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Friends United Meeting |
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Quaker
Life
November 2001
Ministry with Vets at Camelot Farm
By Margaret Hawthorn
"Do not forget to welcome strangers into your
home, for by doing so some have unwittingly entertained angels."
Hebrews 13:2
Caring for 20 mentally disabled veterans in one's own home isn't everyone's cup of tea. The previous owner of Camelot Farm discovered this work may not require higher education, but it does require a calling. In 1978, five years into his tenure, he put the house back on the market, just as my husband, Bruce, and I were looking to relocate to central Massachusetts.
One day, after Bruce and a realtor had seen several pieces of land where we might homestead, they drove down a pretty stretch of back road in Winchendon. Camelot loomed into sight, all four stories of it covered in pea green shingles. "That place is for sale," the realtor teased. She knew we wanted to build a cabin in the woods and live as much off the land as possible. Nonetheless, she ran down its specs as they passed by. "Built as an inn 150 years ago. Now it's a home for disabled vets. Nice location, right in the historic district."
"Not what we're looking for," Bruce said. But on the way home, he reconsidered. Although the building was an eyesore, Camelot was in a lovely setting. It had a big old New England barn ready for us to fill with chickens, turkeys and goats. And it had a built-in job.
If the veterans were taken aback when Bruce and I arrived with our month-old baby, two cats and all our belongings in a Volkswagen minibus, they didn't show it. As we gathered with the realtor and former owner in the parlor to sign papers, the men paced back and forth on the porch, pausing to stare curiously at us through a plate glass window. I was just as curious about them. I wondered if those shadowy figures could become real people to me.
Before we fully grasped what we'd gotten into, we purchased Camelot and moved in. The men in our care were more needy than we'd been led to believe. They had diagnoses of post-traumatic stress disorder, schizophrenia, bipolarism and/or organic memory impairment from long-term alcohol abuse. Most of them were on heavy psychotropic drugs.
Our training took place on the job, beginning the day the former owner moved out and we moved in. Bruce, as it turned out, has excellent instincts with the men. He juggles dietary needs and preferences, monitors the myriad health conditions prevalent in this population and referees disputes that occasionally brew. He wades gamely into the raunchier tasks—this job is not for the squeamish—while treating the men with dignity. As a Vietnam veteran, he can empathize well with patients whose illnesses are war related, but he also sets firm boundaries. Meanwhile, he keeps an eye and ear on the cranky plumbing, heating and electrical systems of our 45-room ark. With all this, he manages for the most part to hang onto his sense of humor, a prerequisite for this work.
Heady with the idealism of the late 1960s, we saw Camelot as a community where we could put our beliefs into practice. We appreciated that our children would grow up in a home where serving others was part of daily life. They would know first hand that not everyone fits into the happy nuclear family scenario, and that we have a responsibility to care for those on the outside.
Although I first approached it from a social/political standpoint, I found that Camelot was placed in my life to help me better understand the Gospel. The men, who are anything but shadowy figures, can be kind, generous, crabby, obnoxious, etc. They have given me moments of laughter, and moments of grace when one has said or done something that changed how I looked at things. At trying times, my mantra is, "Child of God." In seeking God's presence in each of the men, I love and care for them. In caring for them, I feel loved by God.
When our three daughters were young, living in a big house full of people had advantages. The first floor was large enough to be a roller rink when the dining room wasn't in use. There was always an enthusiastic audience to hear their piano pieces or to cheer them on as they learned to ride bikes. On Christmas mornings, they dressed in red pajamas so they could be Santa's helpers, giving out the men's presents before opening their own. Special friendships developed. Gentle Norman taught our Quaker children to pray the rosary. John helped them with batting and catching when they joined softball teams.
Had finding Camelot been dumb luck (good or bad, depending on the day), or Divine leading? I came to know it as a leading, even if neither of us heard God say, "Here, Bruce and Margaret. Do this." I experience God through the blessings and the lessons that come my way, finding meaning in them after I have had time to reflect. I didn't hear a voice, but I trust that God gave us this work to do.
Yet our family has paid a heavy price. Even when the door to our part of the house is closed for privacy, there is always the possibility of a disruption on the other side. Holidays are difficult for the men, which means our daughters have shared their parents' attention on the most family-oriented days of the year. In two decades, the five of us have only gotten away together once for a family vacation. Bruce, who does more of the hands-on work than I do, struggles with burnout.
I have often wondered if, had someone described to us what would happen in our first year, would we have taken this on? A month after we moved in, a resident came home from town in a sour mood. That night he smashed several windowpanes in his second floor bedroom because he saw faces peering in. A few months later, the voices in another man's head became too much for him and he committed suicide. Then, and many times through the years, we asked ourselves, "Is this a place to raise our family?"
In their teen years, each of our daughters went through a period of embarrassment over living at Camelot. They refused to bring friends home, demanding, "What were you thinking when you bought this place?" At a low point in our family dynamic, one shouted, "You two are losers!"
When we take up ministries that set us apart from our communities, whether in far off lands or in our own homes, we may set our families at risk. When we feel called to do God's work, we are not promised we will be protected from danger. We are only promised that God will be with us through whatever happens, wherever and however we live. One of our children did fall into harm's way as a result of our work; the most difficult spiritual work of my life has been forgiving God and myself for that.
The apostles must have faced similar concerns when they dropped their nets to follow Jesus. Perhaps one of them had a daughter who eyeballed him angrily and asked, "What are you thinking?" Still, they went. Each time Bruce and I have re-evaluated, we have sensed that Camelot is our calling.
Our daughters have seen us remain faithful to the work we felt led to do. As our bright idealism inevitably faded into a reality that was both very good and very harsh, modeling commitment to those ideals may have been our redeeming gift for the three people we hold most precious. Now young adults, they have each come to terms with their non-conventional upbringing, and are proud of the home they were raised in. They now bring home friends from a variety of backgrounds that seem genuinely interested in us and in our work.
The author of the loser remark wrote a college essay a few years later about growing up at Camelot. She traced her journey, from using walkie-talkies to spy on the men in the parlor when she was little to the terrible point when she realized how different her life was from that of her peers. In the end, she spoke of returning to Camelot after being away at school. The men greeted her from the smoking porch, as they always do, and a few helped her with her suitcases, as they always do. She was glad to be home.
Margaret Hawthorn serves on the FUM General Board as a representative from New England Yearly Meeting.
Copyright (c) 2001 Friends United Meeting
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