to be a sower

I haven't written to you in a long, long time. Ever since I began my summer internship at Star of Hope everything I have written has been private, for my own understanding, as an attempt to process through everything that I was becoming a part of. I couldn't share it. But now my time there is over, and I am ready to share a little bit of what has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.

Star of Hope is an organization in Houston, TX with a mission to help the city's homeless men, women, and children. I spent six weeks at their "Women and Family Emergency Shelter," helping to teach and take care of a class of 8-12 year olds. When I say that it was hard, I mean it with everything I have in me. I have never struggled in the way that I did working at Star of Hope, nor have I ever felt so fulfilled by my failures.

I could tell you a million stories. I could tell you all the different reasons why I cried. I could tell you how much I loved those children. I could tell you how it feels to be gone now. I could write you a book (and maybe one day I will), but right now I want to paint you a picture...

They come. They enter those old doors battered and broken, proud and defiant, angry and strung-out, lost and uncertain. Beautiful. Their faces are the reflection of God, even when no one sees it. Some stay a night, others are allowed ninety days. There is food and water, clothing and shelter, childcare and counseling. No one really and truly wants to be at a homeless shelter. But they are there. And I was there Monday through Friday, 8-4, with a job that many Star of Hope employees call "sowing." Small seeds. Imperfect seeds. Seeds that I didn't even know I had, but when I found them unexpectedly, I planted. I tried to know my garden, to discover the ins and outs of where a seed might find good soil. My seed's name was love, and I planted it imperfectly, over and over again. I don't know where it fell, how it landed, or whether it made a difference at all. It's an emergency shelter, and one does not expect to witness major change. Strong and resilient oak trees do not spring up overnight. They do, however, exist. But not until the one who planted them is long gone. I am now the one long gone, and even if I were to go back, the children would not be there for me to water, prune, and tend. That is left to another, and I am left to hope.

In fact, I think this is a picture of hope. Regardless of whether or not I showed hope to anyone else this summer, I do know without a doubt that the children who now hold a piece of my heart taught me more about hope than I have ever known before. Hope is real, and it is mighty.

Some people are called so sow seeds. I think it's a special calling. I think it's a hard calling. And the people whom I have seen do it have taught me very much and I find their efforts, in all their imperfection, beautiful.

"The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field...then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father."
Matthew 13: 24, 43