Week 1

I rolled into Joplin, Missouri, carried by a Greyhound bus about five days ago. When I hit the streets it was made all too clear to me that I had brought far, far more luggage than I would be able to shoulder through the city streets. So I brunted the load across the street from the bus station to a parking lot sheltered in the shade of a large red brick building. There I sat for at least an hour and a half tearing my bags apart time and again trying to decide what I could keep and what had to go. In the end I packed a good portion of what I had brought with me into the large, green canvas, military backpack I had planned to wear throughout my wanderings and tucked it behind an air conditioning unit; essentially abandoning it.

Instead of the backpack I decided I would carry my goods within the soft canvas duffle-pack gifted me by a Mr. Ron Wilkins – part owner of the business I worked at until I took on this little journey. I slid my guitar onto my back, muscled the duffle over my shoulder, and set out to explore this city I had come to; chosen by all but the throw of a dart.

Just two blocks away I landed in a small park with a water fountain. I stopped to settle my nerves and bring my wits back about me. It is a disturbing thing to land in a city you don’t know with no support structure, no more than $10.00 in your wallet, and no plans except to follow wheresoever the divine shall lead.

I pulled out my guitar and sat there soothing my spirit beneath the shade of the park trees; the sound of water at the fountain; the constant gentle breeze of the Joplin winds on my face; and a few notes of music wafting over head from under shoulder.

When my worries had settled I put the guitar away and asked the Lord to guide me. What direction should I go? Looking to the south I saw the tightly packed buildings of historic downtown Joplin. To the north the commercial and residential development began to disperse as the city came to an end. And to the west I could see the crucifix-adorned steeples of many different churches lining the streets.

My first inclination was to head west, toward those churches, hoping to find someone within who might point me to the local shelters, soup kitchens, and the other means of the average vagrant’s works. But if not west I’d prefer to head south, into the downtown area where I’d be more likely to stumble upon these things myself.

But as I sat there asking the Great Magnet where I should go, a strong wind came up and with it a strong urge to head north, toward the end of the city and the beginnings of scattering gas stations and car dealerships. By my own logic and wisdoms I did not want to start walking north. My bags were still quite heavy and cumbersome, and I couldn’t walk very far shouldering them without needing to stop and rest. With this in mind, north would seem to deliver me into the nothingness of an ever more suburban and ever more rural area; unfriendly to the Christian hobo.

So I turned my head skyward, questioning the wisdom of the Lord’s guidance, and seeking a different path. And in the instant that I questioned His guidance I caught a wind-spray of water in the face. Now, I’d been sitting at this fountain for over a half hour without a touch of water finding its way to my body. I took it as a sign: Looked once more to the heavens saying, “Alright you bastard. Let’s go.” I picked up my bags and headed north.

-

For brevities sake I’ll simply say that I walked some distance struggling all the while with the sixty or so pounds of awkwardly fitted luggage dangling from my arms, hands, and back. I suppose I reached a point about as far north as I was willing to walk. Though take care, brothers, to understand that it was not a failure of faith that turned me back but a general mindlessness that fell over me as I panted and sweat beneath the load of my cargo.

I turned once more to the south and entered a shaded alley where I might, once more, rearrange the weight on my back. After several minutes of negotiating primarily fruitless measures to consolidate my load into a more balanced burden, a man’s head emerged from around the corner of the alley saying, “Is that you making all the noise back here?”

I began to speak but he interrupted me saying, “Well? Get in here!” as he disappeared again around the corner. I grabbed up my things and followed him to the other side of the structure. I must admit that from the alley I would have thought this small, one story, concrete building to be condemned or likewise abandoned. Most of the windows had been boarded up long ago and the top coat of paint appeared to be about the twentieth white-washing this tiny structure had received since its construction.

On the other side of the building I found this man – this stranger – standing; waiting and holding the door open as if to beckon me inside. I walked in to find a sort-of studio apartment: Old, weathered, and somewhat ugly. The kitchen floor was layered with dark orange, cracked and peeling chunks of stick-on tile. And in their midst a large crack cut its way through the floor from fridge to sofa; filled and mudded over with some dark red filler compound which was left un-sanded.

The bedroom was uncarpeted concealing no more than a bed, an unpopulated desk and an undetermined chunk of furniture being used as a raised, flat surface. As this man, my new friend, would come to tell me over and over again, “It’s primitive.” Nonetheless I found myself saying “This is pretty nice.”

I tucked my bags into a corner and began to acquaint myself with this stranger. I would soon discover that he was a Vietnam war veteran and an alcoholic. And wow, what an alcoholic! It seemed no matter what I said to him, he simply repeated the same few woeful comments over and over again; and always in the partial slur of alcohol’s depressive effects on the tongue.

Later I would discover the true depth of this otherwise simple man. He is never truly as drunk as you think I are. Much of the slur in his words comes from a lack of teeth – most of the bottom front are gone leaving only the lower canines visible. And his inability to follow a conversation has nothing to do with his incessant drinking and everything to do with his ears.

By whatever cause (though likely a result of his military days) he has about a seventy percent hearing loss. When I discovered this it was like meeting a whole different person. Our conversations until then had been fairly one way: He would ramble about something I’d already heard him say ten times before and I would make whatever facial expression best conveyed my response. But when I finally started shouting my words a whole new book opened up before me. His name is Anthony, or rather Tony. He’s from Michigan. He’s a Christian – almost took up being a preacher. And has he got some stories to tell!

I discovered him to be a good, solid man, of great charity and mindfulness to the troubles of others. That night he agreed to hold my bags for me while I was in town so that I could come and go with as little or as much as I needed. And I was able to run back to where I had hidden the abandoned backpack, regaining it and it’s contents to my cause.

His hearing loss is a great shame. I have seen him try to communicate with others and they, without knowing his disability, simply take him for a sloppy drunk. Knowing what I know now, I doubt the alcohol affects him cognitively at all. It makes him a bit more jocular, and a bit more willing to say things he might not otherwise, but his mind seems to be in full faculty - always. Because of this I am now in search of a hearing aid that I might deliver it to him as a gift: That he should not be perceived as a drunkard and a fool; for in my book he is written as neither.

-

Anthony put me up that first night and let me wash the muck of the Greyhound off me in his shower. The next day I arose and went walking, mapping the town in my mind as I went. There are a number of shelters on this side of Joplin, many within a ten block radius of one another. The most spoken of is a place called “Soul’s Harbor.”

I went looking for Soul’s Harbor the day after I arrived. First, because I didn’t want to take advantage of Anthony’s charity and generosity. Second, because I met and spoke with his landlady, Phyllis. The utilities at Anthony’s house are included in the rent, meaning Phyllis is the one paying the actual bills. Reasonably, therefore, she’s uneasy toward having a second occupant in the house on any regular basis who might end up costing her more in gas, electricity, and water.

Now, it seemed that every time I walked up to Soul’s Harbor the doors were locked. I just couldn’t figure out the schedule for this place. For two days I hoofed the ten blocks down at various times hoping to speak to someone about the shelter and never found a ‘soul’ to speak to. But what I did eventually find was a flyer on their door telling me of a community block-party going on at 5p that afternoon a few blocks away. The words “FREE FOOD” were especially enticing at this point as I hadn’t partaken of a hot meal in three or four days. I resolved to attend this shin-dig and see what might be born of it.

The block-party was being hosted by another shelter, colloquially termed the “Refuge House.” I believe the sponsoring entity is called Refuge Ministries. I showed up several hours early while the Refuge people were just starting to assemble things. So, thinking to kill some time, I walked down the alley running next to the shelter and under the 7th street bridge. There I ran into a group of ten or twelve teenagers and young twenty-somethings. It turned out they were walking from one end of town to the other, handing out free sack-lunches to the homeless and the needy. After a good conversation with two members of the group they continued on, leaving me with a lunch bag full of yet untold treasures.

You have never truly tasted a ham and cheese sandwich until you’ve eaten one after three days living on bulk packaged peanut butter crackers and granola bars. I savored every bite of it, lamenting only my failure to discover the packet of mayonnaise at the bottom of the bag until the last two bites.

Therein also was one of those foil wrapped kool-aid type juice drinks, a mini bag of Cheetoh’s, and – ugh – more crackers. A word to the wise: Kool-aid drinks seem to do more toward dehydration than quenching thirst. I was soon looking for something else to wet my throat after downing that little silver bag’o’fluid.

After munching on my “free lunch” I killed a little time, walking around aimlessly, and returned to the Refuge. I was still two hours early but the preparations were really starting to get underway now. I shook a few hands, met a few people, rolled up my sleeves and got to work; helping setup for the coming block party.

It’s a glorious thing to sweat and work without expectation; To do manual labor with no thought of reward but merely for the sake of doing what needs be done: To each man as he is able.

Since the block party I’ve gotten to know a lot of the people here at the Refuge. I’ve also done a lot more, spiritually fulfilling, dirt-and-muscle-type work for the place. Even now I’m writing this article from a dinner table in the pantry / kitchen area within. In my opinion the Refuge House is the perfect shelter.

Many of the shelters around here have strict rules about when you can come and go, how often you must check in, mandatory involvement in work programs and church groups; and I imagine these sort of places would tend to take your hand and lead you where you will be for the night, keeping you out of certain areas in the buildings.

The Refuge House is nothing like that. In fact, I was quite uncomfortable when I first started visiting here because of how much liberty they granted me. Without knowing me for more than a few hours I was being encouraged to walk around the place like I owned it. Through the church section, pantry, storage, and sleeping areas. And though it’s a shelter there is quite a bit here worth stealing if a man were so inclined. I was amazed at the trust and faith the people here placed in me having known me for such a short period of time; It speaks well of them.

The Refuge keeps its doors open until about 10p for the residents to come and go as they please, and in the morning no man is shoving you out of bed or hurrying you out of the building. If you can get up by noon no one is going to bother you. And honestly I don’t think anyone bothers the few who haven’t awoke by then either. Everyone just ends up congregating on the loading dock, smoking and chatting and generally being neighborly. That is when they aren’t working or keeping the place clean and presentable.

The folks who technically run the joint are indistinguishable from any of the other residents. They sleep here, eat here, and dress in the same dirty, hand-me-down clothes as everyone else. It’s a real family atmosphere that pierces me right through to the heart. The love, charity, and compassion of everyone here can really overwhelm a man.

So I give them whatever I can. Having little in the way of money and possessions I do whatever work they might need done; sweeping and mopping the floors; cleaning up the exterior; loading and unloading donated goods. Just today I rode to the Frito Lay distribution center in the back of a pick-up truck and helped load a twelve foot trailer full with donated chips and corn-goods. Again, the satisfaction in doing these things without want or need of reciprocation is more satisfying that any other work I’ve ever done.

I’ve been hesitant to take full advantage of The Refuge’s generosities, though. They have an open bed here that, by tonight, I will have slept in twice since arriving. But I’m timid toward the notion of accepting the full-time residency that they have offered me.

I chose to become a vagrant in pursuit of happiness and godliness; much of which I have even now begun to find. But there are surely others who did not choose this lot in life who have nonetheless found themselves cast down beside me. Should I fill that empty bed, I will have removed it from another – almost certainly less fortunate than I and less knowing of God’s gifts.

I remain unsure of my future at the Refuge House except insomuch as I shall do whatsoever I can to be an asset to its continued work, delivering hope and good charity upon those who have none.

-

There is a man here at the Refuge named Duke. He was the foremost man I met here who I took an immediate liking to. I believe Duke was the first to put me to work when I arrived at the block party. He’s a skinny biker-looking guy with a long, scraggly, handlebar mustache and tattoos coming out the sleeves of his shirt. Most often you’ll find him cracking wise on one of the residents or ogling some woman’s… well, pick your body part and he’ll ogle it.

Now, before I go on I should say that everyone around here – by my encounters it would seem the whole city of Joplin even – is Christian. (Or at the least: “Christian.”) Duke is certainly a god-fearing man, as it were, and you’d be hard pressed to distinguish his godliness from any of the other godliness bandying about in these parts. But look closely; gain his confidence; earn his trust; and you will discover that Duke is a Muslim.

The day after the block party the biggest church in the area, the Central Christian Church, held its own block party, calling it a “Round Up,” in a parking lot just two roads down from the Refuge. Again the lure of free food and the potential for religious and/or philosophical conversation drew me to attendance.

It was an overcast day. As I walked to the event I was drenched by a steady rain; Still, I was happy for it. I hadn’t had a shower in a few days and between the heat, my love of walking, the daily applications of sunscreen, and my newfound interest in unpaid manual labor, I had built up a layer of “sticky” that a good rain could only help.

The Round Up was serving chili and lemonade. You have never truly enjoyed chili until you’ve eaten it in the middle of a parking lot even as rain water fills your bowl.

But the rain passed and the Round Up resumed in its intended fashion. It was when I walked into the Karaoke tent (no comment) that I saw Duke waving to me from the back row. We made pleasantries, talked a bit, and bumped into each other off and on the rest of the day. But it was just before we started to leave that he revealed his true religion to me.

It turns out Duke is a self-described “converted Muslim.” Some years ago he became disenchanted with the Christian ethos and started asking the kind of questions some pastors don’t like to hear. He started to challenge the validity of the Bible and began demanding answers from the church on the nature and manner of the various translations and interpretations of the text. Shortly thereafter he was asked to leave.

Undeterred from discovering the truth, Duke set himself to learning Hebrew and then Aramaic. Eventually he would read the Quran in it’s native language; a book I’m told that has never been augmented or changed by any of the Muslim faiths.

It was here that he found the answers he was looking for: A faith fully centered on God and our connections with Him. That did not lift up any prophet or disciple before God or place any human born man on God’s level. To Duke it is a faith wherein when you pray you do not hide your face and bow your head in shame, asking favors and gifts of God, as do the Christians; but instead you kneel before the great creator lifting your eyes to the heavens – facing God – and thanking Him for all that he has provided, begging merely that your fellow should know and receive the same gifts already granted you.

Duke is a good man. And he has furthered my interest in the Quran and the Muslim faith by his example. When I know the New Testament of the original King James Bible to my complete satisfaction I will not turn my attentions to the Old Testament, but first to the Quran.

Friends, I will do what I can to keep in touch throughout my travels and I will hope to see you all again soon. May you each and all find the peace you seek and the love you deserve. God be with you.

Joplin, Missouri - written 10.10.2007