What would you like to know about St. Joan of Arc? Do you have a story about our parish or of general interest that you think others would like to hear? For story ideas, contact Jeff Rholl, jeff@stjoan.com.
"Let us build this place out of truth and Grace" | Prologue: This is the first in a series of stories about the people of Grace House.
They are the residents and staff, the volunteers and occasional drop-ins --
the people who fill the house with grace. These are first and foremost,
though, the stories of the residents: Stories of the men and women who live
daily with HIV/AIDS and are triumphant; stories of their lives and how they
came to Grace House; stories of the difference the houses and the staff have
meant in terms of health, dignity and joy.
The original Grace House was opened in 1990, the brainchild of an AIDS
taskforce through Saint Joan of Arc Church. The church agreed to lease the
building to Grace House for a nominal sum. Church parishioners provided lots
of the physical labor to turn the home into a facility to serve the
particular needs of people with AIDS. These volunteers renovated the space,
painted rooms and made the home accessible, including installing an elevator.
In these early years, all of the caregiving was provided by volunteers from
the church. By the next year, the need for professional, hired staff was
apparent and the first paid caregivers were hired. Volunteers continued to
be a big part of providing care to the residents.
What I have always found in the houses is laughter. The residents, as
physically comfortable as their disease allows them to be, live in their own
apartments with dear and familiar things around them. They meet in community
for meals with other residents, with volunteers and caregivers. There is a
sense of family, of people who care very much for the well being of each
other.
It is these people of Grace House, open and willing to talk to me, I want to
learn more about and then tell their stories to you. Nelson Mandela says
these stories must not be lost. Sometimes they are little stories of little
lives. Sometimes they seem painted by a bold brush with vivid colors and raw
design. They are stories, like all of ours, a mixture of foolish and heroic;
stories too of painful loss and astonishing gain, because these are the
stories of survivors. These are not just the stories of the residents,
although theirs are the first to be told, but of all of the people who care
for them; all of the people who take a step away from their everyday lives,
to take the risk of caring and staying steady in the face of pain and loss.
People who receive in abundance the gifts of sharing and the magic of
laughter and life.
This then is the first of the stories of grace from Grace House.
Meet William.
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A tall, good looking man enters the room slowly and sits next to me. His
face is guarded. He has consented to an interview, the first we've done at
Grace House, and 
he's not quite sure what is expected. So he sits watchful
as I tell him that I would like to hear his story; that I think the stories
of Grace House are so important they need to be told.
He weighs what I say and then nods assent to the interview. I begin, "So, tell me all about yourself." Well," his eyes start to smile. "I'm the youngest of twenty-one children." He smiles broadly now. He knows he's got me.
As he tells his story it is infused with the indomitable spirit of his mother, the woman who raised this family -- alone; who met the daily challenges and, William says, deeply proud, "Never turned to welfare. Sure, she got occasional help from people, but never were we on welfare." It is the story of his struggles and finally, a story of resurrection, because William is a happy man now. He is ill, he has tough days, somber thoughts; and questions about his tomorrows -- but at his core, he is a happy man.
Up until the moment of his HIV diagnosis, William's life had been going pretty well. He had risen to a position of property manager in the building complex where he lived, he had a wide circle of friends and the energy and the will to party -- often and hard. He says he was an occasional recreational drug user but it wasn't controlling him. It was just a part of his social scene. Then as he faced his diagnosis and people pulled away from him the drugs became more and more important and he used them liberally to quiet the rage and still the fear.
As William recounts his story, his eyes darken with remembered pain, humiliation and betrayal. When he was diagnosed with HIV, he says, "I looked around and found that I was alone, friendless and feeling hopeless." People he had known well for years turned their backs and "would cross to the other side of the street rather than acknowledge me." The day when his partner turned away from him and withdrew his love was the worst day. It was the deepest cut and it left the rawest wound, leaving him despondent and despairing.
During the dark days, his mother always stood with him but his brothers and sisters did not understand his illness. They were fearful for themselves and for their children and acted in ways that were embarrassing to William. He said he spent a lot of time in the past few years educating them about HIV. It has been a long battle and a lonely one. Always with him was the spirit of his mother, He speaks of her with admiration and appreciation. In the tone of his voice and in his words, there is the buoyancy of a spirit that wouldn't be defeated. It echoes the fierce courage and resiliency of his mother who brought twenty-one children through good times and bad.
There did come a time for William when he hit rock bottom. That is when grace
entered his life in the form of the Minnesota Aids Project and a caseworker
named Michelle. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, hope returned. But the road
didn't smooth out immediately. William left Minnesota to spend some time
with his sister and then with married friends -- trying to get his footing.
He learned that he needed his independence and he needed a place to call his
own. He returned to Minnesota and found that his former caseworker and
mentor was now on staff at a residential facility. That's when he found
Michelle again. That's when he found Grace House.
He is smiling now, and animated as he talks of his fine life. Last summer he went to a camp sponsored by the Minnesota Aids Project and "met some good people.' People who he believes, are well grounded, who are healthy in their thinking and with whom he shares social times as well as late night, and sometimes daily, telephone talk. These are men who understand what he is going through and they support each other.
His passions are houseplants and classical music. He takes great care of the plants in his apartment, as well as one large hibiscus in the window of the commons area. He says he talks with his plants and encourages them to grow, then lets them rest and absorb the classical music he plays daily. When he is feeling strong, he shares his energy and good will with his companions at Grace House 1 and 2.
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| "Oh, how I love this place, every smiling face..." The Writers of Grace House Every week when the writers of Grace House meet, the first order of business is a writing exercise. Somebody throws out a word. We grab our pens and start to write. "Don't stop. Keep your hand moving. See where your mind takes you, where your heart connects. Give us a word." "Seasons" someone says. "OK. Fifteen minutes. Tell me everything you know about seasons. Go!" This is what Theodore told us. He will be the next of our 'stories of grace'. Here's an initial introduction to him. Winter by Theodore. Other Stories of Grace |
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By 1994, the AIDS epidemic was rampant. The directors of Grace House decided
to explore the idea of opening a second home next door to the original Grace
House. Grace House II was opened in May of 1998. It was designed by the
architecture firm of David Goehring/Joel May. It is a graceful combination
of light woods and open spaces, large windows and a profusion of plants.