My habits are getting in the way of getting over myself. I am blessed to have my wits about me, most hours of the day, although at times I take myself way too seriously. I let the behavior of others cloud my vision. I submit to my vulnerability, my insecurity. I open my baggage, filled with a life-long collection, and the rest just falls into place. This stuff has become so familiar, that I really don’t see it anymore, if I ever really did. It’s way too comfortable, even if it doesn’t fit. Thank God for the messengers who encourage us. Friend Steve advised the other day, when I voiced my uncertainty about a perceived conflict with another friend—an important friend here in Santa Fe—“Harold, don’t give in to your fear.” He further cautioned me that shutting one door out of fear inevitably leads to other doors closed without peaceful resolve. He was right. Face your doubt. Reach out. Trust the journey. Empty your bags. With palms open to the heavens, close your eyes, breathe deeply, regularly. Let go.

Getting Over Myself—Santa Fe, New Mexico (January 13, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis