Final Reflections


Now that my YAV year in Atlanta has drawn to a close, I’ve been reflecting on lessons I’ve learned throughout the year, thinking about friends I will dearly miss, and going on runs to dispense some of my anxiety about heading off to Los Angeles for another YAV year. Thank you again to everyone who has supported me along this journey. Over the course of the year, I’ve grown more self-assured, as well as more at peace in my own skin. I have formed friendships I will treasure for years to come. And I’ve gleaned an abundance of wisdom from the clients I’ve met, my coworkers, my housemates, and passing strangers.

Here are the three main lessons I will try my best to keep in mind as I fly to Los Angeles on Monday morning for my next adventure:

1) Loving another person seems as simple and instinctive as taking a breath, but it seldom comes so naturally, and if it does it is in its shallowest form. While listening to idealistic songs like, “All You Need is Love” I feel I could walk down any street on the map and embrace anyone strolling by with pure affection. For a moment I believe no one is ever obnoxious or petulant; everyone is smiling and laughing, swapping kindhearted winks like in the Coke commercials. So wholesome! And so unrealistic.

If I could pin an addendum onto the Beatles’ sentiment: all you need is love, AND…a lot of patience, forgiveness, humility, and a steady intention to understand experiences from another individual’s point of view. The truth is, everyone is insufferable at times. People have flaws, they can become flustered and snappish, be persnickety over trivial details, mistreat the people they care about most, communicate poorly with one another, brood and fume and leave messes everywhere. People are hypocritical, prone to repeat the very habits they find most irritating. They can be paranoid, passive aggressive, and defensive. No one is nice every minute of the day. I know I am not.

Love is an amorphous concept, so I’ll clarify; I’m not talking about a faraway fondness for someone I do not know personally or very well. I would say I love Joni Mitchell, but I’ve never seen her at her worst, so how profound could my love for her be? I’m talking about genuine, deep love, the kind that would be a rich indigo if it had a hue, the kind that emanates through the shadows of a person’s deep-rooted insecurities and despair. A love that entails knowing an individual in their entirety, admiring their finest qualities, and loving them anyway when they are at their breaking point. As my housemate Jeremy would say, “judging people for their best day.” It’s challenging. I’ve found it is worth the effort, though; to be loved despite my innumerable shortcomings, and to wholly know and love the other people in my community was a beautiful gift throughout the year.

2)I do not need so much junk. When I left for Atlanta all I brought was a duffle bag of clothes and a backpack of books and journals. Admittedly, not very sensible, but guess what? I survived the year without having a lot of things! When I returned home I found every corner of my room was crammed with piles of books I’ve already read and clothes I never wear, the dresser tops littered with knick knacks, and a heap paper in the closet that had accumulated over the years (if you wrote me a birthday card when I was five years old, I still had it up to a few weeks ago). After donating two vanloads full of stuff, I felt so free; it was like boulders rolling off my back. Part of the problem was my affinity for elephants. They crowded the space in the form of knick-knacks and pillows and stuffed animals because I thought I needed them to show people how much I love elephants, but my identity is not contingent upon my possessions. I can appreciate elephants without having herds of them across my shelves. Another part of the problem was the fear that I would regret tossing something with sentimental value. If you have this same fear (I suspect a lot of people do), it’s been two weeks since I disposed of all the ticket stubs, cards, and trinkets I had been holding onto for their perceived sentimental value, and I know the people who bestowed these treasures still love me. I do not need piles of material proof, and indeed, I am much happier without the clutter.

3) Simply listening and being present with another person for a few moments is one of the most powerful expressions of love. Here I will quote my wonderful housemate Catherine Perkins, who wrote these words for the Central Outreach and Advocacy Center’s newsletter not long ago:

“I believe that hands can tell a story. I believe that time is an enemy and a friend, but when living on the streets it can be elusive. I believe that a moment to tell a story can be a precious gift. I believe that doing paperwork feels unnecessarily formal after the harrowing experiences some of our guests endure. I believe that free water can heal both physically and mentally. I believe that it is worth making time for our guests to have a comfortable place to sit and think. I believe that a brief hug or handshake is a thank you worth a thousand words. I believe that happiness is like a spirit, fighting to be seen and felt everywhere. There are many things that I have come to believe since I started working at the OAC. It is hard for me to pick a brief moment in time from this year to share. For me, when I think of serving at Central OAC, experiences flash in my mind from many different interactions. I see the faces of those I’ve worked with and hear their voices as they tell me their stories. The big focus for me is on guests and their stories. All people deserve to know they are seen, but when you are marked as a “person in need”, many people turn their backs, or avert their eyes. We all know this, and yet all of us find ourselves doing it in one way or another. That’s why it’s all about stories. When you see someone who looks like they may be in need, remind yourself that they have a story, and they are human. Everyone deserves to know that someone believes they have value. I believe that everyone has value. Make space for people in the ways you are comfortable, and then try to see if you can make space in ways that make you uncomfortable. The program I’ve been serving through, Young Adult Volunteers, focuses on being uncomfortable, and when we find ourselves getting comfortable, the program encourages us to find ways to be uncomfortable again. Not worrying about your own comfort can make you more able to fully care for other people. I have to admit I have found myself comfortable in some of the parts of my work at Central, but I assure you, there is a time every day, that I experience discomfort. I consider it a great gift. I take a deep breath, and then dive in. A little over a year ago, I never would have thought I could do that, let alone learn to love it. I have found a passion in this place, a passion that is shared by the staff and volunteers, a passion for seeing those who often go unseen, hearing the stories and understanding the humanity of those who are rejected or seen as valueless. Central OAC is about helping people to help themselves, building back some confidence, and showing people their inherent value along the way. As I prepare to leave, I can only express my gratitude to Central OAC for teaching me how to have humility, compassion, patience, and kindness for everyone. I feel God in this place, every day.”

Thank you all for reading my blog! I will start a new one soon to chronicle my year in Los Angeles!


Let’s Be Honest

Brace yourselves, readers.

I’m about to be candid, I’m about to get a little gritty, it will definitely not be pleasant to read, and no, I do not know how to make sense of what I’m about to share, so, please, do not expect a conclusion that will leave you at ease or inspired or hopeful. Expect to slump into discomfort and bewilderment.

With that disclaimer in mind, proceed if you wish.

Please excuse me as I unravel my façade of doughty optimism and illimitable compassion. Please excuse me as my heart splatters open, like a peach from the highest branch dropping to hard ground. Please excuse all that mess. And I’m sorry if it sullies your good mood.

See, I’m a nice young woman, so I say “please” and “excuse me” and “I’m sorry” a lot. I say that last phrase all the time, often for imaginary infractions or for ones too slight to warrant it. I’d rather punctuate each breath I take with an apology than offend another person. Appearing discourteous is a prime fear of mine, trumped only by my fear of death. Rude is no way for a nice young woman to be.

I was flipping through my journal entries from over the past year and found a few in which, if I could edit past utterances, I would replace “I’m sorry” or “excuse me” or uneasy laughter with a clear and assertive, “Please treat me with respect.” See, I’m a nice young woman, so I can’t forget the “please.”

An example:

One afternoon in January I was guiding a man in his fifties around the warehouse to shop for his furniture. At one point during his appointment he paused to ask me if I was married. When I promptly replied that I was (I’m not, of course, but I did not want to appear available), he stamped his foot against the ground and exclaimed, “Dammit! I can never win!”

I might have found this amusing if he were not older than my father. Still, it didn’t bother me that much; I simply ignored his abysmal attempt at flirtation and proceeded to lead him to the area where he would select a kitchen table. I handed him a strip of stickers and instructed him to place one on whichever kitchen table he wanted. He peeled off one and, as he extended it towards me as though he were about to stick it to my shoulder said, “I wish I could put a sticker right here.”

I dipped my head forward and scratched the nape of my neck, then let out a timorous little laugh that made me hate myself. Before he left he said, in a lewd whisper, “See, that wasn’t so bad, now was it, sweetheart?”

I think I’m writing this now because at the time I wasn’t able to articulate the words, “Yes, you were acting very creepy, and you obviously know better because otherwise you would not have asked me that question. Shame on you.” God, I wish I had said something like that. But confrontational is no way for a nice young woman to be.

“Have a nice day,” I said.

When a different old man winked after asking me a few months later, “Will you be delivered with the furniture, baby?” I felt, again, flustered and demeaned. I shook my head and chuckled that no, I wouldn’t be. And again, the words I really wanted to say vaporized on my tongue.

“Have a nice day,” I said.

Let me be clear. A lot of the clients who come through the Furniture Bank doors are single men, many of them military veterans who had previously been experiencing homelessness. Ninety nine percent of the men with whom I interact each week are polite and simply grateful to receive furniture.

Why draw attention to the few who come off as misogynistic and sleazy?

Learning how to be more assertive has been one of my chief challenges this year, and I know I am not the only young woman who has a difficult time speaking up and standing up for herself when men pester me. While it’s tough to address this aspect of my work environment, I think it’s important to be honest about it, because I think other women reading this will feel comforted knowing they are not alone.

One of my main reservations about writing this post, which I have wanted to write for a while now, is the fear I will trip and fall into the trope of the delicate “damsel in distress” demonizing and seeking protection from disenfranchised men.

Let me be clear. I am not in distress. Nor do I hate the handful of men who have disrespected me over the year. I do not feel they are despicable or irredeemable, and I do not need protection from them, either. I’m simply jaded. I wish the men I’m referring to had enough self-esteem and self-respect they wouldn’t need to disparage women to wrest an illusory sense of power. And I wish I had enough self-esteem and self-respect that I could call out their inappropriate behavior, instead of laughing it off, inadvertently reinforcing it.

When men are acting base, it’s belittling to excuse their behavior because they “don’t know any better.” Perhaps they truly do not, but I’m going to give them a little more credit than that and assume they do. I’m not talking about older men calling me pet names like “sweetheart” and “darling” and “sugar” (sure, this is grating, and I would prefer men call me by name, but I think the majority of the time this habit comes from a place of paternal kindness and good intention).

I’m talking about men who honk and holler at me from their cars when I’m walking down the street to the MARTA station, the two men who yelled “sixty nine” at me from across the street and then made vulgar gestures when I made the mistake of glancing in their direction, the drunk man stumbling through the train car who, after I motioned for him to step off of the train before me, turned around and said, “You want to rape me, baby? I’ll let you.”

This last incident made me angry at first but in the end I could only pity him; he was pretty abject, loudly babbling nonsense, grocery bags stuffed with dirty clothes hanging from his elbows. He had the dewy eyes of a toddler, the fetid breath of a drunk. After he said he would let me rape him (a paradoxical proposition when you think about it), I briskly walked off toward the escalator. When I felt I was a safe distance away, I turned around to see where he had gone. He was grunting and gyrating against one of the train car windows. I could make out a woman seated beyond the window, turning away, repulsed.

Like I noted earlier, I do not know how to make sense of the world sometimes.

The other day I was waiting at the train station when a woman wearing a sleeveless black dress strode by. She was tall and svelte, self-assured, popping bubble gum with an air of insouciance, her long fingernails swaying by her sides as she walked, like beach grass in a breeze. There was an aura of enchantment surrounding her; I could sense everyone’s gaze turning toward her, like the tide toward the moon. Right as she sat down on the bench across from me, the older woman sitting beside me cocked her head towards her and said, spitefully, “That’s how women get raped.”

A lesson learned:

Don’t be beautiful. When you get hurt, it will be your fault. No one will listen to you cry.

One day I chose to wear a pair of boots that I had purchased for 50 cents from a thrift store to work. This happened to be the same day I had made a passing complaint about catcalling. A man told me, “Well, of course men are going to holler at you when you are wearing those boots.” These boots are made of flaking faux leather and my big toe pokes out of a hole in one of them. Their price tag was fitting.

A lesson learned:

Don’t gripe about unsavory advances from unfamiliar men. People will sniff out where the fault lies. In you. Always, somehow, in you.

I’m writing this because none of it makes any sense to me. Again, please excuse me as I slap all these puzzles down on the page without making it pretty for you. I ‘m at a loss.

I’ll leave you with this:

I love late spring and early summer. As I walk around my neighborhood, each breath I take is delicious, infused with star jasmine and roses and honeysuckles. I never feel as beautiful as I do at this time of the year, with rakish tangles swishing down my back, my cheeks pink and freckled like azalea petals.

Under the sunshine, I stand taller, I’m more confident. I celebrate myself.

I think over the course of the year, I have learned to stand tall whether it is sunny outside or not. I’ve become better at being assertive and standing up for myself. Despite all the challenges, all the frustration, all the weariness of moving through a world in which people relentlessly objectify women and police how they dress and act, I’m grateful, at least, that I am now able to say, “That’s not okay. Treat me with respect.”


I realized the other day that I have not posted any photos from the year on my blog…

So this post will be a repository of pictures from the beginning of the year up to now!

My housemates and I on a hike! Jeremy is on the far left, Cat is in the middle, and Wesley is on the far right. Jeremy is an amazing chef and stand-up comedian,  Cat is a talented artist and a connoisseur of movies and musicals, and Wesley plays the ukulele and has a knack for striking up friendships with all different types of people. I have learned a lot from all three of them about grace, the gift of humor, and the beauty of being able to share one another’s burdens.

Rufus! He is the front office manager Jeff’s dog.  He trails behind Jeff anywhere he goes and sometimes will hop up onto my lap to cuddle while I’m doing paperwork in the afternoons.


This is a goat I pass by on the walk from the train station to the Furniture Bank every day. I’m not sure what the goat’s story is, but I find her charming and noteworthy.


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The view from the top of a mountain at Amicalola Falls State Park.


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Fern! The Furniture Bank’s mascot!


Inspiring street art on the Atlanta BeltLine

Grant Park in the snow


Jeff, the front office manager, celebrating a rare Georgia snowfall!


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Art that was auctioned off at Chairish the Future, the Furniture Bank’s principal annual fundraising event. Local artists recreate  donated furniture for the auction.

Priscilla (a volunteer), Jeff, Shawanda (a Furniture Bank intern from Georgia State), and I at Chairish the Future.


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The view in Warm Springs, Georgia, where we went for out spring retreat.  Photo credit to Cat.

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The whole crew at the spring retreat! Chad, our fun and thoughtful site coordinator, is in the middle! 🙂


Poetry to Inspire and Restore Hope

My sister loves to send me poems, some written by herself, some written by other brilliant poets. Here are a few that stir my soul, inspiring me to be grateful for Earth’s smallest blessings (like the plush purple bells of grape hyacinths, or the sweeping sweetness of golden trumpet vine), to strive to love all beings more deeply (the capering butterflies and men under bridges with rattling cups alike), and to look upon the sunrise of each new day with hope for a more just and peaceful world:


By Naomi Shihab Nye


The river is famous to the fish.
The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.
The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.
The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.
The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.
The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.
The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.
I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.
I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.

Throughout my day at the Furniture Bank, I mostly answer phones, file paperwork, and guide clients through the warehouse as they select furniture. I’m useful, but not indispensable. This poem reminds me that I do not have to occupy center stage to make a difference.

A couple of weeks ago at the Furniture Bank there was a woman who was so thrilled about her furniture, she told me and the front office manager she was going to buy us chocolate from the nearest Publix. We told her we did not need her to repay us with gifts but she insisted.

“Not many people are willing to help me and my kids out,” she said. “I’m so thankful for people like you.” Then she asked to take a picture with the front office manager and me so she would not forget us. Not everyone who comes through the Furniture Bank door is grateful (it is, after all, used furniture), nor is everyone kind (sleeping on a hardwood floor is not conducive to pleasant dispositions). Though she was asking to take a picture with us as though we were the celebrities, with her infectious exuberance, in that moment the client was to me “famous as the one who smiled back.”

The Place Where We Are Right

By Yehuda Amichai

From the place where we are right
flowers will never grow
in the Spring.

The place where we are right
is hard and trampled
like a yard.

But doubts and loves
dig up the world
like a mole, a plough.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
where the ruined
house once stood.

My mother sent me this poem. I find it teaches an invaluable lesson about the tender strength and endurance of kindness, a lesson that has helped me a great deal when it comes to living in intentional community. I’ve realized winning an argument will most likely always be a hollow and fleeting victory, because it’s difficult to do without making someone else feel embarrassed or inferior for being wrong about something. Further, there is no gain in proving someone else wrong aside from a fast-fading spark of pride, and if there is little gain, there is little point. According to Maya Angelou, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Praise Song for the Day

By Elizabeth Alexander 

A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other’s
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.
All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.
We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what’s on the other side.
I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.
Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?
Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.
In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
praise song for walking forward in that light.
Since this poem was written, there has been both progress and upheaval in U.S. politics. We still have a long and arduous  journey ahead, but this poem fills me with hope that a brighter dawn is cresting beyond the darkness.

Understanding Injustice

Since moving to Atlanta I’ve become more conscious of race than I hve ever been before. Because I’ve grown up in predominately white institutions (from 4th grade until I graduated high school my classrooms and sports teams were comprised of mostly white peers, and there has not been much diversity in the church communities that have nurtured my faith either), I’ve also grown up with a peripheral awareness of race, blithely blending in to environments in which I did not reflect on race too often, not so much because I did not want to care about racial issues, but because it was not a personally pressing concern.

In Dr. Peggy McIntosh’s article, “White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack,” she enumerates ways in which white privilege has benefitted her life, noting at one point, “I can turn on the television or open to the front page of the paper and see people of my race widely represented.” In a society where the government, the T.V. screens, the history textbooks, dolls on the toy shelves and children’s books are all inundated with whiteness, it can be insidiously easy for white people to be blind to societal issues revolving around race. The news of the senseless murders of Trayvon Martin, Philando Castile, and too many other innocent victims of police brutality will jolt me into awareness, but the awareness fades much sooner than it would if I had to worry that I might lose one of my own family members at the hands of the police due to their skin color.

Because I’m not surrounded by white people during my daily commute on the bus and train or while I’m working at the Furniture Bank, I notice my white skin. While this characteristic may seem too apparent to overlook, when I’ve been in crowds of other white people it’s not always so visible to me, and neither is the unearned privilege that comes along with it. Noticing my whiteness has been pivotal for more deeply examining the “invisible knapsack” of privilege I carry as a white individual.

Before I lived in Atlanta, sociology lectures, sermons, and various online articles had made me mindful of white privilege, but I did not recognize the full scope of racial inequality in this country until my housemates and I became intentional about better understanding issues like racial profiling and mass incarceration through watching documentaries, reading books, and sharing conversation. For example, I’ve never thought about how, although the Brown vs. Board of Education Supreme Court case declared racial segregation in schools unconstitutional in 1954, segregation persists in the United States educational system today through an inequitable allocation of resources that pours more funding into already affluent public schools while leaving students in low-income areas struggling to succeed. 1 Or how, although the thirteenth amendment abolished slavery in 1865, the prison-industrial complex disproportionately targets communities of color, rending families apart via a modern day reconstitution of enslavement (white males in the United States have a 1 in 17 chance of facing incarceration during their lifetime, while black males have a 1 in 3 chance).2

In Ralph Elison’s novel Invisible Man (a book published in 1952, with themes of racial tensions and injustices in America that still resonate today), the narrator writes about being a black man in the United States:

“I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination-indeed, everything and anything except me.”

After clients finish shopping for their furniture at the Furniture Bank, they have an opportunity to pick out a few pictures to decorate the walls of their homes. Though the majority of clients are African American, the bin of wall art has been full of portraits of white people, mostly of white presidents and generals with their chests pompously puffed out. At one point there was a whole stack of pictures of powerful white men, and not a single representation of black heroes and heroines who have influenced United States history. From the bin of wall art to history textbooks and school reading lists, to school boards and government agencies, representation matters.

Misrepresentation of race breeds racial biases and division, as well as a racial invisibility that prevents individuals and communities from celebrating diversity and understanding one another’s experiences and identities in a profound way. Not only am I less open to understanding other people through the distorted lens of misrepresentation, I have a hard time understanding myself. As I noted earlier, when I do not see my whiteness because most everyone else around me is white, I do not see my privilege clearly. I think racism is such a pernicious social disease because it’s often invisible to white people like myself who do not experience it, and it’s impossible to treat a disease if people refuse to acknowledge its existence, or believe the civil rights movement has already cured it. White people still have a long way to go to heal wounds inflicted by a history of white supremacy, (and I’m not sure if we will ever be able to) but I think if I am going to be a part of the movement to build a more just society, I need to first be able to plainly see injustice.


1. Watch documentary “Teach Us All” directed by Sonia Lowman for more

2. Watch documentary “13th” directed by Ava DuVernay for more


The Holidays

Hello, family and friends!

Though I had a lovely time celebrating Christmas and ringing in the New Year with friends and family, December has been the most challenging month of my service year thus far, chiefly due to the mass influx of applications for furniture at the start of the holiday season. Before the month began, the December schedule was already crammed with appointments for clients to come in and select their furniture (the Furniture Bank serves forty to fifty families a week), so when clients not already on the schedule came through the front door hoping to furnish their homes before Christmas, we had to inform them they would have to wait until January. At least twice a day I spoke to potential clients in person or over the phone imploring me to make an exception, and all I could offer was an apology.

One day a military veteran who had been scheduled for his appointment in early January told me over the phone he desperately needed furniture before Christmas; he had been sleeping on the streets for the past nine months, suffered from a back injury, and had children who needed mattresses to be able to sleep comfortably. He stressed that he had not ended up in his situation because he was a bad person, but because of factors outside of his control. In turn, I stressed that I believed him and wished I could help, but unfortunately I could not.

“If I could just come by and pick up a mattress for my kids,” he said. “Is there any way I could just do that? That’s all I need. Please.”

One of the lessons I’ve learned at the Furniture Bank is that, no matter how determined I am to accommodate each client’s needs, it’s impossible to attain this ideal. Soft spots and wrenched heartstrings cannot interfere with an adherence to guidelines and a process that treats each family equitably. Like many other people who called over the month of December, I heard the hope in the man’s voice wane after I repeated that there were no other options available for him. Before hanging up the phone, he sighed, “I understand. Thanks anyway.”

The song, “Someday at Christmas” by Stevie Wonder was playing on the radio, and I found myself feeling sullen and skeptical of the song’s quixotic vision of a world where “men won’t be boys, playing with bombs like kids play with toys” and where there will be “no hungry children, no empty hand.” The front office was festooned with Christmas decorations, with colorful lights strung along the walls and a Christmas tree propped up under the welcome board. Looking at the presents wrapped in glittery paper and bows under the tree, really only empty boxes, I thought about how the merry décor belied the reality of Christmas: many people are lonely and grieving, or struggling to play the role of Santa Claus for their kids, or waking up Christmas morning on a hardwood floor or on a bench outside in the bitter cold.

While it was difficult to turn clients away over the course of December, the Furniture Bank was not impervious to the joy of the season. Lit by the Christmas spirit of generosity, Buckhead church, a local congregation that serves the Furniture Bank on a regular basis, donated a ton of brand new bed sheets, comforters, and boxes of kitchenware, and the families who were able to furnish their residences before the holidays seemed especially thrilled to pick out the couches, chairs, dressers and tables that would transform their apartments or houses into cozier homes.

We received a Christmas card from one family who we all remembered well because they were so eager for their furniture they had arrived at 7am for an 11am appointment. As they were waiting to go back in the warehouse, the front office manager moved them to tears with his story of how he himself had received furniture from the Furniture Bank. They were such a sweet couple, with two little twin girls who kept trying to hug one another and twirl around in circles at the same time, giggling when one tripped over the other’s boots.

The family was gushingly grateful; on top of sending a card, they also called the Furniture Bank twice after their appointment just to say thank you. I made a copy of the Christmas card they sent to slip inside my journal so I wouldn’t forget them. They wrote:

“We would like to sincerely thank you for being so kind to our family during our financial hardship. Especially [the front office manager] with the Furniture Bank for his inspiring testimony. Also Mrs. Martha for having patience with us and remembering the chairs! The deliverymen who came on the first day of snow in Atlanta really touched our hearts. Your act of kindness goes along way! We wish you all a very merry Christmas and happy New Year.”

Because December was a tough month, their appreciation of the Furniture Bank’s services meant a lot to me, lifting my spirits when I was beginning to feel disheartened. While they were singing our praises, I don’t think they had any idea how much of a blessing they were to us.

Food Stamps

Hello, family and friends!

Over the course this past month the most difficult hurtle I’ve had to jump is applying for food stamps via the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP). The Young Adult Volunteer program provides a meager monthly stipend with the intention that participants will live simply and, though I qualify for food stamps under these conditions, I initially had reservations about applying for assistance. For the first two months I lived in Atlanta I procrastinated and made excuses to the site coordinator about why I had not submitted my application for food stamps, my chief concern being that I would be taking resources away from families who urgently need aid.

After the site coordinator explained that, instead of depriving others, my request for assistance would help ensure more government funds will be allocated to the SNAP budget in the future, I was still hesitant about applying. I know that when I go home for Christmas I will be able to gather around the table with my family and share delicious meals, with breakfast casseroles and oyster stew, eggnog and sparkling cider. I’m also well aware that in the past, before my three housemates and I had to count pennies at Aldi, I have sometimes let produce spoil or crackers and cookies grow stale and tossed them in the garbage without a second thought about their value. While millions of people across the globe are starving, I’ve been profligate and heedless with regard to nutrition, privileged enough to not only afford healthy food, but waste it also. The dissonance between requesting food stamps and having taken an ample food supply for granted struck me again and again as I filled out the blanks on the application. If it were not for my desire to be able to afford healthier groceries, I would have left them blank.

As it turns out, though it has been over a month since I submitted my application in mid-November, I have yet to obtain food stamps, and I doubt I will. Last Thursday I was scheduled for a face-to-face interview for food stamps at the State of Georgia government building downtown. I took time off from the Furniture Bank to be there, arriving thirty minutes early for a 9am interview that never occurred. After I explained to the security guard at the front desk I was there for a food stamps interview, she asked to see the letter I had received verifying my appointment time, sighed and ticked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she read it, then handed it back to me and told me to wait on a bench. Anxiety began to percolate in my chest as the minutes passed. I realized when I put clients who call the Furniture Bank on hold to search for their paperwork or look up their appointment date and time they must feel similarly, wondering as the silence stretches on whether their has been a miscommunication or an oversight.

The Georgia Department of Human Services seems to have made several oversights in processing my food stamps application. After I waited on the bench for a while, a woman came down from her office to apologize for the inconvenience, and then told me someone would call me as soon as possible about scheduling another interview, even though I had just walked forty-five minutes to be there for an interview. Before I could ask her to explain the particulars of the situation, she briskly turned away and marched off, the rap of her heels against the marble tiles resounding throughout the lobby. I sat there for a few moments afflicted by a stinging bafflement, feeling as if I had been the victim of some sort of con scheme.

A week later I have yet to get a call from anyone regarding another interview, though I did receive a letter today informing me that I missed my interview on December 7th at 9am (the same interview I have described above, the one that exists in letters, but somehow ceased to exist when I showed up for it promptly and with all the necessary supporting documents in hand). According to the letter if I do not call the food stamps office to schedule another appointment after I “missed” the first one, my food stamps application will be denied on the 22nd of December. Unsurprisingly, when I called my only option was to leave a voice message. The caseworker sounded weary in her voicemail greeting, towards the end of it emphasizing that clients should refrain from leaving her multiple voicemails before she has a chance to return their calls. In the end, I decided not to leave a message for her requesting another appointment date. Not only did I not want to unnecessarily burden a caseworker who seems to be overwhelmed, I felt it was a waste of my time and energy when I likely will not get a call back before next Friday, the day my application will be denied anyway.

At first I thought my experience applying for food stamps has only been so infuriating because, since I am not in dire need of assistance, my case was not a priority. However, after talking to my housemate Cat, who works at an advocacy center for people experiencing homelessness and helps people who desperately need aid overcome the crushing bureaucracy of the state and local government, I’ve realized my experience is the rule rather than the exception. Because the Furniture Bank allows for flexibility in my schedule, the fact that I had taken the morning off for a food stamps interview that never happened was merely frustrating. If I were a single mother who had sacrificed money for transportation and hours at work to be there, it might have been devastating.

The other day there was a mother at the Furniture Bank who asked me if she could take a flier pinned to the bulletin board about how to apply for food stamps home with her. As she was going out the door, I noticed her son, who looked to be around six or seven, had used the orange puffy paint at the kid’s coloring table to squeeze out the words, “Merry X-Mas” on a piece of construction paper. If she does plan to apply for food stamps, I hope the process will be much more expedient for her and her family than it was for me. Though I now know how maddeningly circuitous applying for food stamps can be, at the end of the day, I will be able to get by without them. I cannot imagine what it would be like to need food stamps to provide for children of my own, having to be patient with every roadblock and roundabout along the way while they complain about being hungry.

The Furniture Bank!

Hello, family and friends!

October was an eventful month; I celebrated my 23rd birthday, marched with Central Presbyterian Church in the gay pride parade, dressed up as a narwhal for Halloween, and helped set up for the Furniture Bank’s annual Bed Race, a fundraiser in which competing teams decorate twin beds on wheels and race them across a parking lot. Each bed had a different theme-one group of contestants wore Care Bear onesies and tied rainbow balloons to their beds, another wore Ninja Turtle costumes, and my favorite team dressed up as The Golden Girls, trying not to trip over their dresses or lose their wigs as they sprinted and pushed their bed to the finish line. The Bed Race champions had dressed up as Stars Wars characters, their team named “The Last Bedi.”

As I noted in my previous post, I’ve been working as a Young Adult Volunteer at the Furniture Bank of Metro Atlanta, helping individuals and families fleeing domestic violence, transitioning out of homelessness, or living with HIV/AIDS furnish their homes. During the day I answer phones at the front desk, welcome clients, and guide them through the warehouse as they shop for their furniture. I’ve also been helping the previously homeless veterans who participate in the Furniture Bank’s warehouse and truck-driving training program navigate online job applications. The veterans work at the Furniture Bank for eight weeks, loading and unloading trucks, hauling furniture donations around the warehouse, and fine-tuning their resumes. Afterwards the Furniture Bank pays for them to obtain either a forklift certification or a commercial truck-driving license so that they can graduate from the program with full-time employment.

Sorting and filing paperwork in the afternoons would be much more monotonous if not for the companionship of the front office manager, who was a part of the veteran intern program himself and often tells clients that he has been in their same shoes, having received furniture from the Furniture Bank for his own apartment eight years ago. He’s a jovial guy with dimples the size of quarter slots and a high-pitched hoot of a laugh that I can hear even when I’m in the back of the warehouse. Throughout the day he plays either the Billy Joel or George Benson Pandora Radio station on his desktop. When a song with a prominent bass line comes on, he’ll put his fist to his lips as though holding a mouthpiece and imitate the buzzy bopping of a sousaphone, then point to me and say, “that’s you, sousaphone-payer!” If I start singing along to a song he’ll provide annotations, letting me know when the song came out and what he and his friends were up to when it was popular. He owns a dachshund named Rufus who pads behind him wherever he goes and takes naps under the front desk, curled up next to the computer monitor. Rufus is a bashful dog and tense around clients, though in the mornings he likes to jump up and paw at my kneecaps, licking my arms while I pet him. For Halloween Rufus came dressed up as a shark.

When clients enter the Furniture Bank they see their names listed in dry erase marker on the welcome board by the front door. On the board, beside the place where we write the names of the clients who are coming in to select furniture, the front office manager has written, “Today is your day to be blessed!!!” Many of the clients I’ve worked with thus far are grateful for the service the Furniture Bank offers, some effusively so, though there have been a few clients who left disgruntled. Sometimes clients cannot find the particular type of, say, dresser or kitchen table they are looking for, other times they see a previous client has already tagged an item they wanted, and sometimes they arrive for their appointment too late to pick out the furniture themselves.

During my first couple of weeks working there I remember a woman with limbs slight as saplings and beads dangling loose from her sweater pleading, “Won’t you let me have another dresser for my grandbaby? We lost everything we have in a fire. You’re not gonna let me have another dresser for my grandbaby?” She looked like she had waded through decades of hardship and was at least three times my age. Though I was not authorized to bend the rules, I could not look into her wizened face and tell her “no” over and over as if I were speaking to a toddler. Such moments ignite a blazing consciousness of my privilege at the forefront of my mind. I feel its heat rise in my cheeks as I stand there checking off items on a clipboard, explaining that the amount of furniture clients receive varies according to the number of household members and that the Furniture Bank cannot guarantee a specific item of furniture will be in stock. I wonder why I’ve been fortunate enough to have the opportunity to work as a volunteer for a year, while the clients on the other side of the clipboard are struggling to make a living and provide for their families. At times God seems to cast blessings with an air of capriciousness.

Despite difficult interactions with clients, there have been many uplifting moments. The Furniture Bank serves forty families a week, too many clients for me to write about all of them, so I’ll tell you about my most gratifying experience shopping with a client thus far:

To get to work, I ride the MARTA and then walk from the West End train station to the Furniture Bank, crossing a pair of railroad tracks along the way. One Friday there was a freight train stalled on the tracks, preventing pedestrians from crossing to the other side of the street. Several people had clotted together by the train, muttering to one another about how they would find a way across, some even daring to climb over the couplers linking the train cars. I watched a woman in a wheelchair hop out of her seat to follow suit, then hoist the wheelchair back over onto the other side (I later learned people have been killed this way, by the train jolting to life while they are mid-mount). There was a man shuffling his feet in the gravel by the tracks with his head hung, looking like he might break into tears. When I asked him where he was trying to go he told me he had been up since 4:30am he was so excited to get furniture from the Furniture Bank, and now the train was going to make him miss his appointment. He was in his seventies, walked with a limp and a cane, said he had been trying to get himself over to the other side of the train but no longer had the leg strength to do so. I told him I was a volunteer at the Furniture Bank and that he had no reason to worry; we could cross the intersection at the far end of the street and, though he would be a little late, there had been a cancellation that morning so he would still be able to pick out his furniture.

“Oh, please let them know I’m on my way,” he said. Though I had called to let the front office manager know we would both be late and assured the client repeatedly that we did not need to rush, he was intent on arriving as close to his appointment time as possible. As we walked he feverishly stamped his cane through the ragwort weeds along the side of the road, every so often drawing in enough breath to tell me how eager he was to get some furniture. He wore a red baseball cap with the words, “Jesus is my Boss” in cartoonish lettering across the front. At one point during his appointment the chorus of Carrie Underwood’s “Jesus Take the Wheel,” his cell phone’s ringtone, began to blast from his jeans pocket, but he was too excited about choosing a sofa to answer. He seemed to be over the moon, grinning wide as he strode through the warehouse and tagged pieces of furniture, claiming them as his own.

This was only one out of many instances in which I’ve realized how much the Furniture Bank means to clients, and I can’t wait to share more about this non-profit organization’s amazing  work with you all. Love,


The Basement Kingdom

Hello, family and friends!

A month ago I moved to Atlanta, Georgia and began working as a Young Adult Volunteer at the Furniture Bank of Metro Atlanta, helping individuals and families fleeing domestic violence, transitioning out of homelessness, or living with HIV/AIDS furnish their homes. Before I share my thoughts on my experiences thus far via this blog, I want to thank the Young Adult Volunteer program for the opportunity to live and work in Atlanta for a year, as well as the Atlanta Mennonite Fellowship, a congregation that finances our housing, a purple house with a front porch where we gather to eat supper and a winsome garden of orange cosmos flowers and cherry tomatoes. I’m also grateful for the lovely members of Westminster Presbyterian Church in Charlottesville, Virginia and Trinity Presbyterian Church in Arlington, Virginia for helping me raise the funds necessary to participate in the program. Your financial support made this year of service possible, and, though you are many miles away, your love continues to buoy my spirits as I face my own failings and naiveté, seek divinity through shades of doubt, and bear witness to heartbreaking hardship.

First off, a little about my three housemates and their work:

My housemate Cat is working at the Central Outreach and Advocacy Center where she helps people experiencing homelessness attain documentation and identification so they can apply for food stamps and other critical social services.

When I visited her work site I spotted a portrait one of the clients had sketched in colored pencil of a woman with a poofy black mane, the shading of her face intersecting at odd angles, so it appeared as though there were scratches across her cheeks and forehead. She had a smile packed with teeth, little blank squares neatly lined along her top and bottom lip, and irises that matched the hue of her red lipstick. With those meteor-like red eyes inflaming her stare, I could not help but imagine some crossness within her, despite the smile. After hearing stories from Cat about the line of desperate clients spilling through the OAC front doors everyday and the burdensome bureaucracy and systematic injustices clients have to navigate to meet their basic needs, I wonder if the artist’s unique choice in eye color was meant to reflect righteous anger.

My other two housemates, Jeremy and Wesley, work at Mercy Church, a radically welcoming nook of faith and grace tucked away in the basement of Druid Hills Presbyterian Church. At Mercy Church a small community of people, many of whom are struggling with homelessness, convene during the week for coffee, prayer, worship, bible study, group discussions on overcoming addiction, lunch, and other resources, including a foot clinic and clothes closet.

Cat and I attend worship services at Mercy Church most Sundays. The sanctuary is little more than a circle of chairs around a candlelit table, with a crucifix propped up against the kitchen counter beyond and a plastic punch bowl for a baptismal font. One Sunday there was a man sleeping on the floor with a bandaged foot and vomit sopping the backside of his jeans, his head resting on a pillow patterned with blue monkeys that looked like it belonged in a baby’s crib. Another Sunday a man told me if I did not permit the government to insert a microchip into my mind, I would be tortured for ten days and beheaded, pulling a folded up magazine article out of his wallet to substantiate the delusion.

This past Sunday at Mercy Church, my housemate Wesley led the singing at the beginning of the service, strumming his ukulele for accompaniment while a man behind him tapped drumsticks on a pair of bongos made out of empty Maxwell House coffee containers and duct tape. We sang, “I saw the light I saw the light, No more darkness no more night, Now I’m so happy, No sorrow in sight, Praise the Lord! I saw the light. “ One of the men who is notorious for his tone deafness was singing, as he often does, with gusto and louder than anyone else in the room, knocking us all off-key. At one point the man beside him started laughing and said, “Hey, the Bible says make a joyful noise. Didn’t say it had to be good.” The tone-deaf man smiled wide, belting the wrong notes even louder.

After we sang, we read through the parable in Matthew Chapter 20 comparing the kingdom of God to workers in a vineyard each receiving a denarius as payment for their labor, regardless of whether they had begun working in the morning or at dusk. When the workers who had been toiling all day in the hot sun griped to the landowner about how unfair it was that they had received the same pay as those who had only been working for an hour, he reprimanded them, asking, “Don’t I have the right to do what I want with my own money? Or are you envious because I am generous?” We had a long discussion about the bountifulness of God’s grace, unfathomable in a world in which we are constantly competing for limited resources and comparing our wealth. In this cutthroat reality, it’s much easier to believe those who have little deserve little, a belief that breeds resentment when we see unearned gestures of kindness uplifting people who are struggling. One woman talked about how God’s grace ruptures through these confines of supposed deserving, spilling infinitely. And in the span of infinity, the difference between going to work in the vineyard at sunrise versus sunset is barely a wink of time.

Because many of the people who come to Mercy Church are living on the streets, suffering from a lack of adequate sleep and nutrition and, as a result, compromised mental health, the space is often roiling with extreme emotions; Jeremy and Wesley have more than once been caught in the crossfires of vicious cursing, trying their best to defuse a fight. They told us about one woman in particular who had been asked to leave the community for throwing chairs at people, and who, on a Sunday morning not long after her return, began splashing everyone with water from the baptismal font.

I don’t think it’s in spite of the fraught atmosphere that people find solace at Mercy Church, a place where they can be cantankerous or eccentric or tangled up in the throes of addiction and know that, even if they are asked to leave for throwing chairs, their community will not desert them. The first day I visited Mercy Church one of the pastors, Pastor Chad, was leading a group discussion on recovery from addiction, making notes on an easel about how we all rely on unhealthy coping mechanisms to confront life’s stressors, and how a low point with addiction can be a blessing, an opportunity to admit we need help and offer ourselves up to the grace of God. At the bottom of the easel he wrote the words, “You are beloved,” and then circled it over and over. I’ve often thought of people as beloved children of God, though the passivity of the sentiment has recently begun to bother me; sometimes I wonder if it’s a way for me to foist the responsibility of loving marginalized people who are difficult to love on God, so that I can stay blind to their suffering, content in my own bubble of privilege.

At Mercy Church, the words Pastor Chad had circled over and over were more than a platitude, more than a nice thought to brighten a tough day. When Pastor Chad told people they were beloved, they did not need to depend on faith in a higher being to know it was true, because he would embrace them, or call out, “Be safe. I love you,” or “te amo” before they went through the church doors and back onto the streets.

All of this is to say, there is a basement of a church in downtown Atlanta where the kingdom of God thrives, and I’m so blessed to be able to learn from the Mercy Church community this year. I haven’t even begun to talk about the Furniture bank yet; I’ll tell you about it in my next post! Thank you for reading. More soon! Love,

Martha Fulp-Eickstaedt