toussaint academy

Today was my community service day. I wasn't going to go because technically it's Spring Break and I was feeling like I just wanted to be alone to think and process through some pretty big things on my plate. I think, though, that maybe God wanted me there. I wasn't planning on going but I did have the brilliant idea to walk up to campus and check my mail, maybe go to Founders, maybe spend some time in prayer. That was the plan. No community service, not today.

But, as I was walking up the final stretch of the hill, the van that drives our group each week just happened to pull out in front of me. Rolling down the window, they yelled "Are you coming??" Shoot. Umm..."Ya!" And I got in the car because I couldn't, in good conscience, say no. The students at Toussaint are much more important than my mail, which would be waiting for me when we got back.

Thank goodness I went. They expected us. There were only three of us today, as opposed to the regular 10, and I'm so glad that I was one of them. We're building relationships and it's frustrating and hard and I'm so glad that I was able to be there today to spend as much time with them as possible, to help them begin to see us as trustworthy and stable and dependable. They need a little bit more of that in their lives.

Toussaint is a school for homeless kids in downtown San Diego. Some of them have been homeless for years, some for weeks; all have been through something incredibly traumatic, something that you can only understand if you've been there yourself. We go each week to do a mural project with them, to build solid relationships with them, to encourage them, as college students, to keep dreaming and keep working towards their futures.

We've been going for a few weeks now, and it has been so much harder than I expected. I'm still in the process of figuring out the role that we're supposed to play in their lives. Are we their friends? Are we their mentors? Do they value us at all, or are we just another thing that they have to do as part of their program? Do they want to talk to us about all of the things going on in their lives, all of the things that they've been through, their daily heartbreak? Do they know that we care? There's no black and white answer.

There's no black and white answer, no manual for what we're doing, and it's frustrating. I'm frustrated. I'm frustrated for them--that what they've experienced is so unfair, that they don't know what we're talking about when we say things like "community" and "home" and "family." It breaks my heart that when I talk about my parents being supportive and loving and nurturing, they don't get it. I feel guilty. And I'm frustrated with them--that some of them seem so anti what we're doing, so disengaged. I'm frustrated with myself that I'm frustrated with them--that I have this idea that they should value their time with us because we come once a week just to do this really cool art project with them. Then I realize, of course, that they have every right to be frustrated too. They have every right to distrust us, to wonder about our intentions, to judge our dependence and whether or not we'll follow through. They have every right to be frustrated about the injustice that they face every single day.

But we're trying to build relationships; we're trying to tell them that we do care--about their pasts, and their present, and their future. We're trying to tell them that what they've experienced is not right and it's not fair and they didn't deserve it. It's hard. I want to sit down with each of them, or maybe give them a punching bag, and just tell them that it's okay to cry, it's okay to be pissed off, that I don't know who wouldn't be. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. I want to make sure that they know that they are valued, that they have so much potential, that they are talented and creative and funny and smart. I want to tell them that I have no explanation for them, I have no idea what to say or how to help them cope or grieve their losses; I want to tell them that I admire their strength.

But right now, it feels forced and awkward and there is obvious tension between the role we're currently in and the one that we want to be in. So next week, we'll paint and listen to music and eat together, and hopefully, that will be the beginning of a beautiful community, one that they understand and can come to love. We'll see.