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I, at one point, was a few days from my little Chevy truck being my home. I had decided a local truck stop, being the place for eating and showering, would be where I would sleep in my vehicle at night. But a roof over my head was offered just in time. I was given free rent in a lovely three-bedroom home, which had been left vacant by a couple who had moved back to Ohio. I lived there for two years. Unable to afford running the air conditioner, I would work in the morning and at night and rest inside during the midday hours, surviving the heat of the day. Once, it was so hot and lacking rain the grass in the yard smelled burnt, its color dark and burnt-brown. It reminded me of the smell of cooked tobacco, which I, when a youth, would help unstring off sticks before driving it to market to sell.
The two dogs, Bandit and St. Francis, and I enjoyed life together, and I enjoyed my work at the jail as part-time chaplain. I had, at this point, given up on church. I had had enough, and it occurred after a Presbyterian pastor celebrated his church giving money to foreign missions, which he said could help children not go to hell. I waited for a time of prayer; someone prayed, and I walked out of the sanctuary. I thought as I walked away, "I've had enough!" I could not identify with a church, anyone, or anything that talked of children going to a literal hell. I wanted no part of that.
After about two years, I returned home to where I had been born. I could no longer occupy the home, as another family member of those who had welcomed me to live there was moving in.
* * *
Back home, I lived in an old tobacco barn down from the house I was raised in and where my father lived. I called it the Hermitage of Peace. I recall the first night sleeping on the concrete floor, alert to the potential of snakes that might find shelter inside. My dog, Bandit, slept snuggled beside me. I soon found an old, broken-down recliner, and that became my bed. Most people would have thrown it in the dump heap, but it worked for me. I had been living contemplative Christian vows for many years, and this barn life fit the way of simplicity. I did not feel deprived. This modest space was enough, and enough is enough.
After many months, I returned to school to get a credit in clinical chaplaincy so I could work again full-time and in hospice. At this time, I was jobless. I withdrew some money from my retirement, moved to Jacksonville, Florida, and rented a cheap hotel room for the Summer. The floor sank downward when I walked on it, and the neighborhood was such I made sure the door was always locked: but it became home.
After the program was completed and I had not found work, I returned to the barn. I had no internet connection, so I would go to the nearby town and find a place to connect and apply for jobs, ordering some food to justify using the space.
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I was invited to work with the Florida Department of Corrections as a temporary chaplain, outside a tiny town, more of a hole-in-the-road, as people say where I was born. No hospice invitations arose. I remained in Lake Butler, Florida, for eight months and thoroughly enjoyed my work. I lived in a small room, barely space for one person, in Starke, Florida. Living there was due to needing a month-to-month rental, since I was on temporary status. I never knew when my last day would be the last at the correctional facility.
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