Tuesdays on Broad Street: Week 4

Week 4- Church, Where We At?

I've discovered a strange paradox while working at the Care Pregnancy Center. Let me try to explain.

I wish I could lead you, reader, through the winding hallways of the CPC. I’d show you the stuffed trash bags of clothes, the cabinets overflowing with diapers, the dozens of Tupperware crates of onesies. There is definitely no shortage of donations being given to the CPC. In fact, much of what volunteers do here involves sorting, cleaning, and storing those donations.
One thing I love about Christianity in the South is this extravagant spirit of giving. Generosity is one of the most striking, admirable qualities I’ve noticed in nearly every church I’ve been to since living here. And material donations are useful, the spirit behind them is pure and good. But after spending a month at the CPC, one question has simmered in my mind: is this really what is needed? Is this the right kind of generosity?

Sorting winter donations

I spend two hours sanitizing the toy closet and pondering this question. I run Clorox wipes over sticky blocks and feel frustrated. For a month now I’ve seen, heard and felt this massive divide between my faith and the world’s need. But why is this gap here? Why does it persist despite the “involvement” of local churches?

If nothing else, these two things have become obvious to me: 1) churches love to donate things and 2) things are not changing the people who walk through the CPC's doors.

So where does that leave us? Are we whitewashed tombs? All faith and no deeds? Are we choosing to be blind to the sick, the prisoner, the prostitute?
I throw the toy back in the bin and think “No! That isn’t it.” For many churchgoers I know, and myself included, it’s not that we choose to ignore the issues. We really just don’t know what they are or what we can even do about them. We want to feel like we're doing something, and giving away our stuff is often the easiest way to do so. But what if we should be doing something different?

Extra bins of clothes in the storage room

“Do you feel like you’re learning, Lauren?”
Susan Swanson drills me with a narrowed eye. I sit up straight, like a kid caught passing notes in class.
“Yes! I do. I’m learning so much. It’s like coming to a different world down here. A different Augusta.”
“Yep,” Susan says and crosses her legs, “we just gotta keep praying for our churches.”
I lean forward in my chair, so many questions burning in my mind.
“How so?”
“Well like today, I counseled four women. Shirley counseled four women. I’m 68! I can’t do this for too much longer.”
“So you need more counselors…”
Susan shrugs. “I mean, we just need to churches to get involved.”
“Right, but how? How do they get involved? Like volunteer-”
“Just to listen,” Susan interjects. “To these girls' stories, to help them out. I had a woman today, her daughter was raped by a man who broke into their apartment. So I helped her into another apartment in a better part of town because the daughter is a little traumatized still being in that one…”
I listen as Susan continues her story. As usual, I'm shocked and saddened by the realities of these mother and daughter's lives. And though I listen intently, the question still goes unanswered. “That’s awful…” I say, when Susan finishes, “but how are churches not helping with that?”
“Churches are just too…” she searches for a word, “internal. We often wonder why they don’t see the things we do here, things that are so obvious to us. And it’s just that they aren’t here [at the CPC]. The women who come here probably are not going to walk into a church! And even when they do, it’s getting people to be aware. That when they see and hear these women, there should be signals going off.” She holds her hands like antennae above her ears. “Take Natalie for example.”

If you’ve read my first couple blogs, you’ll remember Natalie. She is the nineteen year old, recovering drug addict who was brought to the CPC by a friend who noticed the pregnant teenager living in the back of her neighbor’s car. Last I heard, Susan was trying to get Natalie into housing for at-risk mothers.

“How is she doing?” I ask.
Susan sighs. “Well that’s been an interesting ordeal. She says she’s with her mom, but we don’t think she is. We have a pretty good idea of who she’s with right now… Natalie is a runner. She wasn’t really ready to get help. She thought she was, but she wasn’t. It’s hard to deal with people like that. A lot of churches don’t want to. Here look at this.”

She reaches to the wobbly end table between us and picks up a few stapled-together papers. “These are poems Natalie wrote, and they’ll show you what her life is really like, what her experiences have been. Here, go make a copy of them.”

My eyes widen and I try not to look too eager as I gingerly reach for the papers. “Really?”

“Go ahead, she wouldn’t mind."

I scurry into the office and run the packet through the copier. I hand them back to Susan who’s already meeting with someone else. I wave good-bye and head to my car. As soon as I can, I pick up the poems and read.

If I could share Natalie’s exact words, I would. In one poem with short, staccato lines, she describes a woman who is beautiful, well-spoken, and has a gorgeous smile. The last line falls, “My mask is perfect. She hides me.”

In another poem, Natalie talks vaguely of her past. A mother who screamed and hit, men who took advantage and left, escapes from reality that left her empty. At times, the diction is jumbled and forced (every single line rhymes), but her rawness strikes me deeply.

In her final poem, Natalie is in a room with a “kind woman.” The woman wants her to talk and share her story. “If only I could tell her,” Natalie writes. Her tone is aching, she longs to speak, but she is too shamed. Phrases like “if she really knew me” and “if I told her things I’d done” run throughout the poem. At the end, Natalie stays silent and walks away.

I finish reading, fold over the last paper and sit for a moment in the heaviness and heartbreak. I am devastated by the pain in Natalie’s young life. I am angry at those who caused her pain as a child. I am surprised by how well she writes, then I'm embarrassed for being surprised.

Suddenly, I'm aware of the labels I unconsciously gave Natalie when I met her. Natalie is poor. Natalie is a drug addict. Natalie is a pregnant teen. Natalie is a runner.

But as I read her poetry and understood to her story, the labels changed. Natalie is a woman. Natalie is intelligent. Natalie is an artist. Natalie needs real love.

A box of mismatched baby shoes

So back to the question... what can churches do? Here’s what I’ve learned: that's the wrong question.

We need to stop asking what institutions can do, and start asking what individuals can do. It’s natural to assume that we have to match the ballooning darkness in our city with an equally forceful display of churchiness. But that isn’t necessarily true. Don't ask what your church can do, until you've answered what you are going to do.

To finish, I’ll share some specific, simple suggestions that can help answer that question:

• Go to a grocery store in a part of town you’ve never been before. (Guess what? You’re probably not going to get mugged!)
• Have a conversation with someone who looks, talks, acts nothing like you. I know, it’s scary as heck, but it is so worth it.
• Better yet, have dinner with that person! Food is an amazing equalizer.
• Volunteer!! Not in a church! There are many incredible organizations and charities in Augusta, and they need you on a weekday evening much more than your pew does on Sunday morning. For good or ill, the people in real need aren't coming to us. The question is: will we go to them?

Thank you reader for joining me on this journey for one month now! Next week will be my final blog on my time at the Care Pregnancy Center. I hope I've been able to share with you a glimpse of how my viewpoint has changed while volunteering. As always, check out www.augustacpc.org for more information on how you can get involved.