June marks two years of retirement for me! That’s enough time to find some rhythms and make a few new connections.

People have asked about what I’m doing. Here are a couple things I’ve become involved with. First, I add my obligatory Reformed-humility caveat. Of course I am not bragging. I’m not saying what a good boy am I. I’m not judging anyone for what they do or don’t do. 

Many Tuesday mornings I head to the Des Moines Animal Rescue League facility, not far from my home. Basically, it’s the Des Moines city dog pound, although there are cats there too. For about three hours, I play with and give attention to a few of the dogs that are there.

It’s an anxious, loud, and chaotic place. It reminds me of a prison, albeit most of my knowledge of prisons comes from movies. That’s no criticism of the dedicated employees who work 365 days a year–cleaning, feeding, and caring for the animals. And for some of the dogs, this may be the first time they’ve been fed regularly or had a roof over their heads. Still, when anyone walks down a corridor, most of the dogs come to the front of their kennel–curious, to bark, and be in on the action. One sets off another. Some bark louder. Others tremble. There’s jumping and howling, dominance and intimidation, attention seeking and cowering in corners. 

In a city facility, most of the dogs are big creatures. Lots of varieties of pitbulls, huskies, shepherds, Labradors, and hounds. Sadly, pitties have a bad reputation. I love them, finding them goofy, loving, and beautiful. They’re a lot like Christians. So many are gentle and big-hearted, but a few biters give them all a bad name. 

I take dogs out individually to a fenced area, probably 20 feet by 30 feet, spending about 10-15 minutes with each dog. That means on a typical Tuesday I play with about a dozen dogs or so, out of the maybe 75 dogs waiting for a home. 

I find that the first few minutes they want to do dog things–sniff, explore, pee. Then for most of the time, we play–tug of war, fetch, wrestle, chase. Burn off some energy. Finally, and not always, the last few minutes they seek affection: lying next to me, being petted, held, and scratched, maybe even rolling over vulnerably to expose their belly. 

This is my favorite time. I talk with them. I pray for them. I thumb the sign of the cross on their foreheads or chest, and give them a benediction. Sometimes I quote scripture to them, taking words out of context, like those cheesy inspirational posters–”I know the plans I have for you…” But, oh well.

Yes, I’m a dog-lover, but honestly, I claim this as holy work. It is my small part in the redeeming of all creation. It seems easier to see redemption happening among dogs. They’re simpler, more able to trust and heal, quicker to accept love. I want them to know that they are good and important, likable and loved, by me and by their Creator. 

All creation, O Lord, is in your care. Give us eyes to see that every creature speaks to us of your love. 

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Thursday evenings, Sophie and I work with the Urban Bicycle Food Ministry. It’s a group that feeds about 500 homeless and food-insecure people in Des Moines every Thursday evening. Here’s a six minute video from Iowa Public TV about UBFM. See how many times you can find me!

UBFM is a multi-faceted effort: a group who makes about 1000 beef and bean burritos; another group makes about 750 sandwiches; others run the storeroom and stage the supplies for the evening–fresh fruit, bottled water, blankets, toiletries, tents, tp, batteries, socks, sweatshirts, and so much more. Then there are the eight teams of three to eight people that actually deliver the goods to different parts of the city–on bicycle, for about six warmer months, and by car when it’s cold. Biking not only makes us more nimble, it feels more accessible and human-scale.

I’m on the red route, right through the heart of downtown Des Moines. The people we serve are generally more transient and probably more distressed than other routes–although we also visit two low-income senior housing towers. Other routes are more stable with “regulars” that they connect with weekly, who may have a job, an old car, and perhaps, live in a tent or shack in the scrub land around warehouses and industries. Laundromats and convenience stores, and in the summer, playgrounds, are other places that routes visit. 

The volunteers are a widely diverse group–from raving fundamentalists to hard-boiled secularists. And we get along. Most people use the term “homeless,” but others talk of the “unhoused.” No one corrects the other. We rent space in a church basement, but UBFM is not overtly religious. I don’t like to disparage prayer, but some might say that the weekly prayer at UBFM can feel a bit like a platitude. 

Offering one meal, once a week, doesn’t “solve” anything. So-called “band-aids” have often been dismissed by a big-picture, Reformed perspective. However, I appreciate the simple, tangible, face-to-face approach of UBFM. Over the years, I’ve sat on boards and committees striving ethereally for justice and structural solutions. I hope we accomplished something. UBFM accomplishes something simply by making life a little bit better for the people on the street. Beyond the hands-on help, people receive recognition, conversation, a bit of dignity–and, in some cases, long term, trusting relationships. 

That’s probably the biggest endorsement of UBFM. Our friends on the street trust the “burrito people,” the cyclists with the hi-vis yellow shirts. They know there will be no questions, no qualifying, no strings attached. 

Often as we depart, they say to us “God bless you.” I take their words as anything but a platitude.