I’ve been avoiding writing a blog post (displaying symptoms of blog-itis) for a while now. I should probably go get tested. I’m betting I’m positive for NGBI (No Good Blog Ideas). Everything I consider writing about seems to fail the test. Most of my blather... I mean, profound commentary... tends to involve a unique brand of slightly irreverent sarcasm. It needs a special kind of subject matter to find its release.

Take COVID, for instance. Masks, controversial vaccines, accusations of Nazism, accusations of lethal recklessness, high and mighty poobahs getting the “Rona Rebound”... Not that funny. And if you joke about any of that (even at this quasi-post-pandemic stage), you can get drop-kicked off social media. Possibly cancelled. You might even have your Starbucks card revoked.

Pestilence is serious business. (Don’t get me started on Monkeypox, Marburg, West Nile...)

And so is war. Nothing particularly humorous about an ex-KGB thug bombing the Beelzebub out of a neighboring country, killing untold numbers, and creating the greatest humanitarian crisis of our time. Nope. And where’s the ha-ha in weekly saber rattling by a half dozen nuclear nations who happen to be run by certifiable nutjobs?

Mushroom clouds are even serious-er business.

As I’m writing this, something decidedly not-hilarious is occurring in Asia – a crazy old woman just poked the panda. Members of two of the world’s largest and (arguably) most potent military forces are streaming towards what could easily become an apocalyptic encounter (see above for the type of clouds to expect in the forecast).

Not feeling that as a subject for a blog. Maybe if I was a military expert or a socio-political pundit or a guy on a street corner wearing a “The End is Near” sandwich board. But... huh-uh.

How about gas prices? Painful. Wildfires? Tragic. Mass shootings... Crime... Horrific and scary as hell. Supply chain breakdowns, food shortages, inflation...

Not funny.

I’ve already talked about our newest dog. And really, there’s not much material there. Going on four months since we brought him home from the pound, he remains unwilling (but we still think he’s able) to go for a walk without jerking me around like a Raggedy Andy doll. While that’s probably amusing to watch, it’s not that fun to participate in.

This morning it dawned on me! We have been involved in something which, though not a source of great jocularity or one-liners, is relatively doom and gloom free. In fact, it’s got a bona fide bright side.

One of our goals this year was to start volunteering. After investigating a few possible suspects, we landed on an organization that we’d been supporting for several years: Springs Rescue Mission. Located in downtown Colorado Springs, their vision is: “To see lives transformed and filled with hope as our community works together to fight homelessness, poverty, and addiction.”

According to their website, they ALWAYS need volunteers. So Fran and I attended training, got a tour of the campus, underwent a background check, and went through orientation to serve in the Welcome Center once a week. There, we were told, we would be helping people get case workers, use computers to look for jobs and sign up for services, rent lockers, do their wash, etc.

On our first evening, we arrived to find the Welcome Center closed. After milling around for a while, we discovered that we had been reassigned to be Shelter Hosts at the Entry Shelter. The mission has a series of ascending overnight facilities that require various levels of responsibility and commitment. The first level, designated Entry, is open to anyone and everyone. It’s what they call a “low-barrier” shelter. After being searched for weapons and contraband, guests are welcomed for the night – no matter their level of inebriation, how high they might be, or what their level of mental agitation.

As you might imagine, the first time was... um... interesting. Let’s call it “an experience.”

Surprisingly, the shock element wore off quickly. By week three or four, we didn’t really notice the stench of B.O., the profane grumblings of the not-so-happy campers, or the wild-eyed psychotics milling about. What we did notice, however, and what still hasn’t worn off (months later), is that each of the guests has a story. Although the crowd tends to be made up of now-familiar faces, there’s no common theme. Some have unexpectedly lost jobs. Some are working and can’t afford rent. Some have been in prison. Some are dressed like tourists, others like vagabonds. Some clearly haven’t had a bath in weeks. A few are strangely happy to be homeless. Several are majorly pissed off. There are military veterans – many with severe PTSD issues. Mental illness abounds. Most of the guests also seem to have physical injuries that rival (and in many cases exacerbate) their emotional distress.

Ask a simple question like, “How’s it going?” and you might get an hour’s worth of heartrending tragedy. Or you might receive a sullen glare. Or you might get flipped off. There’s no telling. Some evenings are quiet, some involve security, the police, EMTs... It’s never boring.

“Great opportunities to help others seldom come. But small ones come daily.”

I have a plaque in my office that reads: “Great opportunities to help others seldom come. But small ones come daily.” This is our small opportunity. Greeting people at the shelter and escorting them to bunks... Listening to them explain how they got there, what they’ve lost, what they need... That’s probably not going to change the world. But it is changing us. For the better. And hopefully it’s beneficial to some of the guests.

The world isn’t a very funny place right now. But that’s ok. Life isn’t always about funny. Sometimes it’s about finding ways to make a difference. No matter how small.