Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

food stamps

Where dignity begins

Here are three things I’ve been thinking about lately:

1. I recently read a news story about a state’s lawmakers who want to legislate the kinds of foods people can buy with food stamps.

2. And I’ve been wondering about the lives of the men who pick up our trash each week.

3. Then, I read this tweet from Eugene Cho:

And as I’ve been thinking about these things and what to write this month for The Exodus Road, one word kept coming to mind.

Dignity.

Taken at the Thrive Rescue aftercare program in SE Asia. Photo by Jamie Wright, theveryworstmissionary.com

Taken at the Thrive Rescue aftercare program in SE Asia.
Photo by Jamie Wright, theveryworstmissionary.com

Each of these situations is tied to dignity.

1. This had me hopping mad, not because I don’t think food stamp recipients should use their monthly allotment to buy seafood or cookies but because it’s the first step in stripping a group of people of their humanity. When you receive welfare benefits of any kind (and we have been there), you’re already feeling low. Then when people tell you what you can and can’t buy, your value as a person dips even lower. Essentially, it’s a move that says, you’re poor so you don’t deserve to eat the same kinds of things other people eat, especially not expensive foods like steak and shrimp. We’ve been on a food stamp budget and believe me, buying steak and shrimp all the time wouldn’t last long on the monthly benefit. But there’s a budgeting issue, an education issue, there, and passing a law that says “no shrimp for you” isn’t the answer.

I like what a local food bank does here in our area: they set up their food area like a grocery store and they let the clients choose their own food. If they get 5 cans of vegetables, they get to pick out what they want instead of being handed a bag of food they might not like. That’s dignity.

2. Picking up trash might be one of the most unappreciated-but-necessary jobs. I don’t give much thought to the guys who faithfully arrive in front of my house every week to take away my garbage. I don’t know their names or where they live or if they have families and I certainly don’t think about whether they’re paid well or appreciated. A lot of times, I’m in a car behind the garbage truck and all I can think about is how inconvenienced I am by the garbage truck stopping in the middle of the road. Yet, how fortunate are we to have people who pick up our trash and take it away. There are areas of the world where trash just accumulates in the streets and makes for unsanitary living conditions.

I like what my friend Carol does at Christmas: she buys restaurant gift cards to hand out to her trash collectors and mail carrier, just to say “thanks.” What a simple gesture that speaks loudly of dignity.

3. The attack in Kenya last week would not have gotten my attention in a world that is full of bad news. Except that my husband and I are on a team of people headed to Kenya this summer. So, anything about the country has my attention these days. What bothers me is that I don’t deem something worthy of my care unless it affects my world. I’ve spent years thinking “oh, that’s too bad” about cancer and now more and more people I know are doing battle with this wretched disease. It’s overwhelming, all the hurt and pain in the world (I have another blog post to write about this) but why don’t I care about what’s happening in the world until it crashes into my world? Eugene Cho’s tweet reminds me that it’s not just that 147 people died. It’s that they were sons and daughters; they had stories and lives; they had names.

Dignity turns numbers into names, statistics into stories. {Tweet that.}

This is one of the reasons I’m connected to The Exodus Road. They take an overwhelming issue like human trafficking and give us glimpses of the real-life people involved. We might not know the names of the millions of people enslaved around the world, but through one rescue, one experience, one story, we can infuse ourselves with compassion. It’s difficult to put a face on trafficking because anonymity preserves dignity, but real stories and real people, even if names are changed and pictures blurred, remind us of the humanity behind the atrocity.

I was reminded of this again when the Associated Press published this story about how slavery is involved in the fishing industry. One of the slaves said he hoped we thought of their poor working conditions while eating fish. #shameonus. The good news is the story led to rescue for hundreds of slaves. There is hope, always hope.

Why does dignity matter so much? Without it, we’re reduced to the level of objects or animals. We have to believe we are worth something and that other people are worth something, too.

So, where does dignity begin? It starts with me, believing that I am a valuable part of the human whole. Not more important than others. Not less important. One of many equals. It starts with me believing that I don’t deserve any of the good things I have any more than someone else deserves the bad things they have. It’s acknowledging that I have been given much and so much is required of me to help others.

They are hard words to digest, even as I write them.

Because deep down, I don’t want to be responsible for my actions or inactions. I don’t want to think about people who don’t have drinking water or who spend the night with strangers against their will. I don’t want to think about people being persecuted for their beliefs or who work in unsafe conditions so that corporations can make bigger profits.

But if I am called to life, to heal and restore and bring good news (and I believe that I am) then I can’t not think about those things. When I ignore them, I take away the dignity of those who suffer because then I am saying they are not worth my time or thoughts because their life makes me uncomfortable.

But if I acknowledge these things, even if I can’t fix the problem, then I’m saying, “I see you. You are loved. You are not forgotten. You are worth my time and thoughts, even if it makes me uncomfortable.”

My challenge to you (and to myself) is to look at the world through the lens of dignity. When faced with an uncomfortable situation or person or news event, ask yourself what would make those involved feel more human? How can you show them that they are not forgotten?

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this! Feel free to share your ideas!

Why the worst thing can also be the best thing

We walked into the WIC office, the boy and I, for the last time a few weeks ago. His fifth birthday is approaching, which means we’ll no longer qualify for the government nutrition program.

It’s the end of an era that began when I was pregnant with him. It was a decision I’d resisted with our first child. When she was born, we were still making just enough money to not qualify for it, but a year-and-a-half later, things had changed. My husband was a student with a part-time job only a high-schooler could love, and I was at home with a toddler and a baby on the way.

The clinic where we confirmed the pregnancy gave us the paperwork we needed for WIC, which was right down the hall, in the same building, and there was almost no decision to it. I am not proud that we needed it or that our poverty was such that our son’s birth was covered by insurance we didn’t pay for. But I’m so very grateful that we had the chance to walk in the shoes of the American poor.

Most days, I hated it. Hated that we had to buy the exact item of food on the check or risk setting off the alarm at the cash register or calling over a manager to fix it or heaven forbid, having to hold up the line while we went back to the aisle for the correct item. You’d think a college-educated woman would be able to perform these tasks faultlessly. But I couldn’t and didn’t and it opened my eyes to my sheltered world of privilege.

No, I’ve never been rich, but I’ve certainly never been poor either. Not really. Even in the days when we had no money to fall back on, we had family to help us. Family by relation and family by church. A support system not everyone who is poor has.

And I know you might be thinking if I hated it so much, why did we take it? Or why didn’t I use my college education to get a job? I’m not sure any of our reasons will satisfy your questions. I’ve learned along the way that no matter how much you argue, how much you try to prove to people that you are not like the stereotypes, some people will believe whatever they want and you only accomplish making your own blood boil.

This is one of the many things I’ve learned from our circumstantial poverty. That those who haven’t walked that path might never understand the whys of it. Some days, I still don’t understand the whys.

All I know is that I see the world differently because of the years–yes, years–we’ve spent receiving government assistance. (I know some of you may find that offensive. If we’re friends and you want to talk about it, I’m all for a civil discussion. I’ve lost “friends” because of this, though, and I’d prefer not to lose any more.)

I know about the limited choices for “free” healthcare and how you don’t always get the best. How the clinic is staffed by doctors in training and sometimes they can’t find the baby’s heartbeat and you panic because you need that assurance. How sometimes they treat you like you’re less of a person because you’re at the free clinic. How sometimes you have to pick a doctor whose office is 30 minutes or more from where you live because there is so much need and so few providers willing to open their doors to those with state-funded insurance. I know the shame of feeling like you’ve been labeled as “lazy” or “pitiful” or “fraud” when your insurance provider is announced at the doctor’s office.

And the grocery store? Don’t get me started on the grocery store. I always liked shopping for our family’s meals, but that was before government assistance. Before we held up the line with our WIC checks and store policies that require the cashier to get approval from a manager on the other side of the store for every single check we’re trying to use. Before I looked at the items in my cart through the eyes of someone not on government assistance, wondering which purchases they would condemn as frivolous or unnecessary. I never thought it was possible to be hated by people you don’t even know, but I feel that every time someone comments on an article about welfare or food stamps on Facebook. It makes me want to scream “You don’t know what it’s like!” But that doesn’t solve anything either because I didn’t know what it was like.

I didn’t know there was a day the grocery stores dread because it’s the day food stamps are dispersed and people flock to the stores to buy food. I didn’t know people so quickly passed judgment on other people just because they’re poor. I didn’t know there were families just like ours–families with full-time jobs and young kids–who still couldn’t make ends meet.

It’s the worst feeling, you know, when you grow up in middle-class homes, when you have two undergraduate and one graduate degree between the two of you, and you still require help. It’s the worst because you feel like a failure. Like it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Like you’re doing something wrong.

But it’s also the best because now you know what you didn’t know. Now you know it’s okay to ask for help. To get help. To do what you have to in order to take care of your family, even if you face criticism and hatred. You know what the paperwork is like. You know that it’s possible to stretch your monthly allowance, no matter how much it is. You know what shame feels like. And you see it on the faces of people you otherwise might dismiss.

Receiving government assistance has made me a more compassionate person. I’m glad we’re nearing the end of it because it means we have hope that things will be better. For some, the hope never comes. There seems to be no way out.

So, I wonder what it looks like to give people hope in their circumstances. What can I offer because of my experiences to those who are where I have been?

I’m not sure I have answers, but I’m glad I’m asking the questions.

Have you ever found yourself in a circumstance you never thought you’d be in? How did it turn out?

Are you able to see the good even in the bad?