Iredell House

In the Face of Danger

2005-10-26T22:33:00.000-04:00

I am going to make a bold proposition in this posting. For many of the current members of the Iredell community, this will come as little shock, and perhaps even muster a bit of laughter. My proposition is this: Sweeping the floor is a political action. Now, as one who has been subsumed in the universe of Duke Divinity School, I am well aware that the word “political” brings with it a lot of baggage. Further still, for anyone who has ever spent time in intentional community, daily chores are absolutely critical to the formation of healthy lives so as not to result in mutually assured devastation. Ah, but what happens when one does not sweep the floor? Or, perhaps even more profoundly, what happens when one does sweep the floor?

It seems somewhat trivial, but recently I overheard a discussion about certain students who were roommates. One of these students shared that they had made a breakthrough when, after realizing that each person in their apartment was buying their own jar of mayonnaise, they decided to start buying one jar of mayonnaise for all to share. This just sounds like good community. However, I propose that the more profound situation would have been when each person in the apartment decided to pool their money for groceries and still opted to buy three jars of mayonnaise because one person needed low fat, while another person needed Helmen's, and the third could only stand the taste of Miracle Whip. This is a more profound situation, in my opinion, not because it is the most economical or practical, but because the action of debating and discerning how the community can best engage life is in itself a political endeavor.

We have similar conditions at the Iredell House, not just with food. I recall the house retreat when we spent (what seemed to me to be) nearly an hour discussing the division of chores. The fact is, some members of the house simply did not want to do the grocery shopping. Nearly everyone had a preference for what chore they wanted, but no one really wanted to do the shopping. How did we get out of this precarious predicament? Well, I don’t remember exactly, but I know it wasn’t by divine intervention or through some great revelation that convicted us all of what we were to do. No, it just happened. We talked. We went around the table again and again. We discussed. We compromised. We found consensus.

So, I haven’t swept the floor this week. It needs it, but I haven’t done it. For whatever reason, the floor has remained defiled by our disgusting selves. This, too, is a political action. It compromises the shared mind. It attacks the community at its base. “I challenge the community’s decision that the floor ought to be swept.” New conversations have to be had. “Why hasn’t Barry swept the floor,” they might say to one another? One may think that a mundane task like sweeping the floor is nothing to get too up in arms about, but I submit that whoever believes that never really had to live with anyone with much conviction in life. Alas, I will sweep the floor. It is my duty as a red-blooded Iredellian. After all, there is no “I” in Iredell.

Gifts...

2005-07-10T14:30:00.000-04:00

I've been surrounded by gifts recently. Some are obvious - when Joel and I returned from our fabulous honeymoon (maybe I'll post about that sometime) - we were greeted by a mountain of wedding gifts that filled the front room and the bedroom. Sadly, we've had to put them all in "storage" in the front kitchen as a temporary measure. But we're so grateful for the gifts and the future possibility of using them. (Most of them - I must admit that I DID return the tabletop appetizer griller - I just couldn't see us ever wanting to grill dainty pieces of shrimp and zucchini while waiting for the main meal.)

And then, recently, I signed up for the listserves on Durham's and Farmville's Freecycle sites. What a fabulous resource and even more fabulous group of people. Joel and I have now given away quite a few things, all to people who are kind and gracious. (We're not quite quick enough with the mouse and email reply to be recipients yet!) What I love about it is that everything offered, or recieved, is a gift. No strings attached (aside from a well-placed desire not to throw things into the landfill). How often do we find institutions like that in this culture?

Because we've been the only people at home for the past two weeks (though Dana returned home on Friday), we've also been the recipients of frequent visits by William. I must admit to being annoyed and tired often when William comes to the door. But I try to remember the examples set by my housemates (this is one of the benefits of living in community truly) - and I invite William in. He's shared more than a few meals with us now, because he often stops by while we're in the middle of dinner. I still wonder what whether we're being gospel-preachers to him, though. And I wonder what gift it is that I receive from him? Patience perhaps? I don't know. Maybe some gifts are more like the hidden treasure in the field.

And - hah!- I have had the gift of teaching my family, religion and ethics course to six pre-freshmen on Duke's football team. This is quite a challenge, needless to say. In the last week, I've had to remember more and more about what I felt like coming to college after high school. These are guys who thought my reading assignments are too long (25 pages, 14 point font!), keep asking permission to use the bathroom, and are scared stiff about plagiarism. (That last is a good thing.) I'm not quite having the conversations I wanted to this summer, at least not in this class. I'm having to teach at a more elementary level - but frankly, with the way last semester was - that's a gift too. With an added gift of humor.

The Tears of Baptism

2005-06-27T14:32:00.000-04:00

I wonder if Paul was ever frustrated with his work. Surely there were days when he wanted to throw up his hands and admit defeat. Not that I am ready to admit defeat, but there are days that I wonder if our labors are in vain – that the culture is too strong, the brokenness too severe, the goals too grand. Here in Stillwater, we operate a summer program called Camp Exploration. It is a day camp for at-risk children aged K-5 grade. For eight weeks we have 25-30 children (depending on which parents/guardians decide to drop their kids off that day) Monday through Thursday, all day long with 12 college students. It is an interactive experience where children learn about healthy environments and relationships. These are kids who are simply not making it in life. Our goal is to give them a chance, an opportunity to survive in their broken families and the disordered cultures around them. It’s long, hard work. Our student workers end every day absolutely exhausted. Since I have my own projects during the summer, I serve only as support leadership staff, stepping in when I’m needed and stepping out when I’m not. But just having kids running by my office all day is stressful. Today, Markia and “Little Rock” got into a fight. I’m not sure what it was about, but they had to sit out for an hour in the lobby next to my office. Maybe there’s nothing worse than having to sit quietly while other kids are in the other room screaming their heads off playing. But, I keep asking myself, “Are we doing any good with these children?” For the fifth time in three weeks Adam was back in the Director’s office attacking other kids. For the third time in two weeks, Markia had to sit out for fighting. Last week, we had four kids get into a fight hurling racial slurs at each other. How do you have a conversation on race with 8 year-olds? We’ve had countless events of certain kids breaking down in tearful fits of rage because of something insignificant. We are in Week 4 of Camp Exploration, and I’m not seeing results yet. I know, I know. Our job is to plant seeds. Someone else will water, and still someone else will care for and harvest. I don’t doubt Paul’s words, but I wonder if he had to work with such messed up kids? Lessons of hope come in varied forms. Have you ever watched a 6 year-old try to do yoga? It’s fascinating to behold. Who knew that a child with a dead-beat dad and a mother in prison for drugs could laugh and play like that. Michael offered a sermon a while back addressing the need to keep hope in the midst of the struggle. Here is an excerpt from that sermon.

"It seems that the Church, both in its conservative forms and its liberal forms, has forgotten that the primary means of relationship is baptismal and not biological. In random conversations with children involved in our program, I have found that very few have any contact with the Church, and nearly all of them are clueless if they are baptized or why this should have any significance. Does this legitimize their wholesale abandonment? A college student recently asked, “Do I have to be religious to be a mentor in your program?” I smiled and said, “I hope you have given up on religion. Religion will get you only as far as your diploma allows. I want you to be faithful.” Therefore, my next question to this student was, “So are you baptized?” We need people who are brave enough to look beyond the sanctuary and see the new birth found in the tears of abandoned children. We need students who want to walk with Christ as opposed to talk about Christ. We are learning from students that the water of baptism should be collected from the tears of those that we have forgotten. The mentors become visible/tangible role models. One of the children recently asked me, “How much to the mentors get paid?” When I told her that the mentors were paid nothing she exclaimed, “You mean they just like us?” I laughed and said, “I think it’s more than ‘like’. I think they really care about you.” The silence that followed from my young inquirer, possibly bewilderment that someone actually cared, was as holy as the silence that follows the empty sanctuary after tenebrae. Renewing our baptismal covenant is related to redressing the churches commitment to the poor. Collecting the water from the tears of children in crisis is a unique gift that we believe the Church is called to embody. Baptism, after all, is not a gift of being selected and placed inside a barricade! Baptism is the gift of liberation that allows us to walk into the world with confidence that even in the midst of our dire condition, the care and love of God through His people can redeem despair into hope."

So we labor on. I continue to pray, too, as I found in the psalter last night, “O Lord, how long?” I think we have to pray that, remembering that God will work wonders far greater than we can imagine in our limited space. So, to my Iredell brethren and sestren (like that?), what great thing can God accomplish in us in light of the baptisms through which we were gathered as the Church? Maybe our own baptismal waters were gathered from the tears of our Lord who weeps for the lost and broken. How then do we labor?

Child-like Faith Again

2005-06-22T20:22:00.000-04:00

“Suffer the children to come unto me,” said Jesus, “for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.” Why does the kingdom of heaven belong to children and to such as are child-like? Anyone who works with children has surely asked this question. If you’re like me, there have probably been those times when you dreamed of heaven as consisting particularly in the absence of children. Sure, they can be cute and sweet. But that’s not all they can be. So why does Jesus have special preference for children, so much so that he admonishes his disciples to be like them?

I spent last week as a counselor at Missionfest, a week-long service intensive church camp (for lack of a better description) for Mississippi Methodist youth. About 300 teens from all over the state come together and stay at Milsaps College here in Jackson during the week, going forth in the day to a wide range of local charitable organizations, ranging from nursing homes to AIDS hospices to a cheerleading camp for schoolgirls. In the evenings, the youth worship together and participate in small groups to aid them in reflecting on their experiences.

During the week, I led a workgroup of 7 youth. My group spent the mornings at the Our House shelter, a refuge for runaway teens. There, we did yard work, cleaned bathrooms, painted, and spent time with the runaways. Afternoons we ran a basketball camp at Alta Woods UMC for about 35 “underprivileged” K thru 8 kids from devastated homes in the heart of Jackson.

Technically speaking, I was not the only adult supervisor of the group. Chuck was the other adult. Chuck is 35 years old but has the mental development of an 8-9 year old. He is brain-damaged. Chuck’s Missionfest exploits are too far-ranging and hilarious to be given justice here. Let’s just say that he had a way with the ladies. He also scored over 1000 points and had 470 rebounds throughout the course of basketball camp, or so he said.

The highlight of my time with Chuck came on Thursday afternoon after we had driven away from our worksite. This would be the last time we would all be together in the van. Chuck, who naturally insisted on riding shotgun since he was after all a supervisor, leaned over and whispered to me that he had something to say to us all before we got out, asking if I would tell them all that he had something to say and to be quiet and let him talk. It’ll just take a minute, he said. So when we had come to a stop, I did as he’d asked. What he said took about 10 seconds, but before he could even begin, his lip started quivering and tears were rolling down his cheek. In a wavering voice he stuttered, “I-I-I just want to thank you all for being nice to me this week. I-I-I really love you all and I’m gonna miss you all a lot. I-I-I hope you had fun working with me.” When he was done I had to get out of the van quickly. I was crying too.

Once again, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of what had taken place, and given new life by the witness of Chuck. I learned from Chuck that the less “cool” we are the more delightful we are to God. I had a chance to think a lot about “coolness” the week of Missionfest since I was surrounded by teenagers and there is just about nothing more important to teenagers than being cool. (Incidentally, most of us are still pretty concerned with being cool, but we have learned how to be cool in yet cooler ways still.) To see Chuck’s ridiculous vulnerability and honesty juxtaposed to the fronting, posing, dripping self-consciousness of the cool guys in our youth group was a lesson in why God loves children. While Josh, one of the young coolsters in my small group, would hardly agree to hold hands for prayer, Chuck would approach me about every 10 minutes for a full-frontal hug complete with back slaps and excited questions about whether or not he was doing a good job.

That’s pretty much what all of us want. We want to be hugged and we want to know whether we’re doing a good job. At least I do. So Chuck taught me that God is pleased when we just say what we want and what we need and how we feel, without pretense or manipulation. God is pleased when we cry because we love other people and know that we will miss being with them. God is pleased when we have the humility to ask others what they think of us. That is how child-like faith is. We come before God just like Chuck came before me and our work group – hoping that we will be loved and that we will please someone with our work. And when we discover that, astonishingly, unbelievably, we are loved by God and our work does please God, we find that we are little children like Chuck, just asking if there is a minute of time along the way for people to listen to us say thanks.

Child-like faith

2005-06-06T18:56:00.000-04:00

The following is a report of a transformative encounter that I had with the Rev. Ed King last week. Given the setting in which it took place, the content of the conversation, and the actions that took place throughout the conversation, it was an experience fraught with insight and beauty.

Ed King is a retired Methodist minister who is currently a member of Galloway UMC. He was probably the foremost white civil rights leader in Jackson, MS during the years 1963-1965 when the civil rights wars raged in Mississippi. During that time he was chaplain of all-black Tougalou college. Among his most important initiatives during those years were the numerous “church visits” that he orchestrated in an attempt to break down the color wall in Mississippi churches. One of the churches that he visited, along with his friends of different colors, was Galloway UMC, where he and his accomplices were strictly barred from worship.

So it was already highly significant that I would find myself sitting in the Galloway UMC chapel in an afternoon service of prayer and healing, with the Rev. Ed King leading the service. His mere presence there was a signal of reconciliation, a seed of hope planted in a land that has been devastated with hatred, lies, and violence.

There were only seven of us in the service including Reverend King. The service itself was a simple healing liturgy read by Rev. King in his inimitable way. Sitting across from me was a man who must be mentally retarded because he mumbled throughout most of the service. We took communion kneeling at the alter and were then offered the opportunity to be anointed with oil. The retarded man stayed at the altar to be anointed and I got the sense that he does every week.

After the service I hung around and heard Rev. King and another man talking about Rev. King’s recent trips to the hospital to visit an elderly white man who asked to speak to Rev. King. The dying man had wanted to apologize for killing one of Rev. King’s friends during the civil rights struggle. As he was telling it, Rev. King looked even more exhausted than he usually does. He told me that he knew God meant for him to be going through this but wasn’t sure why.

Everyone left but Rev. King and I. He walked up to the communion table back behind the pulpit and I stayed out in front of the altar. Then he asked, “Would you like to help me eat the rest of this?” I was surprised, but I said “Sure,” and walked up beside him. He tore the rest of the bread up into small pieces and we stood there together just eating pieces of bread, the body of Christ. Then he picked up the porcelain cup, handed it to me, and said, “drink half of it and I’ll drink the rest.” So I did.

What did it mean? Like a fine poem, one hates to “explain” it. The beauty of the whole thing just stunned me. One would rather let it stand like that. But I can try to say something of what I “learned” from it.

I learned that simple and confident belief issues forth in deliberate, un-selfconscious sharing. Rev. King believed Christ had really made himself present to us in the bread and wine so it seemed obvious that he should offer me as much of it as he would get. And there was no need for him to explain it to me, or make much of a fuss about it all, because it wasn’t his offering it to me that mattered at all, but rather God’s offering it to us. Any amount of pomp, pretense, or self-maneuvering was unnecessary, because we were just little kids before God. There God was waiting for us on the altar, so we had better just shut up and eat. That is the way in which a simple trust that something good has been given automatically flows into deliberate and unafraid sharing. This is what is meant by “childlike faith.”

This is how we are to share the gospel, which is a good gift given to us by God. If it isn’t how we share the gospel, it is only because we don’t really believe.

Mustard Seed Faith

2005-06-06T18:40:00.000-04:00

Some thoughts on my time in Jackson thus far. Some may have read the first part in an older email, but some fresher thoughts follow:

If it is true, as Liz tells me, that you see a place most clearly during your first and last week there, then Jackson – at least the parts that I live in and around – is a pretty bleak place. My most persistent reaction to the neighborhood during my first week here was despair. It is a ghetto, with all of the typical markers. I have simply struggled to believe that it could ever be otherwise than it now is, so pervasive is the decay, so rampant the despondency, so overpowering the addiction.

Of course as a Christian one knows that everything turns on which set of eyes one is looking through – the eyes of “the world” or the eyes of “faith.” The constant struggle during my weeks here has been to see the world through Jesus’ eyes. I have failed for the most part. It is one thing to imagine carrying out the mandate of Matthew 25: “As you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me.” I usually imagine little orphan children, or a polite and clean man who has simply fallen on hard times. But when the poor and the hungry are standing in front of you, it is a battle to see Christ in them. They’re stinky, dirty, ugly, many of them crude, many of them conniving, many of them lazy. But they are certainly “the least of these,” and therefore Jesus. Lord, help my unbelief!

I took comfort in the parable of the mustard seed my first week. Even the smallest seed can grow into a tree for the birds to rest in. I saw seeds of faith and hope planted in this field of despondency and despair: a racially reconciled softball team (!); an Ed King literally scarred for his faithfulness to the gospel during the civil rights movement; Galloway’s janitor Robert who God rescued from the pit of crack addiction and who now proclaims the Way to anyone who will listen.

Lately, though, I have recognized that sometimes the parable of the mustard seed can function as an excuse for unbelief. What is mustard-seed faith? Is it just a tiny bit of belief inside of a person? Is it merely the absence of all-out incredulity? Is mustard-seed faith the faith that says, “Well, I really don’t see that it is likely that God wants to or will change this situation, but I suppose I must admit that it is at least possible”? As long as you don’t rule out the possibility that God may shock all of our socks off and actually do something, well, then he may just do something…but don’t get your hopes up. Is that faith the size of a mustard seed? Surely not.

This misunderstanding of mustard-seed faith can lead to a similar misunderstanding of the well-known “little way” of St. Therese of Lisieux. I don’t know if St. Therese is the one who said it, but the “little way” is basically summed up in the dictum that all good things start out small and get smaller. And of course there is some essential truth in this. “I must decrease so that he may increase,” says John the Baptist. “His strength is made perfect in my weakness,” says Paul. But there is a danger in the “little way,” which I have found myself falling into during my time in Jackson. There is the danger of assuming that ineffectiveness, failure, smallness, and weakness are themselves fool-proof signs of faithfulness. The seeming insignificant force of Christianity becomes ironically an argument for its truth. This is not mustard-seed faith. Rather, it is a roundabout way of eliminating God from the picture altogether, falling back into a life of practical atheism, as Joey reminded me in a conversation last week.

Being here in Jackson has forced me to ask the crucial question, “Is Christianity relevant to conditions like these? Can Christianity make a difference?” But in asking this question, I now see, I have been accusing myself. The question only occurs to me because I do not experience God’s all-sufficient power in my own life. And this is because that would mean that I am no longer in charge (which would mean, among other things, that I could not take credit for anything anymore). Internally I resist the very power that alone would be capable of redeeming and reforming West Jackson. The sin, rebellion, and self-assertion that is destroying West Jackson runs like a fault-line right through my own soul. The question is not whether or not God can rule West Jackson. The question is whether I will step down and allow God to rule my own life.

Liz's visit to UMC

2005-05-28T15:22:00.000-04:00

Resurrection happens - a more sober Cowboy, a housed Peanut, Wanda's son's acceptance to a magnet school, Rex Wickline, as it turns out, wasn't hit by a train two years ago, but was in a recovery program in Alabama. The long prayed prayers are sometimes answered.

I spent nearly a week at the Urban Ministry Center - a place which in the midst of gaping needs, always puts me more in touch with my own needs, more than my ability to sate anyone else's. With no job responsibilities, I have been living in the land of stories. Taking time for the sweetest parts of life, I walked to the Center each day (about 3 miles), stopping to talk to folks along the way, sitting down to take in sunlight and conversations, walking with someone to the nearest pay phone instead of giving directions, and speaking lots of spanish (gracias a Jorge para mucho practicar).

By far the sweetest part of the visit, however, was soccer. The UMC Soccer team, which will be traveling to Scotland in July (check out the website: www.homelesssoccer.org) to represent the U.S. in the Homeless World Cup, is a community, however dysfunctional it might be. Of the eleven players, two have histronic personality disorders (prone to great drama fro those non-DSM IV users); three can't currently compete because they are in drug treatments programs, one (who worked with me on my attempts to one day do a pull-up) insists on dancing throughout all the warm-up drills, most are learning soccer for the first time, and all players smoke. Imagine taking all the kids who had a difficult time getting along with others in school and put them on a team and competed them against yuppie young adults, primarily who played soccer in high school and perhaps college (reminds me a bit of Bottle Rocket). Yes, a recipe for disaster, and the potentional for some amazing moments of redemption. Breaking across race, ethnic, class and gender lines, this group is really contemplating what it means to be a team. Having each other's back is not a new concept on the street (nor in Rex Kwan-Do), but the notion of calling forth the best in one another, this is one that does not come easily within a population who finds its solace in mutual failure. I was speaking with a volunteer yesterday whose partner is a recovering addict (who at times is not so recovered). She spoke of the difficulties of loving him, but the joys of being with someone who is up for battling the demons of life. It is this sense of courage which makes the soccer team such an amazing group (community, really). To claim our own shame and push through - what a gift in life.

My prayers are with you guys and I look forward to hearing updates.

Jana's Wedding

2005-05-22T22:10:00.000-04:00

Well, it's official. Jana and Joel are married! The week preceding the wedding was a little crazy. Jana and Joel both graduated with their doctorates last weekend, and their families were out for that. Jana's parents and sister stuck around all week. We had a lot of fun, including a very fine afternoon tea party at the Wa-Duke on Tuesday (Jana's mom and sister, Jana, Joel, and me). It was great. On Wednesday, Joel and I played golf (also at the Wa-Duke, actually). It was a nice chance for me to give him a little advice on what it takes to handle living with Jana over the long haul. Also, on the 18th hole, I chipped the ball right into the cup from about 5-7 feet off the green. The bachelorette party was wild and crazy, with plenty of drinking, a little poker, a little talk about sex, and chocolate cake. The bachelor party began with a co-ed viewing of Star Wars Episode III, then the men went out for drinks. Clearly, I can't say any more.

Jana was amazingly calm beginning sometime Friday afternoon. Joel, however, was stressed far beyond belief. It was actually quite cute. He was really afraid he would do something stupid and mess up the day for Jana. The ceremony was beautiful. The bride was gorgeous, the couple was happy. The tea party reception was all about Jana. That is, it was so perfect. The tea was great, the food was great, the music was great (Irish! a guitar and a fiddle). We even got a picture of all the Iredell folks (alums etc) who were there (and who stayed that long!).

Jana and Joel seem happier than ever. They're off to Denver for a bit, then Europe. I'm relieved that the Iredell Bed and Breakfast is (at least temporarily) closed. The place is a lot quieter, and for now, I'm glad.

Year-end Reflections

2005-05-11T23:07:00.000-04:00

Well, May has once again come upon us here at Iredell House, and most of us are dispersed or dispersing to the four winds. Divinity students are off to their field education placements. Liz, our public policy guru, is off to spend a bit of time with family and friends before her summer internship starts, and Jana is in the final flurry of preparations for her wedding (May 21). Barry and Joey left Wednesday. Clifton and Kent left Saturday. The comings and goings here are part of life, but they don't get any easier. The questions of how to be in relationship change and shift as the geography changes. What it means when we share the space is one thing; what it means when we don't is another.

So, what does it mean to be in relationship with one another as these things shift and change? I've been thinking a lot lately about relationships in general and how they ebb and flow over time, how things which seem like mountains at one point later turn out to be molehills, and vice versa, of course. For some reason, I've lately been thinking about two things in particular, and they're last year things, but I think relevant to us as well.

First, I recall that about this time last year, I sat down with a friend of mine and gave -- for the first time -- a sort of blow-by-blow account of life in Iredell last year. I described some of our bad beginnings and proceeded to say, "And I think that's the point at which being a real Christian community became impossible for us." He called me out on thinking that way, because, of course, change, repentance, forgiveness -- it's all always possible, especially with God's grace.

Second, I think about what for me is one of the most powerful instances of that: my relationship with Jana. Like so many of the relationships in the community last year, ours was strained and marked by a lot of distance and silence. And then one day, for no real immediately apparent reason except the sense that the community was falling apart (maybe she can remind me of something), and clearly with the help of God's grace, we closed the gap. It was amazing. And it happened as we were sitting around the kitchen table.

I guess I'm thinking all this because I'm feeling the distance. Some of it is as simple as geography, and as missing out on good-byes to Liz and Joey before they left. Some of it is the distance we've talked about from this spring, the ways in which so many of us were pulled in different directions. Much of it is me, my own distractions and choices, diving into other relationships, sometimes at the expense of those in the house, though for the most part not consciously so. I'm not saying that our distance is the distance of last year; nothing about it seems so oppressive or silent. And distance and silence aren't bad things, always. Sometimes they give you a certain sort of "breathing room," time to reassess, readjust, re-commit if need be.

I wonder what, for each of us, the space and changes of the summer will bring. How will we use this time to grow, both personally and collectively? And I wonder, in these liminal times, what new hopes and dreams for our community will spring up, what new needs we might see, or what old ones we might find the courage to name. More the questions I'm sitting with, so far, than any real answers. Any thoughts?

Welcome!

2005-05-11T16:01:00.000-04:00

Iredell House techno-babble has just been upped to a whole new level. In conversations with a couple of housemates, we've talked about ways to keep communication lines open throughout the summer, and perhaps also to create a space for us to share some reflections about our life in community. Kent's friend Caleb has just helped us set up this blog, as an experiment in perhaps creating such a space. Let's give it a try, shall we?