Summer Service Interns
This letter is from Angi Burnworth, who helped to oversee our Summer Kids Club for at-risk children. Additionally, she spent one night a week at the Timothy House, helping volunteers from visiting worship teams minister to our homeless neighbors.
From an “Issue”...to a Friend
by Angela Burnworth
The homeless, the friendless, the sick, a child with abusive parents, the poor, the convict, those with addictions, the elderly, the mentally ill—I often thought of these as issues instead of thinking of them as groups of people. I thought of them as issues that were problematic and needed to be fixed. After this summer, my way of thinking about these things has changed drastically. Meeting so many different people has enabled me to put a face and a name to these many issues.
When I think of the homeless, I no longer just think of a filthy person in the streets of a city shivering under a dark pile of blankets. I think of a friend I met this summer who I look forward to seeing at the Friday Night Supper each week. When I think of the friendless, I no longer just think of people who have chosen to be that way. I think of the first grader at Kids' Club who was rejected by her peers repeatedly when she reached out in love toward them. When I think of the sick, I no longer just think of an elderly person in a nursing home. I think of a girl only a couple months older than me who is staying at the Timothy House and trying to be optimistic despite gloomy news from the doctor.
When I think of the poor, I no longer just think of it as an issue just in other countries or as something that we in the 21st century are immune to. I think of regions of America that are struck by poverty, whose inhabitants are not lazy but are desperately trying to find any job. When I think of children with abusive parents, I no longer just think of statistics. I think of specific faces and names of kids I’ve worked with. When I think of convicts, I no longer just think of the stereotypical heartless, cruel, and savage man. I think of a compassionate, remorseful man I met this summer who was a convict only because he was trying to protect himself and his family.
When I think of those with addictions, I no longer just think of them as weak, selfish people. I think of one of my best friends that I met this summer. When I think of the elderly, I no longer just think of golf courses and retirement homes. I think of an elderly roommate I had this summer whose tireless service was an inspiration to me. When I think of the mentally ill I no longer just think of crowds of people in insane asylums. I think of specific people who don’t have enough money to pay for the medications that would help them to be mentally stable.
I no longer think of these things as issues from which I am estranged. These things now affect me because they affect my friends whom I love.
Katie worked with Samaritan Projects as well as volunteered at the Timothy House.
The Man Who Makes the Homeless Shelter into a Home
By Katie M. Pierson
The first time I saw Mark (not his real name) was at the Athens Vineyard. He was in charge of the overhead transparencies for the music. I remembered being impressed as I noted his skill of smoothly sliding the new transparency over the old one, right along with the beat of the music. As one who has dealt with the slippery things and who has been frustrated with the arrangement of transparencies on the overhead, I admired how he made sure the sheet was placed carefully in the center of the screen.
I formerly met him during my first volunteer shift at the Timothy House. It was suppertime, and the chair beside him was empty. As I sat down and reached for the chicken alfredo, I recognized his face. He recognized me as well, and from his first smile then to the last goodbye hug four days ago, I’ve been so blessed to have him as my friend.
Throughout the summer, I began to realize how much structure he provides to the Timothy House. First of all, he is an AMAZING cook. He makes the best dishes, and is very considerate of other people’s needs. For example, he’d make a vegetable side dish for our vegan friend Candace, or he’d make up a plate to send back with an intern for someone at the Hannah House who expressed the desire to eat whatever creation he cooked up for supper.
Second of all, he is the only man outside of my father that I know who meticulously cleans. In the kitchen, not only would he wash the dishes, but he’d dry and put them away, then scrub off the stove top, wipe down the counters and sweep the floor if it needed to be done. He jumps up to switch over loads the minute he hears the washer machine turn off. He clears the dining room table and wipes it clean. He also knows the Timothy House inside and out. During my last shift, when Mark went out with some friends for dinner, I was helping a new arrival with dishes. She asked me where some of the dishes went. I didn’t know, so I asked someone else. He didn’t know, either. As I searched for a suitable place for the dishes, I grumbled to myself, “Where’s Mark when you need him? He’d put it away for me!”
Finally, Mark is an intent listener. Every night, after supper is over and the kitchen cleaned up, he and several other residents of the house sit out on the porch. The others talk about dreams, religion and jobs while they enjoy the summer evening and the Bugle tobacco. But, Mark—well, Mark rolls his cigarettes for the next day and listens to the others. He’s one of those types that are quiet and rarely speak. Those types who, when they do speak, have something important to say and it’s worth my while to shut up and listen.
It was like just one of those nights when Mark really encouraged, and really challenged me. Except, that night, we were at the Hannah House. It was a week ago, at the Friday Night Supper. We were sitting on the porch. I was talking and he was smoking and listening. I mentioned my uncertain future after college, and how I’d like to work at a newspaper office. I also mentioned how implausible that dream seemed because I didn’t have any experience. After a while, Mark tapped the ashes off of his Bugle cigarette, looked at me, and said, “Well, in your spare time, if you have spare time, start writing. Write about your opinions. Write about your experiences here at Good Works.” I sat at his side and listened to the fountain of advice. He suggested reading magazines in order to get an idea of how good articles are written. He mentioned the need to practice writing and to send out articles whenever I get a chance.
It was amazing. For so long, I talked about writing. I only talked about it, and never wrote. Here was Mark, a “home-less” man, giving me the jump start I needed to make an investment in my future. When I saw him at church the following Sunday, he reminded me of his words. I looked at him and was filled with the desire to actually commit to writing. From past experiences, I knew that I would need someone to hold me accountable to this. I caught his eye and said, “I need you to hold me accountable to this. Keep asking me if I have written something.” He looked right back at me and said, “I will. I expect results.”
All of this summer, I tried to invest into the lives of the people I met through Good Works. I tried to show them the love that Jesus has for me and that He has for them. I heard coming into this internship that I would end up receiving from the people of Athens as much as I gave to them. Mark, who makes the Timothy House a home for other residents, proved this statement true.
Elizabeth worked with Senior Friends and volunteered at the Timothy House.
Something Beautiful
By Elizabeth Franko
As different as this summer experience has been from what I expected, it is turning into something beautiful. Ever since I came here last summer, the major theme is “relationships.” I felt as though I had learned what this really meant through the relationships I had made with kids and seniors. Although sometimes I felt drained hanging out with particular people, I felt like I was receiving just as much as I was giving. It would take a lot for me to spend time with these people but by the end of our time together I would be thankful for them.
Visiting this summer has been interesting. I find myself actually wanting to go to these ladies’ homes to spend time with them. When I leave, I don’t feel drained, I feel happy. Janie for example, just lights me up. I can’t wait to visit her and to be honest, I like her more than most of my friends. I think people over sixty-five have a lot of negative stereotypes hanging over them. Personally, I believed them to be stubborn, boring, mean, or out of it. This summer I have found some of these stereotypes to be true for some people I have visited. For the majority though, this is not true. People just assume they are not up for new things like games or going out somewhere. I have found that they are, though. They are people and still have the same desires and wants that young adults have. There is a part of them that wants to be spontaneous and they want to talk about more than just their problems.
I think that age is something being pushed onto these women by society. Of course, if they have to sit in their house all day they are going to become bored and get to be boring. They are becoming a forgotten generation and they are held captive by circumstances. Lacking transportation, friends, and new experiences, older women everywhere I’m sure are losing hope. To be honest, I’m embarrassed to see families forgetting about their elders and young people refusing to make the sacrifice of time and comfort.
I’m not completely sure how to handle this dilemma but I do know that we are not doing enough. I finally understand that older people are still people. They have the same characteristics of young people just in a body that may be holding them back. Don’t get me wrong, I get frustrated with these people, just the same as I get frustrated with people my age and older and younger for that matter. We have just lost patience with older people. Who are we to do such a thing when we are all aging and we are all still working to improve our own imperfections?
Brian came to us as a volunteer from Wright State University in the summer of 2006, and came back as a Summer Service Intern in 2007. He participated in Samaritan Projects as well as the Timothy House.
“Lord, What Can I Possibly Do?”
by Brian Steele
Offer to pray for her. It was the Lord. He was giving me that familiar nudge I had felt so many times, so I obeyed.
“Margaret, is it okay if I pray for you?”
‘Margaret’ looked a little taken aback.
“Um, what?” she asked.
I repeated the question. And then something happened that I did not expect.
Less than an hour before this I and three high school students from the worship team had driven all the way out to Margaret’s house to deliver firewood for that afternoon’s Samaritan Project. As I drove the truck full of firewood into her driveway I noticed immediately that she lived in a state of poverty that I had never seen before in my very own state of Ohio. I saw a small two or three-bedroom house with the siding falling apart, a deck unsafe to walk on with breaks and holes everywhere, piles and piles of dog feces from her eight or so dogs nearby, a doghouse that could barely be classified as a suitable home for any creature, and I also learned that she did not have running water and that she did not want us to go inside the house because there was a possibility that we could fall through her floors. Margaret herself was a very thin woman in her forties with missing or rotting teeth. She looked malnourished but even so, her eyes conveyed a strength that I had not seen in very many people.
She responded to my offer for a prayer:
“No thank you. I don’t do prayer. I gave up praying to God about a year and a half ago.”
What followed was over an hour’s worth of story after story after story of all the bad things that had happened to her. Among these things were abuse from her ex-husband, her greedy and wealthy neighbor trying to steal her thirty-nine acres from her, a neighbor telling a lie that caused her to miss out on buying a pickup truck (and the lying woman was a self-professed good church-goer as well), a meager diet that she could barely afford with the tiny amount of money she lived on each month, and the sad stories continued to come one right after the other. I couldn’t believe it! How could I ever complain about any of my own circumstances after hearing all of this?
She lives alone. But that does not stop invisible forces from pushing her from behind so that she falls on the ground, or breaking dishes and slamming doors and causing all kinds of sounds to echo throughout her home. Demons. There is no other explanation for this. Who am I to complain? I wanted so badly for her to know that God loves her. So I told her, and in response she gave a short grimace and a shake of her head; one that said I couldn’t possibly know what I was talking about because I had never experienced what she had experienced.
In short, she said that God couldn’t possibly love her because if He did then He wouldn’t have let all of this happen. I had no words. None. All of my Christian-sounding responses fell flat and hollow in my throat, and fell back to where they came from. Nothing I could say would possibly make her feel better. Nothing. When she had her back turned for several moments I mouthed the word ‘PRAY’ to one of the students with me. They were all silent the entire time, and so was I except for a few instances.
I prayed silently. A lot. ‘Lord, give me the words. What should I say?’ The answer turned out to be nothing. All I could do was listen. All I could do was listen to this woman pour out her heart to me about her unfortunate circumstances. How often did she have someone who listened to her for over an hour? So I listened. I was empathetic as much as I was able. She knew I was there trying to help. Oh how I wished that I could make her problems disappear. But I could not.
Eventually we had to go. I apologized but told her that we needed to leave. She understood. The drive back was mostly filled with a deafening silence. I was angry; angry at how the church had failed this woman, but at the same time grateful for Good Works being a vital link between her and true representations of the body of Christ.
Two days later people from the same group bought her groceries and we came back and visited once more. This time she seemed like a different person. I knew that she was touched by the love of Christ when we were there last. She was receptive and warmer this time around, though she was still hesitant about receiving prayer.
I had prayed that she would feel the touch of God in a special way. When people feel His love they are changed. It’s as simple as that, and I know in my heart that a seed was planted in Margaret’s heart that will one day blossom into something beautiful. We could have left at any time but chose to stay and listen for just one hour as she vented.
No words. Just actions. In this case the words were unnecessary and even harmful. In every case we must be obedient to the nudge of the Holy Spirit, because He knows what is going on inside each person’s heart. He knows that where we are weak, He is strong. He knows that we can only do so much. And through this experience I have come to know that as long as I am available to be used by the Lord, He will take care of the rest and see to it that His love and glory are revealed to the world.
I’m so glad to have been a part of this. I’m so glad that I was obedient to that nudge to pray for her, because this lesson powerfully impacted the entire youth group that was here during that week. There’s a long list describing my disobedience, but thankfully this was not on that list.
God only knows how many times I have missed or been disobedient to that gentle nudge of the Spirit, and how many times I have missed out on equally powerful lessons. This was a reminder that I must always be listening to that still small voice… that still small voice… that still small voice…Because He is always speaking.
David served with us in the Summer of 2007. His ministry was primarily in the Timothy House.
Becoming Friends with the Poor
By Dave Lilley
In getting school credits for my Good Works internship this summer, one of the requirements is that I set goals for myself and my work here. This was a bit difficult to do in some ways, as I had to do this really before I started working here and therefore did not really know what I would and would not be able to do. Not that I know now either, but you know—it’s a bit much to ask people to come up with complex goals an the steps they will take to meet them before even beginning work with a ministry. At least one of my goals, however, actually made sense after I got here: I aimed to become friends with at least one of the poor or homeless persons Good Works gives welcome to at the Timothy House or Friday Night Life. I still think that’s a pretty good goal, and it’s actually happening—wow!
I’ve gotten to know Mike, one of the residents of the Timothy House, fairly well over the last few weeks, and I genuinely enjoy spending time with him—one of my highlights of the entire summer is a team water-balloon toss game with him and two others at Friday Night Life. It seems that Mike is enjoying hanging out with me as well, since a couple of times he has decided to volunteer me to do dishes or another chore with him after dinner at the Timothy House.
This past weekend, Mike and I had lunch downtown, and he had the chance to show me around his favorite parts of the city. With the approval of Rosenna, it was good to develop the relationship beyond the immediate framework provided by Good Works. This enabled both of us to play the role of both host and guest in ways not entirely possible at the Timothy House—I took Mike out to lunch, and he invited me into his favorite park in the city, telling me why he liked it so much.
More importantly, the extended conversation—without all of the consistent breaks inherent to the community at the Good Works properties—allowed us to talk through much of Mike’s story as a whole, not in disjointed bits and pieces as had previously been the case. Much of the conversation flowed out of my question, “how did you become a Christian?” This gave a wonderfully grace-filled account of the recent events in his life. They were, for the most part, the same events that would be relayed in answer to the question, “So what brought you to the Timothy House?” but they were viewed in a new light as events that also fall under the lordship of Christ.
It is not easy to hear all the parts of Mike’s story that he has told to me, and in some ways hearing it as the story of him coming to God is even more difficult to hear. It doesn’t appear that God is afraid of getting dirt on his hands when working through the mess of our lives. Even the worst situations—those that did not come about by any action of God’s at all—can be turned to his good purpose for our lives. My life is generally too neat and compartmentalized to realize how dramatic the assertion really is that all things can work for good for those who love God. Through my friendship with Mike, I am able to see the immense God of love a bit more clearly. This is a good thing.
