I was still a young school boy sitting on the couch of our family living room, with Christmas music serenading our glittering tree. Our family had just finished another circus-like Christmas morning tearing open gift wrapped boxes like we were in a race to unveil the presents that floated in our childhood dreams.
To me, this was my Neverland, the mythical heavenly place where we never grew old. The smell of honey-glazed ham in the oven, sparkling tinsel hanging on the tree, colorful wrapping paper strewed across the floor, and those gifts that we dreamed about for months. This was my childhood Shangri-La.
Until that dreaded day when an older sibling told me Santa Claus did not exist. It was like a sucker punch to my childhood paradise. This was the beginning of my lifelong course that many of my colleagues call, "Jaded 101," a cynical worldview where dreams are deflated by reality.
Clearly, the work of helping homeless people access housing is an act of idealism, what many have called "God's work." I wake up in the morning knowing that my vocation is a unique calling, where hurting people's lives are transformed.
But cynicism continues to creep into this life-mission like a swarm of termites slowly eating up your wood home. Reality wants to drown idealism. I've encountered more than enough nasty politics, competition, envy, ego, disappointment to graduate magna cum laude from "Jaded 101".
I remember when I was leading an effort to build a unique interim housing facility for homeless persons several years ago, I encountered another lesson on jadedness. During the planning stages, we knew when we were finished, we would instantly house dozens and dozens of people languishing on our streets. Who would be against such ideal efforts? The struggle was not on finding enough funds to build the program, but instead was convincing angry neighbors and jaded community leaders that our efforts were good.
One of my staff members who had just graduated from college was helping me lead the effort. She was on the front lines of community outreach. One afternoon, after a difficult neighborhood meeting, she asked me almost tearfully, "Why is it so hard to help people?" I think her childlike idealism disappeared on that day.
We finished building that facility, and continue to help transition homeless persons into permanent housing, but the battle to get to completion certainly instilled scars on our idealism.
For those of us who have survived the struggles fighting against poverty and homelessness in this country, we don't believe that idealism has been distinguished from our being. Our Peter Pan-like perspective on wanting to change the world is still there. For some, perhaps, dormant but not dead.
We still yearn for that future picture of idealism. Embedded in our imagination and creativity is the image of Neverland. But it is no longer a land of fairies, Lost Boys, and mermaids, or my childhood Christmas mornings filled with joyful family times.
No, Neverland today is a land where everyone is housed. No more dirty old tents, or broken down RV's set up as make-shift housing. No more people living in Public Storage units packed out of sight along with the rest of this society's excess. No more lines outside filled with hungry people desperate for their next meal, their tattered dignity broadcast for all to see.
There is a Neverland just beyond the reach of our imagination. Many in this country are starting to believe that ending homelessness, particularly those who are chronically homeless or veterans, is a reality not just a pipe dream. Hundreds of cities and counties in America have adopted strategic business plans to actually end homelessness.
And recently, a creative and inspirational campaign to house 100,000 of the most hurting homeless persons in America has instilled excitement into our approach to addressing homelessness.
People are starting to believe once again. The belief that homelessness can be ended.
That will be the day we enter Neverland. Do you believe?