Making Mud

As promised, here is a second poem about the transformative effect of interacting with incarcerated teens via the Catholic Services ministry at Camp Miller (as well as with some other inspiring youth I have recently encountered through a wonderful organization called Street Poets). I continue to be profoundly grateful for how these young people–with their struggles, rough edges, refreshing (if sometimes frightening) honesty, kindness, courage, and creative talent–are softening the soil of my heart. Even as I recognize the potential for great pain that is inherent in my growing attachment to these “at-risk” youth, I am deeply appreciative of the privilege of sharing a season of life with them.

Making Mud

With joined hands
     and soothing voices
they form a seamless healing circle
     all around me

names
     faces
          stories
     memories
dreams . . .

Tears of joy and sorrow
     anger and fear
          regret and relief
               tenderness and compassion

fall onto packed ground

not yielding life
     right away

but seeping in
     softening the soil
          making mud

creating a space that is
     messy
          malleable
     vulnerable
enriched

at-risk for being marred
     by the gouging imprint
          of a careless boot
          or wayward tire

yet simultaneously able
     to nurture and sustain
fragile seeds
     of hope and faith.

© 2013
Alexis Spencer-Byers

Breaking Out of the Box

With apologies for the long delay in posting new poetry…

Since sharing my first three Camp Miller poems (“Free”, “Gang Intervention”, and “The Fence”) a few months ago, I have continued to reflect on the opportunity I’ve had to spend time with incarcerated teens through the Catholic Services Juvenile Ministry of the Los Angeles Archdiocese Office of Restorative Justice. As much as anything, I have been overwhelmed by the way that being in fellowship with these young people has brought healing and refreshing to my own spirit after an extended season of transition and a certain degree of emotional closed-off-ness.* (While I still hope that my encouragement will in some small way help my young friends press on toward constructive and joy-filled futures, I am more and more convinced that I receive more than I give through our exchanges.)

I have found it difficult to put into words the transformation that is underway in my heart–or the depth of my gratitude for this emotional renewal and growth–but today’s poem and another that I will share very soon are early attempts to cobble together a fitting expression of thanks to my young brothers who are, to again borrow words from Father Greg Boyle of Homeboy Industries, “returning me to myself.”

*see my earlier post/poem “Numb” for context…

Breaking Out of the Box

I had sentenced myself
     to a lifetime
     of model citizenship,
relentlessly striving
     to subdue
     and repress
unruly emotions:

     fear
     anger
     jealousy

even love—
or at least the need-based
     counterfeits
that so often pass
     for love—

but now my corseted life
brushes up against
the chaos and pain
     of crime and punishment

and instead of watching
     with maternal pride
as my hard-won veneer
     of self-control
smoothes and shines
those who have been caught
     coloring outside the lines

I can only catch my breath
as scarred hands clasp mine
     in prayer
     and newfound friendship

offering back to me my heart

reminding me that perfection
     and excellence
are as often enemies
     as allies

and inspiring me to plead
     for early release
     from this solitary holding cell
          of my own construction.

© 2013
Alexis Spencer-Byers

Camp Miller, Part 3: The Fence

One recent Saturday morning at Camp Miller, I sat and watched as half a dozen teenage inmates helped lead a worship service. I listened as they spoke of their gratitude for family members, life, and the opportunity to fellowship with the volunteers who had come to visit them that morning. I listened even more intently as a few of them expressed their hopes of finishing school and becoming doctors, chefs, or volunteers themselves. Later, I tried to capture a bit of the awe, joy, hope, sorrow, and fear that had washed over me during that sacred hour.

The Fence

Bearers of the divine image
in their scars and sorrows
     as much as in their irrepressible dreams
          of doing good
          as well as doing well,
they wear the green and gray garb
     of incarceration
with a restless resignation—
counting the days that stand between them
     and freedom,
the minutes that still must transpire
     before they will breach the barbed-wire boundary
     that keeps them from home.

This fence, I’ve been trained to understand,
is a just necessity,
put in place to protect the bodies and belongings
     of the law-abiding
from the reckless young men
     now caught within its confines.

But what will protect the minds and spirits
     of these wounded warriors
from those on the outs
who cannot or will not perceive
     among defiant tattoos
     and other marks
          of a rough-and-tumble existence
the indelible stamp
     of a Creator
     who makes no mistakes?

© 2012
Alexis Spencer-Byers

Camp Miller, Part 2: Gang Intervention

Early in my poetry-writing days, I spent a lot of time writing about the apostle Peter. I identify strongly with this impetuous, stubborn follower of Christ who had a special talent for putting his foot in his mouth, biting off more than he could chew, forgetting things he had learned, and otherwise stumbling his way through a life of faith and service.

Recently, I was inspired to consider one of Peter’s interactions with Jesus from Jesus’ perspective (or as close to Jesus’ perspective as I could get, anyway). During a Saturday morning mass at Camp Miller, one of our leaders guided us through a meditation focused on Peter’s water-walking misadventure (see Matthew 14:22-36).

I thought about how the young men at the camp could be described as at-risk for sinking in stormy waters, and about how desperately I wanted to help them keep their heads above the surface, and about how inadequate I felt to do that. An hour or so later, after some fellowship time that I thought might or might not have been “useful” to the guys, one of them stopped me on his way out to give me a hug and find out when I next planned to visit.

While I still feel a lot more like Peter than like Jesus, it was good to be reminded that the simple presence of someone who cares matters to someone who is struggling—and that while I do in fact lack the capacity to pull these young people from the waters that seek to swallow them, I can at least hold their hands for a moment and assure them that there is One whose grip is much stronger than mine.

Gang Intervention

I visualize the grip
     of the carpenter’s son:
strong, sure, yet infinitely gentle
as he grabbed hold of Peter’s
     flailing limb
and hoisted his drowning friend
     to safety.

How I long to possess a hand like his!

But my arm trembles and strains
as I strive to maintain my hold
on youthful fingers
that I fear are not completely committed
     to the clasp.

And why should they be,
     I interrogate myself,
when the rushing winds that terrify me so
     that whip the waves around us
     into such a treacherous frenzy
carry on their breath a siren’s song—
a seductive strain
whose lyrics of love and loyalty,
     set to the harmonies of home,
beckon with a power
     and familiarity
I cannot begin to match?

Then, just as it seems I will lose my grasp entirely,
     consigning us both to a watery end,
earnest eyes meet mine
and a grip of steel tightens around my wrist
as a soft, incongruous voice
entreats me to hold on
     for just a little while longer.

© 2012
Alexis Spencer-Byers

Camp Miller, Part 1: Free

About six months ago, I “accidentally” got connected with a ministry to youth in a Malibu probation camp (while trying to get connected to a literacy program in Watts–life can be funny that way…). The ministry is sponsored by the local Catholic Archdiocese’s Office of Restorative Justice; each Saturday morning, a team of volunteers joins incarcerated teens (many of whom are gang-affiliated and treading a very dangerous path) for mass and an hour of visiting/fellowship.

I was invited to participate in the program by some kind new friends who thought my poetry might encourage the youth–but of course, what I found as I began to interact with the young men at the camp was that God was using them to encourage, challenge and stretch me. I hope that my presence and my words have been some small blessing to the guys at Camp Miller; I know that their friendship and stories have been a huge blessing to me.

Father Greg Boyle of Homeboy Industries has been a hero of mine for some 15 years. In his 2010 book, Tattoos on the Heart, Father Greg shares some of the stories he has collected over his two decades of working with current and former gang members in Los Angeles, and he asserts that “the day simply won’t come when I am more noble, have more courage, or am closer to God than the folks whose lives fill these pages.”

This is how I am coming to feel about the young men at Miller. I am inspired by their bravery, their resilience, and their willingness to welcome people they have no particular reason to trust into their lives and hearts. At the same time, I am grieved by their pasts (both by things they have done and by things they have endured), and I am absolutely terrified about their futures. This poem was written the day I learned that one of “my” kids was going home.

I believe in God. I believe He is good. I believe He is powerful. I believe He loves these young men far more than I ever will or could.

But trusting Him with their lives? I have to be honest. It’s really hard.

Free

The sweet mustachioed boy
who calls me “Miss”
and thanks me for my visits
is all smiles as he informs me
     that he goes home this week,
leaving behind the barracks and barbed wire
that have circumscribed the last few months
     of his existence.

I smile, too,
offering a hug
     my congratulations
     and the heartfelt hope
          that freedom will treat him well.

But later, when I sit alone,
recalling his eager anticipation
     of once again kickin’ it with his homies,
I find that I can barely breathe,
and bitter tears flow—
even as a stabbing pain alerts me
that my innards are attempting
     to twist themselves
     into the kind of knot
that would fill any grizzled sailor
     or gung-ho scout master
     with pride.

Lord, help my unbelief!

Forgive this fragile faith
     that trembles and bows before the fear
     that the odds facing my young friend
     will prove to be too long—
     that the hand he has been dealt
          from a severely stacked deck
     will play out in devastating fashion
     because knowing when to fold ’em
     is a skill neither much prized
          nor often practiced
          at this table.

Teach me to bear the growing dread
     that my heart will be broken
          many times over
and enable me to love
     as though the specter of loss
     did not have its bony hand
     pressed hard against my throat.

© 2012
Alexis Spencer-Byers