Hope House Seven Years On: The Battle for Hope (honesty and trigger warning)

Today marks seven years since we moved into this house.  And never have I felt more of a battle for hope.

We moved in full of faith and dreams and plans.  We were a 'family on a mission'.  It was thrilling to see long-held dreams being fulfilled in front of our eyes.  Setting up Hope at Home was a faith adventure for all of us.

Seven years on, I feel battle-scarred, exhausted, hopeless and full of crushing disappointment.  We've certainly seen some of our dreams become reality, but my home now feels one of the most hopeless places.  Ironic, isn't it?

When we moved in, our boys were 13, 11 and 7.  We had no idea that the tidal wave of teen-years was about to hit us, devastating and re-configuring the landscape of our family, our parenting, our faith and our expectations.  

Call me naive but as a christian Mum, I didn't expect to have to navigate sexual activity, drug use, school exclusions, seeing my child thrown and handcuffed by the police, suicidal ideation and violence.  I've lost my 'family on a mission'. I've had to completely change my parenting style and it doesn't 'fit' with the christian parenting books.  How many other christian parents do you know who sit round a fire chatting with their weed-smoking kids or making sure they have condoms because they're not quite ready to be grandparents?  Yeah, I'm that Mum.  And I never expected to be.

I've also lost my church family.  I'm wandering in a lonely wilderness of never quite fitting.  As someone who was always right in the middle of church life, I'm now hovering on the edge.  My feelings about the wider church have shocked me.  The disappointment of battling every single day to engage churches with Hope at Home has caused me to almost completely disengage.  My theology has changed too.  I just don't believe the same things anymore.   

And the strangeness of a church meeting with its rows of chairs and stages and lights and bands just doesn't seem to match my day to day life.  Instead of prayer meetings and bible studies, my house is constantly full of cannabis-smoking, alcohol-drinking, swearing but beautiful teenagers.  I can't compute how this fits with church.

The sign on our front door includes this bible verse: 

'Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.'  Hebrews 11:1

I'm in the 'not seeing' stage.  How can I be certain that things are going to be different?

And this is surely where the reality of faith gets down and dirty.  

The questions are more numerous than the answers.

Do I still believe change is possible in the wider church?  Do I still believe that hearts will be changed to be inclusive, welcoming, humble and hospitable?  Do I believe that the church can accept us; bruised, battered, tattooed, swearing and needing fag-breaks?  More than ever, I am finding Jesus in the rubble of my life.  Can I believe that Jesus is found in the church too?

Do I still believe that my boys will have a strong, life-changing and world-changing faith?  Will they find, eventually, that Jesus satisfies more than anything or anyone else? Will he be their pearl of great price?  Can I be certain of what I don't currently see?

And so, as we mark this seven year 'house-iversary', I face these big questions.  Can I continue to battle for faith, knowing that there will be more scars and wounds and devastation along the way?

So, I do the small things.  I get out of bed.  I eat my breakfast,  I put one foot in front of the other.  I sit at my computer and try to find homes for people who need them.  I keep chatting with and laughing with and loving my boys.  

There's nothing left now other than to keep believing.  

And I guess this is faith. 

Friendly Fire (Controversial & Honesty Warning)

When I realised we needed to set up a charity providing safe homes for survivors of slavery facing homelessness, I thought I was prepared.

I was fully prepared to hear the horrific stories of trauma, injustice and gut-wrenching pain.  As an empath, I knew that it was going to be an emotional rollercoaster for me.

I also expected the hard slog, the sleepless nights, the arguments with my husband (we work together - don't ask me if I recommend it...), the never-ending learning curve of processes and procedures and the personal growth that accompanies it.

I expected to have to battle corrupt, inhumane and hostile policies from our government.

I was even ready for the broad spectrum of public misconceptions around modern slavery to blatant racism.

Call me naive, but what I absolutely was not prepared for was the friendly fire.

And here's where you can stop reading if you're going to find this a challenge.  I don't mind if you stop.  Just scroll on to something more cheerful.  But this needs to be said.

And not just the friendly fire but the ignoring.  The apathy.  The commission and omission.

I know the world is an overwhelming place.  Believe me, I know this.  I know that many churches and Jesus-followers are involved in amazing projects that seek to make this world less overwhelming for those who don't have some of our privileges or who face injustice and poverty.  So, before I say anymore, I want to acknowledge this.  

But.

For 3 1/2 years I have been banging my head against a brick wall of churches.  

It's not just the lack of response and the ignoring of my emails and phone calls.  

It's the phone calls from churches telling me not to contact them again.  Churches who, on their websites, talk about inclusivity and welcome.  I don't know why I'm left open mouthed each time this happens, but I am.

It's the emails from large churches (1500+ people) telling me that they're not going to share our (ONE HOUR) zoom event because they can't think of anyone who would be interested.  

It's the dismissive attitude that robs people of having a home.

It's the need to help people who 'feel deserving' rather than those who have nobody looking out for them.

It's the emails from the actual social action person in the church telling me their church isn't interested.  Yep, the actual, paid social action person.

A one hour zoom, people.  Survivors of slavery surely deserve that much of our time.

I'm angry.  

I'm angry on behalf of the people we welcome and love who need homes.  

I'm angry because I know there are people who want to use their spare bedrooms for good but don't know how they can do this.

I'm angry because the Church isn't doing what we're meant to be doing.

And I'm disappointed.

I started out with such a faith and belief that when they found out survivors of slavery needed homes, the Church would rise up and fill that gap.  Because that's what we're here for, right?  Welcoming the stranger and all that?

But each time my head has banged against a church brick wall, my heart and my faith have taken a battering.  It's exhausting to read all the referral forms, knowing the need and knowing the difference a welcoming home would make to this person.  And then not being able to give them that home.

I've been in a church leadership family.  I know its busy and full-on and pressured.  I know there are many, many needs that pull on the time of church leaders.  That's why I'm not asking them to run a project.  I'm only asking churches to share our event with their people.

And I can't understand why they don't.  

So, no, I wasn't prepared for this deep, heart-wrenching disappointment and anger.  Nobody told me I'd have to deal with this every. single. day.  

I know I can't change hearts and minds.  All I can do is keep doing what I'm meant to be doing.  And keep forgiving and loving and showing mercy.

But know this, one day Jesus will separate us into those who fed the hungry, clothed the naked and welcomed the stranger and those who didn't.  

And I want to be on the right side, don't you?

Where can I find him?

 

"Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit?

     Or be out of your sight?

If I climb to the sky, you’re there!

    If I go underground, you’re there!

If I flew on morning’s wings to the far western horizon,

You’d find me in a minute - you’re already there waiting!

Then I said to myself, 'Oh, he even sees me in the dark!

    At night I’m immersed in the light!'

It’s a fact: darkness isn’t dark to you;

    night and day, darkness and light, they’re all the same to you."   Psalm 139

I used to read this and wonder about the darkness bit.

I mean, surely we wouldn't find God in the darkness.  Why would he be there?

This year, I've found him.  

Not in the big or small church gatherings.

Not in the flashy music or the single strumming guitar.

Not in the wordy preaches or the group bible studies.

Not in the daily 'quiet time'.

I've found him in the dew-covered cobwebs, in the brand new petals reaching for the sunlight and in the vast expansive views from the heights of the hills.

I've found him in the steely courage of a survivor of unimaginable horrors, smiling and pressing on with life despite the physical and mental pain she's in.

I've found him lying in shards of glass as I hold onto my howling teenager for literal dear-life.

I've found him in the stories of old.  The well-knowns like Elijah and David and the relatively newer stories of Nana and Grandad and Elisabeth Eliot and Amy Carmichael.

I've found him in the flowers on my coffee table, their bright colours smiling on my day.

I've found him in the deep conversations sitting around a crackling fire as the light of the day dims.

I've found him in the cheerful and sacrificial love of those who welcome strangers into their homes.

I've found him in the guitar playing and gravelly voice of a teenage boy.

I've found him in the early morning praise of the birdsong.

I've found him in the hot tub, surrounded by the haze of weed but talking about him as if he's really there.

I've found him in the warmth of sunshine on my face and the crunch of snow under my feet.

I've found him in bacon butties cooked for the hordes, the morning after the drunken noisy night before.

I've found him in the smile of a child as they delight in smashing ice on a lake.

I've found him in the middle of a fight with a teenager.

I've found him as I've listened and really heard.

I've found him while brushing strokes of paint onto an empty wall.

When things become darker, he becomes closer.

He speaks to me in the ugly places, the moments of beauty and the times of raw open heart-ache.  He's waiting for me in the dark places.  He's already there.  

In those dark, uncomfortable, lonely, fear-ridden, gritty, messy and unexpected places, I've found his streams of light beaming in like rays of sun though the forest trees.

Don't fear the dark places.

He got there before us.  

The Table

 Last week I read these two quotes on the same day:

"When you give a dinner, don't invite your friends, brother, sisters, relatives or rich neighbours; if you do, they may invite you back and so you will be repaid.  But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the disabled and the blind, and you will be blessed.  Although they cannot repay you, you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous."     Jesus

"This is what God's kingdom is like; a bunch of outcasts and oddballs gathered at a table, not because they are rich or worthy or good but because they are hungry, because they said yes.  And there is always room for more."  Rachel Held Evans

And all of a sudden my brain exploded into imagining this table.  And now I'm inviting you to imagine it too.

There's no pretense at this table.  We don't have to use matching plates, bowls, cutlery and napkins.  We come because we are hungry.

Hungry for belonging.

Hungry for friendship.

Hungry for healing.

Hungry for wholeness.

Hungry for understanding.

Hungry for acceptance.

Hungry to be in a group where you can ask any question without eyebrows being raised.  

You can even drop the odd swear.

You can nip out for a smoke and come back in, wafting the stench of acceptance into the group.  

We can eat and be satiated.  Satiated by the food but also by the wonder of belonging.

For we are all outcasts and oddballs and misfits really.  Who says we 'fit' more than anyone else?  Who says we are the healthy ones?  Who decides those things?

Jesus invites us all.  Whether we can repay or not.  Whether we can bring a whole home-cooked casserole or half an open pack of doritos grabbed from the cupboard.

All are welcome and there's always space for more.  We can scoot up and bit and squeeze in another chair.  No need to sit on the outside.  No need to look in through the window and feel alone.

So, what?

What if, instead of home-groups and lifegroups and organised groups of same-type people, we all had gatherings at the table for ones different to us?

What if we made space at our table for the ones who bring the doritos or the chippy-chips?

What if our table gathered the oddballs and the misfits and we all met Jesus together?

What if those of us who think we're all good, meet Jesus in the supposed misfit at our table?

What if the ones who smell are actually bringing precious incense into our home?

What if our table gathers the hungry instead of the feeders?  The ones who want to be fed instead of the ones needing to feed.

What if we can be fed by the hungry?

What if we were never meant to sit in rows in church but instead church is really one enormous table, welcoming new ones into the family?  Laughing, eating, reminiscing, listening, weeping, telling stories, challenging thinking, asking questions.

THAT Mum

When I was 20, I visited my friend in Nepal.  She was living in Kathmandu as a missionary and school teacher.  

One evening we met with other missionaries in the city to read the bible and worship Jesus together.  They were a real higgeldy-piggeldy bunch from all over the world.  Families, singles, old and young all crammed into someone's lounge.  And as the singing began, I looked around the room and noticed a mum and daughter, arms around one another, eyes closed, singing together.  It was serene and perfect.  

I decided there and then that I was going to be THAT mum.  I was going to be a mum who worshipped with her children.  Jesus would be the connection between us - the thread of gold that held us all together. 

Over 20 years and three children later, I am not THAT mum.

I tried.  I threw my absolute all into it.

But instead, I am the mum who discusses with her teenagers whether they'd have sex with a transgender person.

I am the mum who swears.

I am the mum who gets in the hot tub (weekend hire - recommended...) with her teenagers right after they've been smoking things she doesn't want them to smoke and, with their eyes bright, she chats about Jesus with them.

I am the mum who loves and welcomes their girlfriends and breaks all her 'I'll never be that kind of mum' rules by letting them stay over.

I am the mum who is so open with her children that they talk about masturbation and pornography around the kitchen table.

I am the mum who puts cigarette lighters in their stockings at Christmas because they are always losing them and stealing our matches.

I am the mum whose children discuss with her which drug dealers are the better ones in the town.

I am the mum who gets into bed with her teenage son in mental health crisis and hugs him tightly so he knows she's there, despite the shards of broken glass that litter the bed from his rage digging into her skin. 

I am the mum who has heated debates over Black Lives Matter and women's rights with her children.

I am the mum who smoked a cigarette with her boy, just so he'd chat with her.

I am the mum who speaks truth over her children, even when they roll their eyes at her.

I am the mum who doesn't give up on her children, who always accepts, always loves and always hopes.  Even when hope feels like a shadow.

And today, on Mother's Day, as I fight the disappointment of not being THAT mum, I remember these words from 1 Corinthians 13:

 

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. 

Despite not being THAT mum,  I'm a mum who loves her children.  And that's enough.

So if, like me, you are facing disappointment today, read this and be encouraged.  I'm preaching to myself here.

Nobody else is a mum to your children.  

Nobody else can parent them the way they need.  

Other mums have different races to run.  We have ours.  We run in our race.  It might look very different to the races that other mums run.  We cheer each other on, we don't compare and we don't lose hope.

Love never fails. 

Why I'd invite Shamima Begum to live in my house.

 I live with three teenagers.

That means I also live with the glorious ideals of three teenagers who are. always. right.

My teenagers have a relatively stable home (throw in the odd shouty-mum moment) and they enjoy the privilege of being white and middle class.  They don't face racism every day.  They don't have to work extra hard to be given their place in society.  They just exist and it's given to them on a plate.

But they still love their ideals.  And the debates in our house range from LGBTQ+ rights to FGM to the legalisation of cannabis.  Their opinions are strong.

But so was I at their age.  These days my views, like my hair, are far greyer.

It's normal for teenagers to throw themselves, passionately and wholeheartedly into an ideal and act on it.  Most of us have, and regretted it later.  It's how our brains develop.

Imagine then, a teenager with this developing brain, being systematically groomed by a group with very strong, very attractive ideals.  This teenager hasn't had the privileges my boys have had.  She's faced inequality, covert and overt racism and injustice whilst growing up as a British muslim.  The groomers point all this out to her, telling her she's justified in fighting back.  They understand how she feels when nobody else does.  They can use her to fight for the cause.  She'll have purpose.  She will have ideals.  She is needed.  Little by little, her developing brain is changed by these infiltrating messages.  Grooming changes the brain.  It's a known fact.

It's not even subtle.  They weedle their way into her brain, exploiting her background and her teenage development.  Until eventually, she's all in.

And, at just 15 years old, she boards a flight to Syria.

In law, human trafficking must have three elements:

• The Act (recruiting, selecting, transporting, harbouring of a person)
• The Means (through force, coercion, deception, fraud etc)
• The Purpose (for forced labour, sexual exploitation, forced marriage, domestic servitude, organ harvesting, criminal exploitation)

I'm no expert on Shamima Begum's case but it smells strongly of human trafficking to me.  

Shamima was selected, recruited, groomed and deceived into joining ISIS in order to be married off, sexually and criminally exploited.

The level of trauma she will have both witnessed and endured is beyond our white middle-class imaginings.  Her brain development will have taken a huge hit.  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is highly likely.  She might not even be able to remember all she has seen and done whilst an active member of ISIS.  Now separated from her family, living with this trauma, she finds herself stateless and living in a camp.  At only 21 years old, she has experienced the grief of losing three babies, losing friends and family and losing her citizenship.

I hear your murmurs about this being her choice...

But remember how the developing teenage brain works?  Which of us made choices in our teen years that we later realised were the wrong choices?  And remember how grooming changed her brain?  We can, perhaps, argue that she had no choice in this at all.  She was swept along in the excitement, endorphins and purpose of fighting for those she cared about - whatever the cost.

What would we offer to other young adults in her predicament right now?

Stability

Support

Therapy

Family and community

And this is why I, as a mum of teenagers and a host of survivors of human trafficking in the UK, would invite Shamima Begum into my home.  

I can't change all that she's been through.  I can't heal the wounds or her regrets.  I can't stop the nightmares and the flashbacks.  I can't take away any of the shame she may be feeling.  I can't bring back her precious babies.

But I could show her acceptance while she heals.  I could show her that there are people who love her, despite her mistakes - however huge they might be.  I could give her the stability of somewhere safe to sleep at night that isn't patrolled by gunmen, three meals a day and the odd dog walk in the sunshine.  I could play games with her, showing her that it's okay to laugh again.  

I know that Shamima Begum probably won't ever end up in my kitchen, but I'd like to think that if there were others like her; groomed, exploited, with a history of criminal behaviour, I would be able to welcome them to my tribe.  

Expelling people is never the answer.

Welcoming them, is.

An Introvert's Lockdown

I have to admit that I enjoy some aspects of lockdown.

Unlike my extrovert husband who is so desperate for conversation that the poor man fixing the shower was barely able to get on with his job because my husband kept interrupting him for a chat.

He is going slightly crazy without human interaction.

I, on the other hand, am enjoying wearing my 'day pyjamas' every day, pulling on old muddy jeans for dog walks and then changing again when I arrive home.  I can't remember the last time I wore proper clothes.  I only brush my hair once a week, if that, usually either wearing a hat indoors (yes, our house is that cold) or scraping my hair back into a messy ponytail.  

I love the relief of not having the make excuses about why I don't want to go out or the guilt of making plans and then cancelling them at the last minute because I'm just too peopled out.

I love the fact that I can only leave the house once a day, and that's for a dog walk.

And although zoom calls highlight my triple chins and can drain me like our leaky gutters, I love that I can be in my day pyjamas, wonderwoman beanie hat and slippers and I don't have to travel anywhere.  I love the authenticity of it all.

But, even I, am now finding lockdown tough.  There are so many things I miss.  And they might be different to the things my extrovert husband misses.

Children.  

I know this makes me sound a little bit weird.

But when you are only surrounded by teenagers who regularly roll their cynical all-knowing eyes at you and comment on how childish you are for laughing at a video of a hippo flicking his poo everywhere with his tail (if you know, you know) then you realise how much you miss the delight and innocence of littlies.  

In The Before, I would meet with my church family every week.  I could chat with the littlies about dinosaurs, building snowmen and the tooth fairy.  And they'd laugh with me about farts and bogeys.  These days I just have to giggle to myself and endure the withering-teenage-looks.

An Empty House

Oh my goodness, how I LONG for an empty house.

In The Before, my husband would enjoy travelling, my boys would be out at school or with friends and I sometimes had several hours of an empty house.  

No interruptions.

Nobody asking me 'Mum, have you seen my phone charger?' or 'Mum, what's wrong with the wifi?'

No loud, blaring music from different rooms in the house.

No tinny squeak of video-watching.

No x-box game shouting.

These days, The Noise invades EVERYTHING.  

A Clean Kitchen

Sometimes our dishwasher is loaded and unloaded THREE TIMES a day.  

It makes no difference how often we clear the kitchen of the locust-debris, half an hour later someone is cooking again. 

The pans, plates, bowls, cups, empty pizza boxes and pot noodle pots just never stop piling up.  And when we come downstairs in the mornings, it sometimes looks as though our fridge, freezer and cupboards have been pillaged.

At least these days the locusts mostly pile up their empties in the vague direction of the sink.  

In The Before, we could actually see the kitchen worktops.  We'd clear up after our evening meal and it generally stayed that way for several hours.  The dishwasher was only used once a day.  The recycling mountain didn't need to be flattened every day.

These days?  Not so much.

Hugs

I haven't ever gone this long without hugging my Mum and Dad.  And on the rare occasions when we do see them, it feels wrong not to hug them.

And there are other people too whose hugs just bring relief, healing, the chance to breath out and for a second feel like everything is going to be ok.

In The Before, I was a hugger.  I touched people a lot.  (Oh, I'm sounding weird again)  Hello hugs, Goodbye hugs, Celebration hugs, I'm Your Friend hugs, I Know You're Sad hugs, It's Going To Be Ok hugs, You Can Cry On Me hugs and I'm Going To Cry On You hugs.  

So. Many. Hugs.

And I miss them.  I have a husband who hugs me and one son who finds me wherever I am in the house wraps his arms around me when he wakes up in the mornings  afternoons, so I am grateful.  (The two other sons are currently ironing-board-huggers but even they don't escape my octopus hugging arms sometimes).

But still, there are so many people I miss hugging.

The Sea

Our family life over the last few years hasn't been easy.  

In The Before, I had just discovered the relief and need of time away.  And one of the places I love to find that respite and soul-healing is by the sea.

Not only do we probably live the furthest away from any possible coastal area, but not being able to travel has meant that I can't see the sea with it's fresh, salty air, hope-filled horizons, stretches of sand and the relief of the endless in-and-out-waves.

Staring at the sea changes my perspective on life.  My soul misses this.

I'm making sure to enjoy my simple pleasures of my comfy day pyjamas, mornings cups of tea in the quiet, sleeping house and dog walks in the fresh air and occasional sunshine.  

But when I can hug again, you'd better prepare yourselves.