Bornfamous

Dear God,

Sorry I haven’t written; things have been pretty hectic around here, what with Robby growing like a weed and feeling his oats, so to speak. He doesn’t actually eat oats, or oatmeal, but You know what I mean. Of course You do.

Yes, life has been busy. Mainly I spend a lot of time trying to help some very sick people stay–or get–off the streets. It’s not easy. And it breaks my heart because I haven’t been very successful at it. People with severe chemical injury, like pesticide poisoning, can’t tolerate what passes for normal housing these days. Most neighborhoods, houses and apartments are full of poisons. “Normal” people seem to think that they can go around spraying poison willy-nilly without causing any damage to themselves or others. Nobody seems to understand how toxic most building materials are, or that even something as simple as fabric softener wafting in the air from dryer vents can make a neighbor’s life hell. But I know You understand. That’s why I’m writing.

I need to ask a big favor. Remember the last time I wrote to You, eight years ago? I was in bad shape. Robby and I were living in a moldy house with his smoking grandmother and her cats, and his asthma was getting worse and worse. He finally wound up in the hospital for a week. I begged my ex-mother-in-law to stop smoking in the house but she refused, and I knew that I had to find another place fast. So I wrote You a desperate letter [a shot in the dark, really, because I didn't actually believe in You] and I asked for an apartment. I wrote a list of specific needs–that it had to be near a supermarket so I could walk to shop, and on a bus line so I could get to work, and the rent had to be very cheap, below the going rates in this expensive city.

Like I said, it was a desperate shot in the dark. I had no hope that the letter would actually work. I don’t believe in that stuff, You know. But it made me feel a little better to write it all down.

I did write to thank You, didn’t I? I’m pretty sure I did, because I became a believer the very next day when I found this place just a few blocks away and it filled all of my specifications–and then some. This apartment has met needs I didn’t know I had. But You knew. Mom used to say, “God will provide,” and You did. Just so You know I’m truly grateful, let me say it again: thank You.

So, yeah–about that favor.

My dear friend Barb needs the help this time. You know Barb; she’s always helping other people even when her own situation is dire. She has been homeless, off and on–mostly on–for the past five years. She simply can’t find a place that she can tolerate. Some people may think she prefers to live in her car for some crazy reason, but it’s not true. She hates it but she has no choice if she wants to survive. And now she’s getting weaker every day. I can hear it in her voice with each phone call. This can’t go on.

Will You please help Barb find a safe haven, one where she can finally rest and begin to recover from her long nightmare–soon? I’ve done everything I can think of and I’m stumped. I would drive across the country if I thought that would help but Barb says then there would be two of us with no safe place to stay.

It doesn’t have to be fancy–just a house or apartment in Vermont or western Massachussetts that’s not moldy, and where no pesticides or herbicides have been sprayed in several years [inside or out], a place where no smokers have recently lived and no pets have been treated for fleas. She needs a place that hasn’t been renovated or painted in the last couple of years, and no propane or kerosene has been used for heat [electric is ideal], and natural gas is not used at all. And there shouldn’t be any neighbors who heat their homes with wood because the smoke is terrible for Barb’s asthma. The place shouldn’t be too old [mold] or too new [formaldehyde from building materials]. Ten to fifty years old is best. It can’t be too close to farms or golf courses either–the farther the better. A rural area would be good, where people don’t use herbicides on their lawns. And please, God: no West Nile spraying. And of course, it has to be a place that she can afford.

Can You do this for my friend? She’s a good person, the kindest I’ve ever met. I’m afraid she’s not going to make it through another winter in her car. Please help her, God. Please.

Thank You, and I promise to write more often.

Love,

LaVonne