The Art of Breakfast-Burritos.

With such diligence, ease, and creativity, Hippie Dave perfected the art of making breakfast burritos tonight at the camp for dinner for everyone. I heard they were delicious…sadly, I am allergic to eggs.

Before I continue, there is a need for a little apology. An apology for not posting for a little while. We update our facebook page significantly more, so for more real-time updates, feel free to check out our page, and twitter as well, but to read the raw, uncut version…stick around. :) this is going to be short and sweet.

Since Christmas Day, one of our main focuses has become the camps in Fayetteville. One in particular. Out of respect, I won’t really tell a lot, but enough to cover my basis. Now, with that said, let me clarify. We have always been about bags, have always loved bags, will always be about bags and will always love bags. Now, we just have another outlet of service. Christmas Day changed 3B2D. We now go out into one of the homeless camps 2-3 times a week and hang out. I hate referring to it as a “homeless camp” because it has become like a second home to us. Also, it is hard for me to define someone by their current living situation. Anyways, Ashley and I were talking tonight about how we hang out there so regularly. We see our friends out there more than any of our other friends…combined. It blows my mind how much going out there has done for us, on so many levels.

It really is hard to convey in one blog post, but nevertheless, I shall try.

 

The camp is….

Awesome. Legit. Rough. Emotional. Eye-opening. Joyful. Trapped. Raw. Wonderful. True friendships. Rowdy. Incredible. Heart-breaking.

All of those and so much more. Our time consist of sitting around the campfire sharing stories with one another and getting to know each other. It is a time to get real. You truly hear people’s lives and what people have been through. You hear why someone went to jail. You hear what motivates someone in the morning. You hear why someone is addicted to pot. You hear what made someone turn into an alcoholic. You hear how much someone cares for their family back home. You hear how hard being a prostitue was and how much it emotionally affects her years later. You hear how someones family left him on the street. You hear stories of abandonment, loss, and struggles. You carry the weight of burdens shared. You join in the fight to break the cycle. You sense the need for liberation and freedom. You cannot imagine the stories that are shared.

While that is all true….

You can sense pain and suffering but also true joy as well. Our friends out there cannot simply figure out why it is that we keep coming out. They can’t figure us out. But yet, everytime we pull in, they get so excited and start cheering and start bringing more buckets around the fire for us to sit on.

Homeless becomes real to me out there. What a blessing it is to be able to see what day-to-day life is like and what the reality is for about 2,001 people in NWA. What a humbling thing it is to say goodnight, and walk to our cars as everyone else is getting into their tents.

Each time is a little different out there. Each time more or less emotional to process. But each time is incredible and another brick down in the wall between “us” and “them.” Each time is another karate-kick to the stereotype of people not caring. Each time is another thing that ruins me in the most humbling and beautiful way possible.

 

With 10,000 more thoughts but not enough process-time,

Chloe