Thoughts on hope, from a formerly homeless man. (Spoiler...Obama didn't give me my hope)

      “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” Proverbs 13:12

Today marks the 73^rd day I’ve been employed here at Liberty University. For six years I struggled to find work while living as a homeless man. I’m intelligent, very hard working, willing, and able. I took anything offered while looking for the “perfect” job. I’ve built chicken coops and pressure washed driveways and even cleaned windows for a hundred bucks.

When I first lost my job in 2008, I refused to collect unemployment. I’m old school and I wanted to work my way out of it. A friend reminded me that state unemployment is insurance. It’s a policy you have been paying into since the day you started working on a W2 basis. For me that was since age 15 when I worked at the local Gino’s restaurant. He told me this was my money; I had been paying into the fund and paying for others when they were having a hard time and so I should take what I’d earned. So I did. That lasted about six months. After that I was told to enroll for the federal unemployment program. This I refused. Federal unemployment is taxpayer funded and it wasn’t money I had worked for. That’s how I saw it, at least and so I refused. I refused food stamps and Section 8 housing too.

I am entirely convinced that this stubborn refusal to accept a handout was the reason I kept trying to solve the problems instead of simply giving up and becoming a shame-filled, broken, humiliated dad, who lost any shred of hope and was enslaved by the system. I didn’t do that. It doesn’t make me a hero. But it makes me different from a lot of folks these days.

Sadly, the long, drawn out battle also stripped me of something besides my dignity and pride. It dimmed my hope. I’ve always been an optimist. So much so that my friends would frequently have to reel me back in from taking leaps of faith because I always saw everything as an opportunity, every person as basically good, every day as a new chance. Six years of homelessness, broken dreams and mostly deferred hope, changed that.

Most of my life I was the funniest guy in the room. I was always singing a song, if not out loud, at least in my heart. I was quick with a smile, just as quick to laugh, and quicker to forgive. I had a long fuse and a thick skin. I had the same passions and the same bedrock values, but I didn’t defend them with the edge and the anger that, sadly, became more and more prevalent as the last six years progressed.

But as the years dragged on, my heart grew sicker and sicker. This verse is one of the most perfect observations of humanity in the entire Bible. I think that I will ask Solomon one day; “What were you observing when you recorded this bit of wisdom? Whose life had been so badly shattered, who was it in your administration, or your family, who had been beaten and defeated for such a long time that you literally saw his heart getting sick?” That’s something to ponder for a lifetime.

I’ve lived this for the last six years. I saw my own heart grow colder and harder and sicker as time wore on. Each day, the scar tissue got thicker and the flame grew more dim and the warmth turned tepid. The laughter was gone. The jokes weren’t funny anymore, the smile faded. In their place were tears, anger, a short temper, words that hurt more than encouraged, and almost no optimism. I became an almost entirely different person than I had been for the forty-five years prior.

I started my job on August 18^th. The first month or so I had some difficulty adjusting. I was very wary of people. I had not been in a daily social setting since 2008 and it is sad how you can get out of practice when you live in such an isolated way as I had been. I told a coworker today that I understand why homeless people talk to themselves so much. It’s because nobody else talks to them. We aren’t made to be so isolated, and it eventually renders every other person an intruder. I think that’s the real danger of so many mobile devices. We walk around texting, reading email, Facebooking or checking sports scores with our heads down looking at a six-square-inch screen and we are quickly becoming a world full of individuals without recognition of anyone else. We don’t see people as people anymore…we see them as Twitter handles, Facebook “friends” or “Selfie-Stars” (That is officially MY term. Don’t you rascals steal it)

I was living like Will Smith in “I am Legend” walking alone through my own personal post-apocalyptic world and talking with mannequins to fight the sheer loneliness of my life. The hope had been deferred for so long that my heartsickness was almost terminal.

It took a month for me to begin to feel like my old self again. It took another two weeks after that to really feel comfortable around my coworkers and begin to crack jokes or say hello in the hallway or smile. But it has happened. It’s wonderful that, while six years of damage was done, it only took two months to restore so much life to my soul. I have a lot of hope again. But I will never forget what hopelessness feels like.

When I began this journey six years ago, our nation had just elected a man who promised “Hope.” He was wrong. We have less hope now than ever before. We are more changed and less hopeful and, sadly, more broken as a society and less united as a country than ever in our history. Obama failed. But as much as I dislike this president and his politics and his personal beliefs, I’m not blaming him entirely. We should have known better. No president…NO president, can simply imbue hope in the hearts of people by passing laws or passing out money. You can’t give hope. Only God can do that. What we can do for each other is cultivate hope; we can fertilize it and protect it for each other. But we can’t grant it. Reagan never tried to give us hope…he pointed us within ourselves and told us how to find the hope we had already.

People don’t need free money, free cell phones or free health care. They need a job. They need a purpose. They need a dream that pushes them and they need a reason to believe that they can –with hard work- achieve that dream. They need opportunity. I finally got an opportunity and it made all the difference.

I feel my heart healing at light speed and it makes me happy, but it also makes me sad. I hurt people while my heart was so hardened and my hope was so deferred. I have asked forgiveness from those I needed to ask and I’ve received it for the most part but it still makes me sad. It makes me sad for a lot of others out there who are also feeling their heart shutting down day by day, and because of this, they are running people off when they really need their company. Hope deferred makes the heart sick. A sick heart shuts off the light of the soul. I have hope again but I wonder about those who do not.

Remember this when you interact with someone who has been losing hope for a long time. Remember this when they bark at you or snipe at you or simply walk past you without a smile or a nod. They aren’t trying to be monsters…they’re simply heartsick. They need hope. Not a government program, or a free check or a cell phone or a handout. They need a reason. They need a purpose. They need to feel like real productive people again. They need to come home to a house they are paying for, sit at a table they bought, eat groceries they didn’t buy with a “SNAP” card, and sink into their own bed, feeling worn out but thankful for work and for the promise that tomorrow brings.

That…is hope. Without it, there is only sickness.

Six years as a homeless dad...

Yesterday marked six years of homelessness.

It’s not something I’m proud of. I didn’t celebrate with dinner and a cake and party favors. It’s humiliating. It’s embarrassing. It crushes my soul. It makes me cry.

A lot.

Six years ago, I was hastily loading every single thing I owned onto a friends open trailer and driving them to a barn where he said I could store them for a while. It was an all day job and it was made longer by the hurt of what was happening to my world and my fatherhood. I had no idea where I’d go. No job prospects, no friends with an extra room or a couch I could crash on. Six years later none of that stuff remains. I have no beds. No furniture. Not even silverware and dishes. Nothing.

About six weeks prior, the mortgage company I had worked for, for the last four years, folded it’s operations and moved out of Tennessee. Within another year, they’d be out of business altogether, bankrupt and the owner slapped with a two-billion dollar federal lawsuit.

It wasn’t just the fact that the company I worked for was gone. They were all gone. I couldn’t just latch on with another mortgage company because the entire industry was imploding. In one year, the entire industry went from about 600,000 employees, to about 100,000. That’s 80% of the entire mortgage workforce gone...looking for something else in a collapsing economy.

I’ve detailed my life over these last six years so there’s no need to do it. But there are some highlights...or lowlights.

Since 2008 I have worked for FOUR companies that ended up going out of business. FOUR! How many people can make that claim?

I graduated from College while still homeless. I thought it would give me a chance at a better future but this economy is far to damaged to provide opportunities for anyone with qualifications. And we have a president who wants it that way.

I remained here in Nashville when I could have gone to one of the few areas in this country that still have employment opportunities, but that would have required me to leave my daughter behind. I could never do that and the events in her life over the last 4 weeks have borne out the fact that I was correct in that decision. Me staying here likely kept her alive.

I wish I could rightly describe what this life feels like. What it’s like to wake up at 3 AM and break into sobs because you snap out of the fog of sleep and realize “I am someone’s dad and I’m homeless.”

I wish I could express to you what it feels like to drift from place to place when it’s raining and you can’t work, because you have no place to call your own.

I wish I could tell you how demeaning it is to be entirely dependent on public restrooms and showering at the gym, having to arrange your work day so that you get a shower before they close at night.

I wish you could understand what it’s like to open the door of your car and feel the rush of shame when you realize someone caught a glimpse of the inside and they surely realized you are living in there.

I wish you could grasp how all this feels when you have a daughter and she knows you are homeless and she tries to encourage you because you stayed in her life and you did this for her sake. But she really needs you and needs you to have a place to live so she can escape the hell she is living in.

I wish you could understand what it’s like to literally feel the days escaping your grip.

I have doubted God. I have wondered where He was and why He wasn’t answering. I have shaken my fist at Heaven and spit at the ground. Then, always, I have broken down in tears and confessed that I still believe in Him and trust Him that somehow...this is part of His plan.

There is nothing left for me to try. Nothing I haven’t done. I work 14-16 hour days as a carpenter, hoping to scrape together enough to move my daughter and I to a new town that promises a new start. I need to succeed this time. She needs me to succeed. I need a place to lay my head.

I need a home.

It’s day one of year seven.

I hope not many more of these days remain.

The Night Before Christmas (Homeless Daddy Version)

      This just sort of "happened" this morning. Sometimes this road is harder than others. Today is one of the hardest so far.                                           

                                                             The Night Before Christmas

                                                             (Homeless Daddy Version)

‘Twas three weeks before Christmas

And I’m down on my luck

I’m a poor, homeless, Daddy

Who lives in his truck

My sleeping bags zippered

Against the night air

Determined to make it

And stay off Welfare

By day I went working

With my belt full of tools

At night I did study

And I finished school

I busted my butt

And got that degree

But there still are no jobs

At least none for me

I make money for gas

And for food now and then

And to shower at the gym

So I don’t offend

But I can’t find a job

That would pay me enough

To rent a place for me

And the daughter I love

She lives with her mom

So at least she’s alright

But I miss her and think of her

All day and all night

She misses her Daddy

And I miss my girl

And I’ve tried everything

I can try in this world

I have to keep trying

And build a life we can live

Maybe some presents

On Christmas to give

My daughter she needs me

To try yet again

And prove that her daddy

Still knows how to win

When this is all over

On that wonderful day

She’ll remember her daddy

Loved her enough to stay

He loved her enough

To stay in this place

So at least every day

She could see his face

And she saw in his life

In the things he did bear

That he loved her enough

To always be there

I love her too much

To give up now

But I have to admit

It is wearing me down

Sometimes I wonder

How much more can I take

Is this some grand plan

Or a cosmic mistake?

Am I cursed by the Heavens

Or just down on my luck

‘Cause it’s three weeks til Christmas

And I still live in this truck

Running on Love...what happens when hope is gone?

Steve Forbert had a watershed album in 1987 called “Streets of this Town” the opening track was called “Running on Love.” The song is about falling in love, and how that changes your perspective on almost everything. I’m stealing the title for this article because it fits.

Usually I’m a verbose guy. Usually I have something to say. But these last weeks since losing a job before I even had my first day have been harder than almost anything I've endured. And I've endured a lot.

I've endured homelessness for over five years now. I've endured rejection upon rejection in this job search that seems to go on forever. I've seen five years of my fatherhood stolen by this economy. I've endured the soulless, heartless, selfishness of some people who were in the position in my life to have offered help and encouragement. I've seen Christianity being lived out by people who seldom ever openly proclaim their faith...and I've seen the vocal Christians live absolutely nothing that even closely resembles Christianity in their interactions with me. It’s consistently been the quiet, flawed, ragamuffins who have been my best friends, who have put an arm on my shoulder, held my hand in prayer, or simply called to say hi. It’s been the forgotten ones who themselves refused to forget me.

I am so weary. More weary than any time in this unbelievably long journey. I’m out of options, out of hope, out of faith. I am not yet out of tears, although I wish I was.

Three weeks ago I wrote an open letter to the President. I wanted him to know about my plight. I wanted him to have a name and a face to attach to the 90 million people like me who can’t find work. I did send the letter besides posting it here. I did forward it to his office. I do know that someone in the Executive Office of the President read it. Of course they read it on the Freedomworks.org site. They never responded to my actual letter. They would have ignored it altogether had it not gone viral, and thousands of people read it. But someone in the White House read it. I don’t know who...Statcounter doesn't reveal that kind of info. But they read it.

Of course, they never responded. No encouraging letter to “Hang in there” no autographed picture of Barack and the wife and kids. Nothing. He ignored me and he ignored my plight. I know he’s busy. I mean with the IRS scandal, Fast and Furious, Benghazi, the horribly bad Obamacare, and now going into Syria when nobody wants him to...he’s a busy guy. On top of this, he’s been golfing more than any other President in history. Heck he plays more golf than the President of the PGA.

But I know he has a staffer who could have dropped me a line. Some intern who could stuff a pre-autographed glossy into a manila envelope and mail it to me. But nobody did anything. Because he doesn't care. His life is good, his friends lives are good...so my life is inconsequential.

Maybe it is, but not to me. And not to my daughter.

He ran on “Hope” he promised “Change.”  I’m hopeless and nothing is changing.

I hate saying I’m hopeless. I have always been a positive, upbeat, glass is half full and it’s Dom Perignon, kind of guy. But not anymore.

Last weekend I had to tell my daughter about the hiring freeze. I had to tell her that I didn't get that job after all. I had to tell her that unless some miracle happens between now and mid October, I get another job or sell a lot of books, I will still be homeless and she can’t come live with me, and she can’t change schools, and we can’t be together like we’d been hoping for these past five years. She can’t get another cat to replace Giacomo and she can’t have her daddy tuck her in again. My daughter’s heart was broken. She let herself believe. I let her believe.

Mr. President, if you (or the NSA) are reading this...I still can’t bring myself to hate you, because I love the office you hold as I love this country. But it’s personal to me now. I don’t like you. Your polices have broken my daughter’s heart. I’m a dad and when you harm my child I take that personally.

I have wondered, at times, what it would take for you to “get it.” For you to finally stop arrogantly behaving like a king and start acting like our President. The only thing I can come up with is impossible. The only thing that would break through to you and make you understand, would be for you to actually feel what my heart feels. For you to see disappointment and disbelief in your own daughter’s eyes. To be unable to stop her tears or heal her heart. But you will never be in that place. And so you’ll never grasp the sorrow I feel. Your talk of struggling in your past is just that...talk. You don’t have a shred of compassion and even less empathy. You don’t understand what my life feels like and you don’t care to know.

I have to endure three more years of you and your horrible policies. I don’t know what America will look like in 2016 and it scares me to think about it. But I know this...you’ll be just fine. Your daughters will be happy and healthy and your pockets full.

I’m out of faith, and out of hope, and running on pure stubbornness now. Stubbornness and love for my daughter so deep that I will endure homelessness to stay by her side. Unless I find a job or sell a few thousand books, I’m stuck here. While you’re golfing and ducking issues and enjoying an 8-year vacation...I’m more tired than I've ever been in my life. I’m running on vapors.

Running on love.

An Open Letter to President Obama...

I lost another job on Monday. Before I ever even started, the company withdrew their offer and froze all hiring. This fall, assuming I have no health insurance by then, I will be required to register for an Exchange. I have decided to refuse this. I wanted President Obama to know of my plight...and the plight of so many in this country. I intend on forwarding this to the White House via regular means, but I wanted to share it with my countrymen...

President Barack H. Obama

The White House

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

Washington DC

August 22, 2013

Mr. President;

     I hope your vacation is going well and the weather is providing you a period of rest and rejuvenation from all the golf and vacationing that has been wearing you down in this, your second term.

You will excuse me if I sound a bit cynical and a touch sarcastic. It’s just that, well...I am.

     You see Mr. President, three days ago I was informed that a job I had been offered only a week before, has been withdrawn. The company decided to freeze hiring for the foreseeable future. Part of their reasoning was the rising cost of healthcare, making it unaffordable for them to provide. This unaffordable-ness came as a result of your “Affordable Care Act.”

     Five years ago I might have smiled at the irony of those words. But I’m not smiling.

     Mr. President, five years ago I lost my career as a mortgage broker. I was never a rich man. I broke the lowest level of a six figure income only twice in ten years. I made good money but never was so consumed by material means as to earn the large sums that many of my associates in the industry did.  Instead, I chose to limit my office time, and focus on the time I had with my daughter.

     I am a single dad. My daughter is my treasure. She is the axis upon which my world spins. Of all the roles I play, being her dad is the one by which I define myself. My daughter and I spent our time together in the little 2500 square foot ranch house on five acres that we owned for four years. She grew from age 6 to age 10 in that house. I never remarried, choosing instead to focus on her and on being a great dad. I think I did an admirable job.

     I lost my house in 2008. Part of losing a house and having no place to live is having no place to keep your pets. We had two beautiful Springer Spaniels, named Bonnie and Cooper. We raised them both from puppies. They are gone. I had to give them away. We had a cat named Giacomo. He is gone too, as is my daughter’s Welsh pony. My garden is someone else’s garden now. The little country house I wanted all my life belongs to someone else.

     I live in Nashville, but I am a native of Philadelphia. When I lost my home and could not find another job, I had to make a decision. Do I stay in Nashville and remain active in my daughter’s life and be her dad? Or do I move home, or move to North Dakota and work in an oil field, or to Texas, or someplace where there was work and leave my daughter behind with her mom? For me, there was only one choice. I love my daughter.

I know you love your kids. People tell me that all the time, they say “Well he loves his kids, that makes him okay in my book.”  No disrespect sir, but Pol Pot loved his kids too. It doesn’t make you a good president.

So...I stayed. Staying meant sleeping in a Volvo 850. I am 6’ 4” and Volvo 850’s are not very comfortable for me to drive...imagine sleeping in one.  But I did. Sleeping in your car is actually against the law. It’s vagrancy and so it required me to hide my car in some tall brush behind a church in Nashville. I took showers at the County Rec Center. I ate every other day sometimes. I worked every odd job I could find and put out hundreds of resumes. To date I have put out almost 250 resumes to no avail.

     So I kept on trying. I kept on being my daughter’s dad. I refused to let her see me broken so I hid my tears. Do you know what it is like to have to lie to your daughter about where you live, Mr. President? No? I didn't think so. Let me tell you...no pain hurts like that. I wonder, Mr. President if you have ever cried yourself to sleep at night, with the image of your daughter in your head, and worried that your current state would be all you have left as a legacy?

     I wonder if you have ever had to explain why she can’t come stay overnight every other weekend like she used to, because you don’t have a home anymore? I wonder if you know how it hurts to watch her growing up before your eyes and almost feel the time rushing past and worry about how your homelessness will effect her.

     I have wept many many times thinking about my daughter. I worried that some day one of her classmates would find out I was homeless and tease her about it. I worried that she would be embarrassed by my situation. I worried that she would grow up in fear that this would happen to her.

     I pushed myself day and night. I worked every odd job. In 2009 I resumed my college education via an online program and in May 2012 I graduated from Liberty University.

I was still homeless as I did this. I thought that doing these things would open doors of opportunity for me and my daughter. But no doors opened. I have spent another full year since graduation, doing carpentry, and putting out resumes, and still sleeping in my car. And missing priceless moments with my daughter.

     Ten days ago I had hope. Hope that perhaps this enduring nightmare was coming to a close. Monday, that hope was dashed yet again. Dashed as a direct result of the policies you so erroneously and yet stubbornly cling to, Mr. President. Policies that literally stole a job –and the hope for a home again with my daughter- right out from under me.

     To say my heart is broken is an understatement. For the first 48 hours I was spinning through space. I could not grasp how this could happen again. Today I am angry. I am angry that the man charged with leading this great nation, cares nothing at all for the plight of her citizens. You care more about adherence to your ideology than you do for those you are supposed to lead.

     This afternoon I made a decision. This fall, because I am unemployed, and have no health insurance, I am supposed to register for an exchange. Mr. President, I wrote this letter because I wanted you to know the plight of your citizens. My other intention is to inform you that I will NOT be registering for that exchange. I am a man. I am a dad. I am an American. I want to pay my own way. I refuse to let others pay for something I would gladly pay for myself. I will not lower myself and violate my own integrity and work ethic and heritage. A heritage of hard work and integrity that my grandparents –immigrants on both sides- passed down to me. They came here with nothing, worked hard, took nothing from anyone that they hadn’t worked for, and built a life. I want that same opportunity.

     If this results in my being prosecuted, so be it. Someone has to take a stand, sir. Someone has to look you in the eye, straighten out their backbone, and with the respect due the office you hold, tell you “No!”  "No sir! I will not violate my conscience." I will not lower myself. I will not become a statistic and a name on a list. I want a job. I want to work, and pay my own way. Your job is to create an environment whereby employers can hire men and women like me. Then we can take responsibility for ourselves, and pay our own way.

     I respectfully refuse your handout, sir. And while I doubt your precious vacation time will be interrupted with news of my refusal,  perhaps one day it will be brought to your attention. Perhaps you will read of my plight. Perhaps you will grasp the pain I live in every day. Perhaps you will look up from this letter, and see the faces of your own beautiful daughters, and for just a moment grasp what the past five years have been for me. Perhaps.

Enjoy your vacation, Mr. President. I envy you having those treasured moments with your family. I miss those times for myself. I have all but given up hope that I will enjoy them again.

God Bless America,

Respectfully,

Craig Daliessio 

Having Done all to Stand

Paul told his beloved friends at Ephesus that one day evil would come. It would be so great that they would be pushed to their limits. He told them to prepare for it, but remain true to the elements of the Faith, particularly the reading of the Bible (such as they had at the time) and prayer. He concluded the charge with "and after this stand firm."
We have a tendency in Christendom to make superheroes out of normal believers and especially out of the early fathers. Paul was heroic, no doubt. But obviously, Paul also knew the heartbreak that went along with the Christian life. We're told on numerous occasions that Paul and Silas sang while in Jail. But we don't know whether they started off their jail experience with a song. I'm sure Paul cried out as the whip fell, or the rods crashed across his back. I'm sure that in the fevered pain of infection from the filthy conditions, and the open wounds on his body, Paul cried out...maybe even in anger.
We've focused on Paul's singing and assumed that's all he did. I can't say for sure, but I have my doubts.
Paul, at times, reveals loneliness in his writings. Sometimes desperation. Sometimes anguish over his chains. His frequent calls to be remembered in prayer tell us that Paul was a man as we all are. He was likely weary from the hard life that his calling demanded. He poured himself out again and again and dealt with heresy, and spiritual divisions, and laziness within the Church...and beatings and threat of death from without. That will break any man. Even Paul.
Ten days ago I was offered a job. I was as excited as I have been in a long time...probably since graduating from college in May 2012. I allowed myself to plan. Morgan and I went to the new high school she is transferring to (once I got a place) and she could barely contain her happiness. My smiling daughter was back.
Monday -just 48 hours ago- I got the call that the company has frozen hiring. The job was withdrawn. This has been the way it has gone for five years now. Five years of hopes deferred.
The last seven months especially have been hard. My Faith has lagged. I force myself to read the Bible. I never pray, at least not for myself. Why? God has known my need for five years now, and has yet to answer those desperate prayers for a restoration of my life, and a home for my daughter.
I have trudged through this wasteland while bearing the whispers -and often the shouts- of ruthless, mean-spirited people who would look me in the eye and tell me that somehow, in some way, this is all my fault. "Everyone who wants a job has one" they say. But that's not true. What is true is they have a job. (Or they no longer need one)  They have one and the few people they actually care about have one so to hell with the rest of us. Write it off as laziness. Chalk it up to failure.
The only words they offer -save those words of hurt and damage- are the same old tripe about "God is in Control" or "When God closes one door He opens another!" Well...God has been shutting door after door and nothing is open. Nothing.
They will tell me to find solace in worship. Yeah...right. Some go so far as to suggest certain songs or artists that help them in some particular way. None of these songs effect me spiritually at all. They do, however trigger my gag reflex. They make me ill. I am angry. I am hurt. I am wondering why. I am scared. I am very alone in this walk. I am frustrated. I am very very sad. I feel like an abysmal failure. I can literally feel time rushing past me like a freight train and I am powerless to stop it. What's far worse...I can't assign any value to the time that rushes by. I can't look at it and say "I filled it with something great". It's just time. Day after day of dreams that die, progress that stalls, and a sweet, wonderful 15 year old young woman who I treasure and haven't been able to offer normalcy to in over five years.
God knows all this already. I need to remind him? Write THAT in a praise and worship song and maybe I'll sing it.
I have come to the point in my faith where I think I know what Paul was really saying to the Ephesians.
He was saying this: "Get ready. Get acquainted with Jesus, and know His words, and the elements of your Faith. Because there will come a day when no more songs will come from your lips. No more prayers will pour from your heart. You will face days when there will be no words, no prayers, no songs, no comfort, no joy. You will face times when God will become an abstract. You will have only your determination to not quit. What you know of God in those darkest hours will only be what you can vaguely recall. You won't see His face shining on you. You will only remember that it once did. That memory will be all you have."
I am there now. I cannot abandon my faith because I still know it to be real. I know God is never caught by surprise. This does not have Him back on His heels. He is not stumbling for a quick fix to my situation. He is the same God He was when things were going well. I am exhausted, out of words and repulsed by even the effort it takes to play the Christian game. I can't bring myself to go through the motions of raising my hands, swaying with glazed eyes, shedding tears of adoration, or "Shouting Deuteronomy at the Devil" as Rich Mullins used to mockingly say. I am beyond broken. I am shattered. The pieces are jagged and I have cut myself time and again trying to hold them together while waiting for the Cavalry.
But having done all to stand...I will still stand.
I can't abandon this faith. I have a daughter watching me and I have yet -in all this hardship- to assign blame of any kind to God. I try my best to tell her that God knows what He is up to. He is working a plan. I want her to remember her dad as a man who refused to quit on anything...including his faith in Jesus Christ. Even when that Faith seemed to be of no effect.
What would I abandon to? Some other faith? Something false and fraudulent, or non-existent altogether?
I can't. I won't. God doesn't owe me explanation. But I, in turn, don't owe the Christian voices a certain behavior when the chips are down.
I have learned, in all this, that faith is sometimes ugly. It's not always glorious and beautiful. Sometimes it's at it's best when it is silently taking just one more halting step forward...and another...and another. Faith is most glorious when the sun rises and the damaged warrior is still there. Having taken no new ground, neither has he ceded any. He did all to stand, and then he simply stood. Fists clenched, spit flying, not pretty and packaged and Tweet-worthy. He's nobody's hero. But he should be. Because he just stood.

Wandering...

Summer is here...officially. Memorial Day weekend always means summer is here. I know the calender says it actually happens on June 21, but for as long as I can remember, Memorial Day was the official beginning.
When I was a kid, we never got out of school before June 12th. That was always the official last day of school. It was so ingrained, that the calender on our kitchen wall came with the date already highlighted.
Those last two weeks between Memorial Day and the last day of school were almost entirely useless. We took our year-end tests and we packed up our desks...the ones that had tops that opened to two different angles for writing and drawing, or you could lay them flat. They made a distinct sound when you opened them. Mine was always a disaster by the end of the school year. If not for my trusty school box I wouldn't even know where my pencils were. But we cleaned them out and removed the paper-bag book covers we had made for all our textbooks and turned them back in. We took all our library books back and Mrs. Singer gave us a stern look that always melted into a smile and she ignored the late fee and told us she was looking forward to seeing us the next fall.
Summer was special and it couldn't get here soon enough.
Now I am a dad myself. I will be 50 this fall. Summer is here again. Usually my favorite time of the year but this year I meet it with dread. Today was Memorial Day and I spent it essentially wandering. I was up at 4 AM, because I can't really sleep anymore. I went to Dunkin and got my coffee and did some writing this morning until 7 AM when the gym opened. I worked out and took a shower and went to Panera where I sat for a few hours, reading the book of Job and thinking. I haven't read Job in five years. For some reason I avoided it all this time I was homeless. I'm glad I did. There was a lot in this book that reminded me of my situation and not in any good ways.
After a while I left to go get something to eat. Something cheap. Then I came back to Panera again and put out more resumes. More applications for jobs that simply aren't there. Not for  someone in my demographic.
I set up my Hootsuite so that I could promote the divorced dads book throughout the day and then I left again. I went for a walk and then tried to catch a nap for 20 minutes because without sleeping much I get very weary. Not just tired...weary.
Now I'm back at Panera again until 9PM when they close. That's how I spent my Memorial Day. No cookout. No ballgame. I didn't get to see my daughter. I wandered. I'm wandering every day now. I have been homeless for four of the last five years but to be honest...maybe I've always been homeless. There has always been something else out there. Not something material...this isn't a lust or a desire or a materialistic passion. It's internal. It's dissatisfaction with whatever is right here and right now. There has always been something more I was seeking. Somewhere else I was wanting to be. The last 2 1/2 years while I finished school I didn't feel it. I felt connected and settled. I was doing my one thing. But now I don't have school and I don't have a garden to tend or a house to maintain and my daughter can't some see me. I have nowhere to lay my head...so I wander.
It has to stop. I can't endure this again. Not for another summer. My daughter is growing up and soon she'll be gone and I'll have missed these years. I don't want to miss her like I do. I don't want to be a vagabond and a wanderer. But there is nothing out there for employment and it takes some time and a good bit of luck to sell a book. "Remembering America" is a GREAT book. I haven't met anyone who hasn't been mesmerized by the stories in this work of mine. But without a publicity push nobody will hear about it and word of mouth takes a long time unless you have the finances to do it right.
So I am stuck wandering. Wandering as a man, wandering professionally...wandering as a dad.
I hate this life of mine and I'm not sure how much more I can deal with. I am no quitter...my degree and my writing would attest to that...but I am desperately near quitting.
I need a home and some measurable success. I want to have a home to come home to. Not just physically. My heart needs a home. My heart needs to stop wandering.

Random thoughts from a Homeless Dad

Yesterday a friend of mine told me how he had just watched the movie "Zero Dark Thirty" and how they showed some of the techniques used to extract the information used to find Bin Laden.
He said, "You know...the final breaking happens when they torture these guys for days or weeks or months and then they stop. They clean them up. Give them better food. Stop the sleep deprivation and whatever else they were doing. They let them gain a glimmer of hope that perhaps they have endured the worst nightmare they could imagine, then just when they start to grasp that hope...they start it all again."  He told me that according to the film, the breaking happens quickly after that, because they dropped their guard and began to hope. Once that faint glimmer was extinguished, their fight is all gone. Then he said something I'd been feeling since February but couldn't quite understand, he said, "You know...that's what happened to you. That's why this is so much harder this time. You endured that for four years, worked your butt off got your degree, wrote two books and started a business and got yourself in a house. Then the wheels came back off. It has to hurt worse than before...much worse"
He's right. It does. I didn't know about this being a tactic of inquisition...I just thought it was a particularly cruel twist. It hurts and it hurts like nothing I can describe.
     I picked up my daughter after school today. I do this every day to help her mom out. To be honest...it's something I look forward to. It makes me feel like I'm still her dad. Like I'm doing something. I spend about 20 minutes with her every afternoon, driving from school to her mom's house. She is usually burnt out after school so we don't talk as much as I'd like.  But I get to see her and for me, that's everything. I can't put into words how much I love my daughter. How much I wish I could get out of this nightmare and make something of a life for us again. How much I would give to hear her saying bedtime prayers, to cook breakfast for her, or to help her with her homework. This life of my hurts. It's painful. I'm past the point of dreaming dreams for myself anymore but I sure dream them for her. I dream of her being happy and fulfilled and becoming who she was put here to be. 15 years ago, when the doctor put her in my arms I felt the enormous weight of being the person who was supposed to make the way for her. It's her job to dream the dreams...it's mine to give them wings. And I can't.
I look at a $20 bill and try to figure a way to make it stretch into a tank of gas and some food, while our erstwhile president is partying like a rockstar this week. I am losing hope...and something had better change.
Meanwhile my daughter races toward adulthood and I am almost the invisible man in her world. She loves me and respects me and appreciates the sacrifice I made to remain here in Nashville and in her life. But she can't live on the intangible forever, and neither can I. Something has to break my way. More importantly...it has to break her way. Her dad needs to find the success he once knew, and he needs to find it now. Because time is racing by like the wind. I can't describe how I miss her and the five years we have lost. I lived in my car and tried to rebuild. I studied and got my degree. I wrote three books. I started a little business. And for all that, I am back to sleeping in the car again...and this time the shame and humiliation is killing me. It is literally draining life from my heart. It hurts to live like this. In ways I can't describe properly enough to do them justice. You will never know what it is to lose your career, and your home, and your family. Most people experience one of those...maybe two. But few ever experience all three together. I have. It hurts. Physically hurts...I feel like I am lugging around a 300 pound man strapped across my shoulders. The shame and humiliation is palpable. But the lack of hope is the worst thing. How do I get that back?
I just want my daughter to be happy. And I want to be there to see it. I'm losing the ability to imagine that day.

An Open Letter to Joe Biden...It's Not Funny Mr. Biden

Mr. Vice President…

I didn't enjoy your performance the other night in the debate. It saddened me. I like to think I have a sense of humor. I have always been a funny guy, the class clown, a guy who disarmed many situations with a joke or a smile. But what you did the other night wounded me deeply and betrayed me as an American and as a dad. Let me tell you why…

I was born in Philadelphia and when I was 7 years old we moved a few miles south, to New Castle, Delaware…you’re home state. I was a constituent of yours.

 I remember reading in the Evening Journal about the tragic accident that claimed your wife and daughter. I remember being only 8 years old but being very sad. I know I didn't laugh.

You know the area. It’s blue collar and lunch pail. It’s only a couple of miles from the big Boxwood Road GM plant…the one they closed down. One of my best friends lost his job there. For the last three years he’s been living in Ohio, working at a GM plant there, and coming home every few weeks because he needed to get his last few years in so he didn't lose his retirement. He almost never sees the house he lived in, where he grew up, three doors down from me. That’s not funny either.

What’s even less funny is a few years ago Fiskars came to town and made big promises about moving their production there. They were given a choice loan from your boss, Mr. Obama. 529 MILLION dollars to be exact. But they changed their minds and they aren't coming. My friend John won’t be coming home to work. That’s not funny.

I moved to Nashville 15 years ago and had a beautiful wife and a daughter. I scratched out a living and got very good at my job. I was in the mortgage business. I wasn't a Wall Street bundler…just a loan officer. But I did well and found success. I went through a divorce and stayed a single man and focused on my daughter, because she’s my world. You’re a dad…I’m sure you can understand.

In 2004 I bought my dream home. It wasn't fancy or expensive. I only paid $175,000 for it. But I had a few acres and I could plant a garden and our dogs had room to run. We had two beautiful Springer Spaniels named Bonnie and Cooper and a cat named Giacomo and my daughter had a little pony.  They were like family to my daughter and me. I mention them because they are gone now. So is the house.

In 2006 the mortgage industry began to contract. In 2007 I lost my home to foreclosure.

That was nothing to laugh at…me losing my home. It wasn't funny Mr. Vice President.

I rented for a year but we all know what happened in 2008. I didn't just lose my job…I lost my career. By August of 2008 I was sleeping in my car, hidden behind a church. I showered in the recreation center and ate infrequently. It wasn't funny Mr. Vice President. My joblessness was nothing for you to smirk at the other night.

I lived this way for THREE and a HALF YEARS! Believe me…I didn't have much to laugh about in all that time. It wasn't funny.

I lived this way stubbornly because I love my daughter and she needed me to remain in her life and to do that I had to remain in her town. I know you understand this…you rode the train every day to come home to your kids instead of moving to D.C. Surely you appreciate the value of the sacrifice I made and the hardship and embarrassment I endured.  Given the dad you are, I don’t know why you laughed. Believe me…it wasn't funny.

I had to give our dogs and cat away. I had to tell my daughter that. I broke her heart with that news and here four years later we still look to the day when we can get them back. That wasn't funny either Mr. Vice President…it was heartbreaking. It was sad. I felt like the worst father alive.

My unemployment ran out after about a year and a half. Of course even that little bit didn't help much…not when gas was $4.50 a gallon in the fall of 2008 and it would take half my unemployment check to fill my tank. I ate every other day. I had to keep gas in my tank and my cell phone turned on so that the potential employers from all the applications I put out could reach me. But no one did. I put out 207 resumes in those days and got one callback. That wasn't funny Mr. Vice President…it was humiliating.

I decided to finish my degree and enrolled at my alma mater. Last May I graduated from Liberty University. I proudly walked with my class. I was older than most of them, and it was 28 years later… but it didn't matter. It took 6 semesters for me to graduate…I lived in my car for 5 of them.  That was about as hard a way to study as there is. Believe me Mr. Biden…that wasn't funny.

There were nights I awoke to frost inside my car and had to scrape BOTH SIDES of the windshield just to see. There were nights I fell to sleep with the image of my daughters face torturing my mind and wondered if she was worried about me and was she embarrassed…and would I ever be able to get back all I lost? I cried on those nights. I cried a lot. I cried sometimes because it was just so cold out and I had to spend yet another night wrapped in sleeping bags and blankets and living in my car.

The tears of a broken man are bitter indeed Mr. Vice President and they aren't anything to laugh at. Especially not like you laughed the other night.

I scraped together enough money to start a little carpentry business. I am making enough to live on…barely. I found a place to live temporarily but it’s for sale and I’ll have to move soon. I’m not making enough for a deposit, and furniture, and utility deposits. I fear I might be back sleeping in my car again. That’s not funny either Mr. Vice President. And it sure isn't Hope and it sure hasn't changed.

Since you and President Obama came to office more people are out of work…more people are on government assistance, groceries cost more, gas costs more, utilities cost more, meanwhile we all make less. These are facts Mr. Biden and they aren't funny. In fact the only person laughing at all this is YOU!

I have dreams. I dream of owning a home again some day. I dream of providing for my daughter’s education…without YOUR help! I’m a dad…I want to pay for it myself. That’s pride and responsibility. You and this president have stripped it from us like the skin from an orange. It’s sad, Mr. Biden. It’s not funny.

This patch of weeds and scrub is where I lived in my car for the first four months. Then I found another place to park where I was welcomed. Let me tell you what it’s like to sleep in a car. You don’t really sleep because you worry the police might find you and run you off or take you in. Every tiny sound wakes you up. You can’t turn in your sleep like you can in a bed. My back hurt every morning when I woke up. No matter how many layers and sleeping bags you wrap yourself in, and no matter how warm you can make your body…you still breathe the unheated winter air. That’s not funny. That made me cry. I cried in frustration and sorrow and humiliation and sadness. I went almost four years without being able to have my daughter sleep over on weekends like she was supposed to. You don’t know how it feels to worry that your child’s friends will find out her dad is homeless and she’ll be teased and bullied. I cried about that too Mr. Vice President…it wasn't funny.

This is MY story. This is how YOUR economy affected ME. The other night when you laughed and smiled…you laughed at MY situation.

I haven’t laughed in a long time Mr. Biden. Not really. But I've cried. I've cried when I see my daughter growing up and only in the last 6 months have I been able to resume my regular parenthood and have her stay with me. I've cried when I look at pictures of those dogs and that cat and my home and they are just memories now. I cried a lot. While you’re laughing… I've been crying.

I don’t know if you know what it feels like to be heartlessly laughed at when your life has been broken and battered. But it hurts. That’s what you did the other night with your callous display.

I don’t want help from the government. I am a MAN…I’m a DAD! I want to do this MYSELF! I want an opportunity! I want to make MY OWN decision about healthcare and pay for it MYSELF! I want to pay for my daughter’s education with my OWN money. I don’t want to be beholding to Barack Obama…or you. Or anyone else who would laugh at me and others like me when we have suffered so much for so long.

Mr. Vice President…This is MY life. And I don’t think it’s funny.