Dexter

Someone recently left a comment asking if I would please give an update on my homeless friend, Dexter. First of all, I am admittedly too lazy right now to go back and find out your name, but to you who asked, thank you. I care deeply for Dexter; I am honored that you would care for him as well; and I believe you sparked a small miracle.

I hadn't seen Dexter since the fall. I saw him quite a bit last summer, but then he started showing up less and less. He told me he couldn't handle my neighborhood because, "too many rich ladies stop and try to take care of me." I love that answer. It still makes me smile; it reminds me that at our core, we humans are still kind and empathetic and not nearly as oblivious and selfish as we sometimes claim to be.

Anyways, early fall, Dexter went away and didn't come back. For weeks I drove the parking lots looking for him. And when I hopped on the tour bus for our two month tour, I asked my friends Becca and Sara to keep an eye out for him. Sara called a few times, thinking she had spotted him, but as she described the man, I knew it wasn't my Dexter. In November I began searching for him. Calling homeless shelters. Trying to track down someone at the dialysis clinic that could give me information on him. No one could help me because it broke confidentiality rules. And I understood that. Still- I just needed to know if he had died.

December began a tumultuous soul-searching time for Ryan and I. Dexter went to the background- and though my eyes were always scanning for him- I sort of gave up. In my heart, I knew I needed to let go. I tried calling around to the Salvation Army shelters a few more times in the late spring and then called it quits.

You, blog-friend-commenter, brought him back to my mind. As soon as I read his name, my heart started burning again. I wanted so badly to find him. Mind you- not because I can fix any of his problems- I can't- but because I told him he was my friend and I meant it.

I can't fix him, but I can sit with him in the parking lot and let him watch Annie smile and laugh and get him food and be good company.  I thought about Dexter all day after reading your inquiry. (I suppose maybe my soul was praying for an encounter though I was not even aware that I was in a state of prayer.) And then, that afternoon when I least expected it (because I was tired and I had a million things to do and I had a fussy Annie in the back seat)...

there he was, in the chick-fil-a parking lot.

The same place I met him the very first day. There he was. This time, not slouched over like the many times before, but sitting up a bit more straight in his chair. Sipping on water. Looking more like life than death.

I got Annie and Dexter some food and made my way back to him. I did not realize, until I looked into his eyes, how worried I had been for him. And then it came spewing out.

"DEXTER!!! Where have you been? You can't just leave like that and not tell me. I have been searching for you for nearly a year. I thought you were dead. You can't just do that. You can't just disappear like that and not call me. I'm really mad at you."

By this time I've got my arms around him in a bear hug, tears running down my face and he's just laughing.

"It's not funny. I gave you my number for a reason. If you are going to disappear for 9 months you have to tell me. I thought you were freaking dead. I've been calling the shelters and clinics trying to track you down."

He stopped me with his gentle voice, "How's Annie?"

My heart caught in my throat.

He remembered her name.

The first few times we met, he was always very ill. I would go to him and shake him, calling his name, trying to make sure he was alive. I would always have to reintroduce myself. "Dexter, this is Jenny. Hey. How are you feeling? Dexter? Can you hear me? Can I get you something? Have you taken your medicine?" He was always more dead than alive.

This time he knew my name. He knew Annie's name. And maybe that should not be a moment of immense joy- excited that a really dirty, sick, homeless man remembers my daughter's name and wants to see her- but I pulled her out of that car and brought her right up next to him like he was Santa Clause and she was the best kid in the world.

Dexter looks better than ever. I don't know the in's and out's of his illness, but I know that he cannot be on the transplant list because his blood work never stabilizes enough for him to qualify. One of his blood counts is always too low. I suspect being a dirty, sick, homeless man has something to do with it too. So he does dialysis twice a week. He will always be on dialysis. He sleeps at the Dallas Salvation Army. And he takes the bus up to MacArthur in North Irving to get away from the "thugs" in the downtown area.

I left him with my cell phone number like I do every time and I told him, "Call me. If you are in the hospital. If you are sick. If you need a place to sleep. Call. Please. We're here. And don't you dare go missing for nine months again making me think you're dead- I will kick your butt- I don't care how sick you are!"

He always says, "Your husband is gonna kill you," when I hand him my number. Like he knows what most wise husbands and dads would say to their wife or little girl who is hugging the scary looking man in the parking lot. But- I like that he says that. He knows the truth. He knows his plot. He is not dumb. Not drunk. Not stupid. Not dangerous.

He is sick.

He lost his job. His health. His family. His ability to crawl out of the hole of poverty. But he did not lose his humanity. And he still worries that I am going to get in trouble with Ryan for associating myself with a dirty, sick, homeless man. He is still a man- chivalrous in a way- concerned that I am going to get myself in trouble and wanting to protect me from that.

He feels. He hears. He knows.

I worry I am not doing enough; others worry I am doing too much.

At the end of the day though, I am just doing what I can do. It's not life-saving. It's not huge. It's not getting him off the streets and into a home where he can be cared for- that's what I wish I could do. But I'm not doing nothing. And I will forever be an advocate for that.

We can all do something. And little somethings add up...

I know that for sure... because Dexter remembers Annie's name; and she makes a man smile who I once thought was dead.

little somethings. they really do add up.

post script:

To all the IBC members who read this blog, can I just say how proud I was that day in the chick-fil-a parking lot? It was right after Panda Mania vacation bible school let out, and during the course of my visit with Dexter, four different mini-vans of green t-shirt, Panda Lovin', moms drove up to offer him food or help. He asked me, "What's with all the green shirt ladies around here, they won't stop bringing me food..." He was being attacked by Irving Bible Church pandamaniacs and it made my heart happy. I am honored to be in a church community filled with people who are living missionaly.

Line Lover

Can I just say that I love my job?

I love my job because I love people. I'm slightly addicted, actually.

Someone asked me tonight if I get annoyed signing autographs and hugging so many people.

I see how she could think this. After all, I have just gotten off stage and gone straight to the RV to get my daughter to bed. Then, I go straight to the table and forget that I have not gone to the bathroom yet (which I swore I would do before I got on stage). But the line has already started. And it is long. Every time it gets short another group of people hop on the back and start the shedding of snake skin all over again.

And then there are the people themselves. Sometimes they talk a lot. Sometimes they don't talk at all... literally, they don't tell me their name when I ask, they just sit there with saucer eyes and a gaping mouth. Some people have body odor. Some people are sweaters. Inevitably it is the sweaty person that is also a hugger. And they want to hug you and hug you and whisper in your ear all kinds of encouraging things. There are kids who want you to sign inappropriate body parts and make smarmy comments. Mom's, who to their teenager's chagrin, simply cannot figure out how to take a picture on the iPhone and so we miserably smile through seven or eight attempts. Some people cry. Some people are close talkers. Some people want to pray over you. Some people talk and talk and talk and then right when you are giving your buddy in the band the "please save me from this man" look, they pull out ten posters they would like signed for every member of their family and their neighbor's family. Some people are right on me, nose to nose, telling me their entire life story. Some people are giddy, they call themselves stalkers, and they know every lovin' thing about me. Others are shy. Some people share their songs with me. Their poetry. Or, once, I even had a socially awkward girl pull up her shirt, lift a few rolls of body skin, and showed me the scar from her surgery she had last year. That was especially endearing.

This process, for my husband, is excruciating. So much so that he stopped participating in it years ago. You might as well be physically torturing him. Invasion of personal space? People who talk in circles and never get to the point? Strangers touching him? Germs? The possibility of weirdo-s or worse, stupid people who can't operate cameras? It kills him. I literally watch him squirm and see the years of his life withering before him.

But I look at the line and it feels like Christmas. I see all these faces. A sea of strangers. A cacophony of voices and foreign accents. A hodge-podge of every type of person imaginable. A collection of stories so astoundingly painful, terribly ordinary, and incredibly beautiful that a movie couldn't capture what is in front of me.

I look at the line and see eyes. Tired. Happy. Weary. Alive. Intense. Sincere. Gentle. Calm. Giving. Wanting. Peaceful. Restless. Tortured. Passionate. Dancing. Innocent. Wise.

I look at the line and see mouths. Smiling. Talking. Toothless. Braces. Gaps where something might just sprout up any moment now. Nibbling mouths. Pursed lips. Shy smiles. A see of mouths. And these mouths will tell me a name. And some of these mouths will tell me a story.

I look at the line and I see my family. My friends. My brothers. My sisters. My nieces. My nephews. My cousins. My grandparents. My parents.

And my love for them burns.

Sometimes more for one person than another, but always, an unexplainable, real, genuine love for each set of eyes. For each mouth. For each family member. Without reason, merit, or caution, I look into the next set of eyes and I love deeply.

Sometimes I am not sure exactly what I am supposed to do with my life. Or what I am good at. I know I'm technically a "singer" and I realize that my voice is more than tolerable because people keep listening to it... but seriously, if I don't step on stage another day in my life, I will be absolutely fine with that. Singing is not my strong suit. Or, let's put it this way, it's not what I am the most passionate about.

But people. They do something for me.

Now that's something I could make a livelihood out of. Because while my husband cringes at a line full of strangers, I am deeply humbled and moved by the fact that I get to call these people family. And when I look at them they are no more a stranger to me than my sisters.

It's hard to describe, but for the longest time I feel like God has allowed me to see people for who they are: His children.

It's as if God helps me look beyond the annoying laugh or sweaty hug, the awkward demeanor or misfit personality, the overly excited or the terribly depressing and instead, I see a friend. And for one moment in time I can hug that person, compliment them, look into their eyes, listen, and be their sister. I can simply, deeply, genuinely love them.

And that's the best job in the world. It doesn't make me a saint or a hero. Loving someone from day to day is much harder than loving them for one brief moment in a line. Still, I think I am settling into this bizarre reality that perhaps the music is just an avenue to let me look into someones eyes and love them, no matter what they look like. No matter who they are. The music allows me to get to the end of the night where I can sit on a table, and for hours, talk to a four year old girl and an 80 year old man. Talk to a mom who's fighting cancer and a mom who has left an abusive marriage with her two daughters. A dad who has lost his wife and is raising his 4 daughters by himself. A girl who wants to lead worship so bad that her heart is about to burst if she doesn't. A family who has driven three hours and spent all their birthday money to come see a show. A kid figuring out their lives. A woman trying to re-engage with God after being disillusioned. A grandfather who wants to make sure I don't miss the little moments with Annie. A 16 year old who has just been rescued from a sex trafficking ring. A blog reader who says she is quite sure we are long lost sisters. And a 65 year old man who heard What Do I Know of Holy and pulled over on the side of the road to worship.

That is my job. That is my calling. Each and every story. Each and every face. Each and every voice. Each and every person. I see them and I am filled with a love I cannot explain.

We have a new album coming out and I plan on making music for a long time to come. So don't worry James and all you other Nashville music people who get nervous when I talk this way... I'm not going anywhere.

But if you ask me what I do for a living I might not answer, "musician."

I might just answer, "I'm a line lover."