Death in the Delta: Uncovering a Mississippi Family Secret

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: History

177 History When I moved to Asheville in 2001 and contemplated how ill prepared I was to deal with grief, to care for the terminally ill, I signed up for hospice training. A year later I was recruited as a trainer to set up programs in faith communities. My job involved the organization of care teams who would provide much-needed assistance to families of the dying. Before long, I found myself in a situation that brought me face to face with unresolved issues. A retired clergyman, lean, stooped, balding, with kind eyes and a Connecticut accent, asked me to visit the Church of the Advocate—a spiritual oasis for the homeless. He wanted me to assess the community and help determine whether or not we could establish a care team there. He thought we could find a way to mobilize some of the “regulars.” “Most of the people who come to the Advocate are so marginalized and have worked so hard just to survive from one day to the next that they would not be available for teamwork, but there are about thirty regulars,” he told me. “Betty, for example, has a police scanner and a cell phone. I think she would be willing to be a contact. She could let us know when someone gets arrested, beaten up, falls ill or dies, and that happens more often than you might think.” “How do most of these people become homeless?” “Most of them are underprivileged to begin with. But some are college-educated folks. Things like alcohol, drugs, and abuse bring people to the streets. With those things in mind, do you think we can start to talk about this informally at the Advocate, to see if there’s any interest in the circle?” chapter seventeen history 178 “Not having been there,” I told him, “I don’t know enough to tell you, and the only way for me to find out is to attend services for a while, pay close attention, and get to know some of the people . I don’t think it will work if we try to impose a structure on a group like this. My guess is that they will only agree to teamwork if they craft it themselves. But I’ve gotta tell you, I’m not sure I can do this.” Bill didn’t say anything, but waited for me to go on. I told him that my father had been a serious, abusive alcoholic, that he lost nearly everything he had—his family, his job, his health. Homelessness was barking at his apartment door along with the IRS. I had some fear about getting involved. “Fair enough. Take some time to think about it and if you don’t come, we’ll understand.” Several weeks passed before I could work up the nerve to follow through. On a bright, sunny Sunday, I approached the grounds of Trinity Church. I looked at the disheveled and grimy men, both white and African American, leaning against the building and forced myself to walk past them into the dedicated space of the Advocate. Inside the basement room lit with candles and sunshine from the casement windows, I spied a large cross made of lashedtogether pieces of driftwood. Under it were two signs that looked like they were painted out on a farm: “Love One Another” and “Delighted in You.” A poster read, “He who conceals his disease cannot expect to be cured.” The chairs in the front half of the room were arranged in a large circle with the altar at one end. I found an empty seat next to my friend Bill, and sat down. In the back of the room were round tables where some men—rough, dirty, disheveled, and downtrodden—sat. It seemed that they couldn’t tolerate the closeness and intimacy. I watched them drink coffee and look down—no eye contact—some without a flicker of light in their eyes. The young rector, Brian, began the service saying, “Please say your first name, offering yourself, a child of God.” This was my first cue that the twelve steps were woven into the liturgy. So history 179 there I was, Molly, just Molly. Just a person, like all the others. There was no hierarchy of personage. Brian introduced the parable of the lost sheep and asked if anyone wanted to comment. Karen, a young woman still in...