March has brought triumph, a scary moment, and change.

First of all, the triumph: I got accepted into grad school. In the fall, I’ll be pursuing my Masters in Social Work.

The scary moment happened a couple weeks ago when  my housemate and I got rear ended on our way to work. Our actions were rather primal. I instantly burst into tears and my housemate called 911 and put on the hazard lights. A few minutes later, it was reversed. I was calm and her tears were coming. I’ve been in so few situations in which such an involuntary, primal reaction was provoked that I felt like my body had betrayed me.

The response  to our calamity was pure sympathy, which I partially expected. I did not expect, however, the cake and the bread delivered to our door nor the concerned emails from people I hadn’t told about the accident. Even though I’ve lived in the community for seven months now, a community which frequently donates pounds of food to us, I’ve forgotten how generous and thoughtful it is.

Two weeks later, I still look back at the accident and my breath is taken away by how lucky we were. My car was totaled, but we were okay besides aches and pains that have faded away. I know full well that if I hadn’t straightened out the car from the skid it had gone in to, we could have been broad sided and our injuries would have been significantly more severe. While both of us would have preferred to have not been in that accident, we were lucky to have each other to lean on each other in the few minutes before the police arrived and in the next few days and weeks.

March hasn’t brought a whole lot of tangible changes except I have a new, undamaged car. Rather, it has acted as a herald to probable changes in my life, such as receiving student loans for the first time and starting my MSW program. I’m sure that there a lot more to come.

Last weekend, we joined another branch of the Episcopal Service Corps in Maryland for part of their retreat. The retreat, which centered on racism, took place on a refurbished plantation/farm. The conversation about racism was just starting to brush the bottom of the surface when we stopped for lunch and then took a walk down to the slave graveyard down the hill.

All around us were fallow fields. Whether they are being used in the present day we didn’t know, but it wasn’t hard to imagine slaves working crops that used to be there. It wasn’t hard to imagine how different our walk down there as privileged white people would have looked different when it was a working farm and when people owned other people.

The graveyard itself was in ruins. The only markers were a cross and a big rock where a male slave was buried. A nearby sign says that one of the families was buried in the plot as well as 25 other slaves. The plot doesn’t tell us a lot; neither does the land really. It does not say how these slaves were treated. It doesn’t say if any of them ran away to Harrisburg, a major stop on the underground railroad a days walk away. All that I know is what my education told me and what I’ve read on my own.

Before this, the civil war era felt like a distant past to me. I did not grow up next to battlefields or old plantations to remind me of that history. Instead, I grew up in Colorado closer to old mining towns, Sand Creek, and Mesa Verde and its mysteries. Slave narratives were powerful and emotionally raw, but they were not real to me. It wasn’t until I stood on top of those who gone before me and suffered in ways I will never know and felt the chilly wind that they endured with most likely less protection than me, that it felt real, tangible, closer.

We did not dance on the slave graveyard like the title suggests. We discussed what we saw and what might have happened. But we didn’t know what to do with the thoughts and information in our head, so we headed back, huddled against the wind. We chatted and laughed and sang and then drove an hour and a half back home where we had to prepare for an event. We did not dance on the slave graveyard, but we might as well have. My question is: how do we get from dancing to understanding? From understanding to doing?

Here’s a link about the history of the retreat center. I wish it was more in depth. https://www.claggettcenter.org/history

A few days before leaving Colorado for Pennsylvania, my dad made me two things from his 3d printer: A miniature TARDIS (blue of course) and an orange squirrel that I named Zacchaeus.

For those who don’t know or need a refresher, Zacchaeus was a chief tax collector during the time of Jesus’ teachings. One day, Zacchaeus climbed a sycamore tree in order to see Jesus over the crowd of people. Jesus saw him, called him by name, and told him that he wanted to visit his house. The crowd was shocked because tax collectors were despised for working for the Roman Empire and not the Jewish community.

The Sycamore House doesn’t have a sycamore house to climb in our garden (although we do have some lilies!), but we are still very much like our man in the story from Luke. Every day or nearly every day, we are trying to find ourselves and our vocations. And sometimes we need some help. Sometimes like Zacchaeus, we need something to lift us over the crowd. Sometimes we call on the help of our wonderful and effervescent director. Sometimes we call on each other. And then sometimes we make orange squirrels.

My little version of Zacchaeus does not directly help me with my vocation. In fact, most of the times he is stuck in a bag or half forgotten on the coffee table. He helps motivate me and remind me of my dad, people back home, and callers that use our helpline. He reminds me of why I am here, which is sometimes easy to forget when I’m tired out by duties and difficult calls.

Last week, he traveled with me to Colorado for my winter break and helped me take pictures of the snow and mountains for my housemates.

Next week, he is going to be placed in a seat of honor on my desk at work. Will he physically help me with calls and other duties? Probably not. But it will be nice to have him there, a companion along the way.

And for those who are wondering, I had a TARDIS made because Doctor Who, like bowties, is cool.

Growing up, I was told the story of “The First Thanksgiving,” a feast that was purportedly a peaceful gathering of those who were indigenous to this country and those who just recently immigrated. In kindergarten and first grade, I remember making pilgrim hats and Native American headdresses, not realizing that there was more to the story.

But, of course there is. And there isn’t just one story. There’s the Trail of Tears, The Sand Creek Massacre, The Battle of Wounded Knee, and the countless events that have no official name in the history books. There are the reservations, the poor and often abusing education, the unwanted romanticism/ignorance of Native American culture, and the current struggle of Standing Rock.

To pretend that Thanksgiving is only about the meal and the family is ignoring history, something that we should never do, especially in this political climate. However, it means something different for everyone. For some it is unfortunately stressful because of family, lack of funds for a full Thanksgiving meal, grief, etc. I cannot speak for what this Thanksgiving will be for everyone, but I can speak for myself. During this Thanksgiving, this Thanksgiving which will be away from home, I am more aware of what I am thankful for than usual.

I am thankful for my intentional community.

I am thankful that in my community, I can cry, laugh, talk, be silent, and discover more of myself.

I am thankful for a bus system that can transport me to my nearby grandparents for Thanksgiving break.

I am thankful for the 7 little cousins that make dinner fun and interesting.

I am thankful for modern technology that keeps me touch with loved ones so easily.

I am thankful for love, which may be invisible often, but always overpowers hate.

Hey guys! This is my second and last post as a guest blogger for Sycamore House. Enjoy!

And please check out my housemates’ posts in the upcoming months at https://sycamorehousehbg.wordpress.com/

CONTACT Helpline is primarily run by volunteers. In the last two months at my job, I have met a few of them, and they are amazing.

When volunteering comes up in conversations, usually the word brings up the image of soup kitchens, setting up for events, or maybe sweating while building shelves.

The volunteers at CONTACT are unique because they commit to a few hours per month to talk to people who are either in need of a specific resource or a listening ear. It is not easy to hear about difficult situations without knowing if you actually helped that person, which is part of why recruiting new volunteers is difficult.

It’s also difficult because we seldom truly listen (this is not a new or millennial thing, solely brought on by technology). We do hear (for the most part), but we do not always put our full concentration on listening. It is a challenge to listen as we may space out or get excited and/or nervous about how we should respond.

In a way, answering the phones for CONTACT is easier than everyday conversations because we have restrictions on what we can say. In a “normal” conversation, we can technically say anything that comes to mind. Volunteering has taught me to hold back interruptions and resist the temptation to relate a story that may not help at all.

So, my challenge to you (whether or not you actually volunteer on a helpline) is to volunteer to listen.