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.

"Stories of Grace"
"Let us build this place out of truth and Grace"

Prologue: This is the third 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. 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. 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 third of the stories of grace from Grace House. Meet Charli

She came from the 'sweet streets' of Harlem, a child of privilege. Her home was only a few blocks away from the famous entertainment sites: The Apollo Theater, The Cotton Club and the Baby Grand. These were the places the musicians clustered. They were the music makers, the men and women of blues and jazz; the names that every jazz buff knows today. To her they were the people making music down the street, and the people who came to her house regularly. She says, "My parents were not entertainers, they were the people who entertained the entertainers." Charli heard the music, learned it and made it her own. Lessons refined her style and she went on the stage, acting, singing, dancing whenever she could. She "loved it" she says. "Somehow" she says, "I always felt comfortable on a stage, performing, singing, dancing, reaching out to the people and feeling the currents of love pass between us."

But the streets didn't stay 'sweet' for Charli. She loved to hang around when her folks were having a party and by the time she was eight she was taking sips of the drinks people offered and her mother has said that she'd find her finishing drinks the guests had left sitting around. And there was dope too -- and her older friends and siblings would give her a puff on a joint they were smoking.

Charli was smart in school and liked to hang with an older crowd in junior high school. Slowly she was drawn into the fast lane with the fast crowds. Drugs became a part of her life. She was in 'show business'. She was performing and living the high life and being introduced to drugs -- prescription drugs. A doctor gave her prescriptions medications and soon she was using pills to wake up, to keep going and to calm down so she could sleep. She was watching her weight, so then diet pills, fashionable in those days, were added to the mix. The prescription drugs led into the use of more and stronger drugs. Charli says to this day, it is hard for her to take her medications, because she has such strong memories of those days.

Charli says 'the love factor' entered into her life and she found herself married to a man who was also a drug user. Her first daughter was born during this time. Charli believes she was lucky. She realized she couldn't do right by her child and her mother and father took the major role in raising her daughter. She says she feels 'blessed to be born to the parents I was.'

Under the stress of the drugs and the fast life, her marriage broke up. But love entered her life again and a second marriage produced two more children. Slowly, she says the life and the drugs turned from providing highs to a struggle to "just stay even, to feel, normal, whatever that was." Charli says she was part of a methadone program, and that combined with the cocaine she began using felt pretty good for a while. But disillusionment set in, and finally it all crashed down on her.

After the birth of her youngest child, a premature baby weighing only two pounds thirteen ounces; after nursing her through to health, Charli determined to withdraw from the drugs she was using, except for alcohol. In 1989, she began her climb up and out of the world she had known. She became ill and was taken to an emergency room where the doctors said she was in a stage of withdrawal. It was near Christmas and her children were waiting for presents. Charli promised the doctors that if they would let her out to get the toys she had on layaway for her kids, she would come back. They doubted she would return but they were surprised when she came back the next day and began a rehabilitation program. As part of her admission to the program, a series of tests were undertaken, including blood work. Three months later, when the tests finally came back, her world fell in. Charli was told she had tested positive for HIV/AIDS. Moreover, her children, except for her oldest daughter, would have to have their blood tested for AIDS.

Some lives have a clearly defining moment. Charli tells a story of the two weeks that defined and changed her life. Charli had been diagnosed with HIV and there was no way of knowing if the life and health of her small children had been jeopardized. She prayed and took the best care she could of the children. And she waited. Heartstopping, breathless days and weeks, while the tests were being done that would tell her the make or break truths. Finally the word came. The doctor said, "Your children are just fine. The tests are negative." Charli says she has never been able to find the words to say what that moment meant. It wasn't just the relief and joy, it was a transcendent moment when she stood with her children, bathed in grace.

From the time Charli left rehab she knew her life would have to drastically change. She couldn't return to her home or the friends she had. It was a deeply frightening time but she was resolute. She moved, at her husband's urging, to Minneapolis and found work in the health care field. That career brought her to Grace House.

Charli gives back now. Gives love and laughter and listening, understanding and care to the HIV-AIDS afflicted people she serves. Charli is formally employed as a Caregiver at Grace House. She takes her own medications regularly and meticulously; carefully she monitors the medications for the men in her care. When she listens to them, shares their ups and downs, says "I understand", she gives a deep meaning to the words. She's walking the road with them. Blessed today that she still is able to work and care for her family and give encouragement to those around her.

Once every week on Fridays, Charli makes a big, bountiful brunch for the residents and staff of Grace House I and II. She'll make all the good stuff -- pancakes and french toast and bacon and eggs -- big batches of specialty foods -- especially for the people to whom Grace House is the center of life. It's one of the ways she shows her love and respect. It's part of what Charli is about -- because she'll talk the tough talk when she has to, and tell a rowdy story and tease and banter and laugh -- but the essence of this woman is love. And she shows it every way she can.

For Charli, Grace House is more than a place to work. She looks deep in your eyes and says, "This is my family. That's what I've found at Grace House… Family."

That's her Grace House family. Her own home is filled to capacity, too. There are eight adults and children who live with her and she cooks and cleans and admonishes and worries and gives direction to all their lives. There are teenagers, and she tells them "Look at me. I've been there. I've seen it all. I know the dangers. I know the pitfalls. Listen to me. Be careful." And her life tells them that she knows they can triumph. She knows they can have lives of laughter and service -- even in adversity." She knows it because she lives it every day.

Charli is one of the Writers of Grace House. Sometimes, when we do our writing exercises, she tells us about the mean streets, sometimes she tells her story in rhyme or in 'cut-to-the bone' reminiscing. Her writing has a rhythm, raw and right on. One day we said, 'take us to a place, any place - 10 minutes -- go' and Charli told us about a New York day.

"About two blocks west of the Apollo Theater and two blocks south, stood two buildings. Between these two buildings ran an alleyway, a long dark alleyway. How long it was, or where it ended, I never knew. I never journeyed that far back. I stayed near the front, where the old burned out rusted barrel stood, the one where we warmed our hands and bodies, roasted potatoes and yams on cold, icy nights. It's summer now and here I stand, wondering what the hell am I doing standing on 123rd and 8th Avenue on a hot New York day. The smell of urine, and wine, 'hoes' coming in from working all night and most of the day. The smell of blood coming from the alleyway is intoxicating, overwhelming, calling me, drawing me, begging me to go deeper into the dark.

Even on a New York hot day, the alley on 123rd and 8th avenue is dark. The smell of pizza mixed with armpits and stale cologne snaps me back to reality. Unwashed bodies and unkempt babies breathing out sour milk bid me to run. Run from the alley on 123rd and 8th Avenue on a hot New York day."

Ronnie Angelus says: "There are three things that make my life work: Talking to my daughter who opens vistas to me and makes me laugh; being in the circle of the Divas, my writing group, who shout "go girl" and give me standing ovations with their smiles and tears; sitting next to Mary and Claude Paradis during Sunday Mass at St. Joan of Arc, which is as close to pure goodness as I will know in this lifetime."