Unexpected Joy

Even now I can almost elicit the sense of excitement I felt when as a child I gently and inconspicuously laid my offering of red tulips, violets, and buttercups, all hand-picked from my backyard, on a neighbor's doorstep. Filled with anticipation, I remember reaching up to ring the doorbell and then bolting down the street once my clandestine mission was accomplished. Perhaps it was the flowers or the sense of mystery and anonymity surrounding the event, but a special place has always resided in my heart for this May Day tradition. Once I myself became a mother and our family departed Chicago for Davenport, this tradition, like so many others handed down to me by my parents, has been incorporated into the lives of my children. For the past three years, baked goods have supplanted flowers as the choice of gifts to be given, primarily because we do not have many flowers in our yard and because I am reticent to pick the ones that do spring up each year. But really, what could be better than discovering a homemade, sweet treat surprise waiting just for you at your front door? Despite our divergence from the traditional May Day present, Thomas and I have continued the custom of constructing "baskets." As all three of the children slept, I wrapped the heavy duty paper that earlier in the week he and I had painted with splashes of blue, yellow, red, and purple watercolors, into the shape of a cone, stapled it together, and crafted three May Day baskets for our neighbors.

Beginning on May 1, 1886, this day came to symbolize more than just a summer celebration permeated with flowers and festive dancing around a Maypole. On that day over a century ago, thousands of union workers across the United States went on strike, protesting their long work hours and demanding that they be granted an eight-hour work day. Subsequently, the 1st of May came to be recognized as a day in which the struggles and victories of the working class are lauded by laborers worldwide.

On May Day, 1933, over 50,000 men and women descended upon Union Square in New York denouncing the appointment of the new chancellor of Germany, Adolph Hitler, and the global economic depression which was in its fourth year and which had left 13,000,000 U.S. workers unemployed. Together these "radicals" also called for worker ownership and control of industry. From their midst, the words of the Communist hymn could be clearly heard, "Arise, ye workers of the world. Arise, ye wretched of the earth for justice thunders condemnation. A better world's in birth."  In the crowd, a thirty-five-year old woman, a recent convert to the Catholic faith, together with three of her friends and co-workers, handed out copies of a newspaper making its debut on that May Day.  In an effort to combat the atheism of The Daily Worker, a Communist paper, Dorothy Day and members of the movement which she co-founded, aspired that their paper, The Catholic Worker, would testify and offer hope to "those huddling in shelters...those who are walking the streets in the all but futile search for work...those who think that there is no hope for the future, no recognition of their plight," that the Catholic Church had "a social program," and that there were people of God "working not only for their spiritual, but for their material welfare."

Last Friday morning, May 1, 2009, our family van pulled up to a nondescript Victorian home located on a corner in Rock Island's Broadway historical district. Though efforts have been employed by the city to return this semi-rundown area to its former glory, public opinion would say the renewal remains a work in progress. While Jared, Russell, and Elliot waited patiently in the van, Thomas and I tentatively walked to the back doorway of the antiquated house, a bag of miscellaneous grocery items in my hand and an Aldi bouquet of roses in Thomas', and rang the doorbell of the St. Joseph Catholic Worker House. We were greeted by a woman probably in her late thirties or early forties with whom I had spoken on the phone the day prior. Kindly she welcomed us into her home - a home which she shares with five other women and their children who have been cast out from boyfriends or husbands, rejected by family members, and who have no other place to go. This woman, whom I will call Michelle, explained to me that soon after her youngest daughter was born, she broke her back, and while confined to a full body cast, her husband decided to desert his family. Disabled and with little money, Michelle suddenly found herself alone and homeless with three children to care for. With nowhere to turn, she became dependent upon the hospitality of others until her life was stabilized. Ultimately, the group of Catholic nuns who own St. Joseph's requested Michelle and her family to remain at the home and serve as its host. 

While our donation was meager, the women were sincerely grateful and Michelle genuinely touched by our $3.99 bouquet stating, "No one has ever brought me flowers." Michelle's eldest daughter, a woman in her late teens or early twenties, explained, "Some women arrive with their children with nothing but what is on their backs." Because St. Joseph's does not receive any financial assistance from the state, anything anyone would want to donate is considered indispensable. Even perfume samples, things I am so quick to disregard and throw away, are vital at St. Joseph's, providing women whose self-confidence and self-worth has been greatly shaken with a boost as they attempt to gain employment and regain their lives. According to Michelle's daughter, at St. Joseph's "nothing is wasted." What cannot be used there will be passed on to others who might have need of the items.  

As I listened to these women's stories and stared at the images of Christ and His mother which Michelle had lovingly placed on her kitchen wall, I could not help but be overwhelmed and humbled by what I was experiencing - the legacy of one of my personal heros in an anonymous home in Rock Island, Illinois. Poverty has a face and while we may want to pacify ourselves and adopt stereotypes of the poor, these are men and women who bear the image and likeness of our Creator. Though Michelle admitted she had never read much of Dorothy Day's writings, unbeknownst to her, she is the embodiment of what Day and the Catholic Workers envisioned: an imitator of Christ who recognizes His presence in all human life and most especially in the poor. 

Later that evening, as I left for a "Girl's Night Out," Thomas, Russell, and Jared scampered out the door (Elliot was still sleeping), three May Day baskets filled with tiny loaves of strawberry bread in their hands. It was a good day filled with old traditions and unexpected joy.