Rebuilding begins with secure, stable relationships. Our guests live with us and share weekly meals as well as household chores. We support them in meeting their goals, whether that’s getting a driver’s license, earning a GED, paying off debts, opening a checking account and saving money, or getting into residential detox. Slowly, we become community.

There are days I yearn to make a difference at scale, the way my brother does, eliminating malnutrition, hunger, and poverty for thousands. Yet, I know my calling is different. My calling is to work with the two, three or four individuals we can house at one time at Dandelion House, or the 120 to 160 people who come to us for a hot meal on Fridays.

If we think of Hiroshima at all, we rightly think of all who died that day. I’ve been thinking more recently about all who survived. What was it like for my father to attend school with classmates, every single one of whom had lost siblings, parents, or relatives that day? What is the collective trauma of a generation that grew up in a nuclear wasteland?

I felt invited to a new way of seeing, and how learning the different names of birds is a path to intimacy, to entering into a more personal relationship with creation. It was as if I was getting to know my non-human neighbors in a similar way to how we first share our names when introducing ourselves to someone we don’t know.

Tadaima. Okaeri. Itadakimasu. Like the greetings heard around the house that meter our days, the ordinary rhythms of daily life – work, school, chores, meals – provide the cadence of our life in community. Yet it is precisely this ordinariness that begins to heal what needs healing in each of us, Catholic Workers and guests alike.

Winter is the contemplative season. The days are shorter, trees and other plants go dormant, and the world seems to slow down. We are naturally less active, giving us a chance to turn our attention from the outer landscape to our inner heartscape. Perhaps we sleep more, and let the world of dreams speak to us. We sit. We read. We pray.

The gift of life at the Catholic Worker is the gift of freedom to be ourselves. Here, we are empowered to be who God created us to be – people in community, offering the world the gift of our authentic selves. It’s quite simple, what we do. In response to houselessness, we offer a room; in response to hunger, warm food; in a world of loneliness, community; amidst meaninglessness, prayer; in the face of nuclear madness, protest.

As wars rage and migrants and refugees seek a place to land, as the very ecosystems on which we depend unravel and countless species go extinct, as our houseless neighbors struggle for survival in the shadow of obscene material overabundance, how do we manifest our inherent connectedness in ways that bring hope and healing to a world that seems to be fraying at the seams? How do we strengthen the ties that bind us to one another so that we can be a refuge and home for those who lack such connections?

Our dear friend, Franciscan friar, and peacemaker Louis Vitale died. He helped found various peace initiatives, including the Nevada Desert Experience protesting the Nevada nuclear test site, as well as Pace e Bene, known for its training course in nonviolence. He was arrested on hundreds of occasions for nonviolent acts of civil disobedience against war. He took inspiration from Jesus of Nazareth, Francis of Assisi, Mahatma Gandhi, and Martin Luther King, Jr.

This month we celebrate the 90th anniversary of the Catholic Worker. On May 1, 1933, the first issue of The Catholic Worker newspaper was printed and distributed in New York’s Union Square, and a movement was born. What started as an 8-page paper to report on the conditions of workers and the unemployed and to share the social teaching of the Catholic Church has evolved into an interfaith network of some 200+ houses of hospitality, farms, and yes, newspapers, blogs, and podcasts.

A friend recently invited me to join him at the Arlene Schnitzer concert hall in Portland for a performance by the Oregon Symphony, where we were treated to Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No 5 and Symphony No 2. What an immersive experience! From our seats in the front row of the Orchestra section (A7 and A8), we didn’t so much listen to the music as absorb it with our bodies.

Twelve years ago, I joined the LACW as a summer intern. On the first day of our internship, veteran Catholic Worker and then-editor of the Agitator Jeff Dietrich reviewed the weekly schedule with us. It included days for the Hippie Kitchen, other days for the street corner oatmeal breakfast, and still other days and times for the death penalty vigil, the anti-war vigil, culture critique, Eucharist, and happy hour. As he finished showing us the calendar he remarked, “This is our liturgy of hope.”

Amidst all that is good about this season – family, community, joy – and all that is difficult – loneliness, consumerism, family dysfunction – it is helpful for me to recall the radical message of the Christmas story.

Both Christmas stories from the Bible tell of forced migrations as a result of imperial policy.

We have a house! It’s small, but on a big lot, and when we arrived for the Open House the yard and the path leading up to it was filled with dandelions.

It’s dandelion season. Maybe you’ve seen one peeking out of a crack in the sidewalk, or on someone’s lawn during an evening neighborhood walk. In cities, their bright yellow against the drab gray of concrete always makes me smile.

Last weekend, Jessica and I camped along the Salmon River near Mount Hood, an hour’s drive from Portland. It was a beautiful fall weekend, the air crisp and cool, the leaves beginning to turn, and, most exciting for us, the salmon returning to spawn.