Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, January 9, 1994 TAG: 9401110247
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: B3 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Betty Strother
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Why this is so I can't explain, but I know this for a fact because I did this at a Christmas party, without the loosening effects of even a sip of wine. It was dumb, sure, but hilarious.
And so I knew what was in store on New Year's Eve at the Roanoke Rescue Mission when Joy pulled out a shopping bag with sleigh bells poking up over the top, and told partygoers we were going to play a game, she needed one volunteer from every table, and when she called your name, you were going to be that volunteer.
Now, all the usual tricks of slinking lower in your seat, or avoiding eye contact, or hiding your face behind the hand casually plastered above your brow do not work with Joy. This kind of body language somehow translates into "Pick me!" and she'll draft you every time.
Which is why a relief bordering on euphoria spread around my little table of invited guests when, miraculously, she passed it over entirely. You have never seen such a table full of slinking, squirming cowards.
And why it was with the detachment of the safely unchosen that I watched with a mixture of sympathy and delight when she blithely ignored the refusals of her last volunteer and started cheerfully explaining the rules of the game, leaving him no choice but to drag himself across the room and take his place, reluctantly, in line.
You might assume that a New Year's Eve celebration at the Rescue Mission would be a dry affair, and you'd be right. As the night's festivities got under way, men brought pitchers of Mountain Dew and soft cider to every table. ``This Old Milwaukee?" a man at the next table growled as he reached for the pitcher of golden cider. "Yeah," came the soft, wry reply. Sure.)
You might also assume that a New Year's Eve celebration at the Rescue Mission would be a dull affair, but you'd be wrong. That's understandable, though, if you don't know Joy Sylvester-Johnson, daughter of Lois Bettis, who founded the mission 46 years ago and runs it to this day - well, with the help of her husband, George, Joy and her husband, John, and the rest of the mission's 38-person staff.
I have to admit that I, like you, had my doubts as I watched most of the 12 tables in the spotless dining room fill up. Close to half were taken by families, a rapidly rising portion of the shelter's clientele. There were moms and dads who looked like they should be at a PTA meeting, and fresh-faced, excited kids eager to have a good time.
The rest of the tables and some chairs clustered in the back were taken by men in the mission's recovery program. This is the stereotypical mission population, men with weather-beaten faces and dulled eyes with the stunned, inward look that bears witness to their struggles with addictions - to alcohol, mostly - that are devastating their bodies and their lives.
This crowd was a polite audience for a group of fine gospel singers, and tackled the sandwich buffet with genuine enthusiasm. But it really came to life once those darned sleigh bells came out. Spectators shrieked encouragement to two competing teams, and participants laughed and worked with frantic enthusiasm. Until the end of the rope was handed to that last, reluctant guy.
He had been watching in disbelief as this thing worked its way down the line toward him. Now he took the "lead" bell in his hand and held it, and looked at it, and looked at the shrieking crowd.
He had to be thinking that if he did this, it would be the uncoolest thing he had ever done in his life. But his team was tugging the rope down pants legs and through shirts, and yelling to pull it through, pull it through. He could be a cool party-pooper, or he could join in.
Aw, what the hell. He dropped the bell down his shirt and worked it down his pants leg and, while dragging the rope through his clothes, he smiled fleetingly, then chuckled, and his eyes sparkled with laughter. Sure it was dumb, but it was hilarious.
And all of these guys who were so withdrawn at the start of the night were laughing and enjoying themselves, despite the pitiful lack of kick to the "Old Milwaukee."
As I watched the little kids stand on the shelter steps at midnight and gape at the fireworks display from the First Night festival downtown, I thought how important the shelter was in meeting the basic needs of families down on their luck. These kids were fed and warm and safe that cold, icy night. Who could be more deserving among "the deserving poor?"
But I was surprised to realize I was more touched by the guys in the recovery program, and their individual struggles to stay. Not all of them make it, Joy concedes. If they can't - or don't want - toto - continue the strictly structured regimen of work, education, counseling and prayer, they are out. But not abandoned. They can return at night to the transient shelter, where sleeping is barracks-style and the rule is you leave every day after breakfast. But it's a shower, a bed and meals. No one will starve or freeze to death.
In this time when frustrated taxpayers and politicians carefully define social programs as help for "the deserving poor," it is enlightening to realize that many of the guys celebrating New Year's Eve that night - men who were sober, and trying hard to stay that way - probably wouldn't make the cut.
Just before midnight, we stood in a circle to pray, many of the men holding their arms down stiffly, balled fists turned in, those nearest the wall drawing back against it, looking as if they would melt into it.
As the rest of the people reached out and held their neighbors' hands, though, these men grasped each others'. And we bowed our heads as John Sylvester-Johnson said a prayer, not of admonition, or pleading, or abasement, but a simple prayer of thanksgiving that these people were here that night, and were warm and safe. And no one in that room could have doubted the love there.
by CNB