Central Outreach & Advocacy Center

Central OAC

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Wait Your Turn

by Chattrelle Gillyard

I often wonder what it’s like to be a guest at the OAC:

To come through the door with nothing but faith and hope that I might gain documents to get a Georgia ID.

To not know where my next meal is coming from.

To be unsure about where I will lay my head on a daily basis.

To be afraid to lay down at night, putting myself at risk of burglary and possibly even assault.

To be afraid to walk the streets because I might be stopped by a police officer with no way of identifying myself.

I could never imagine walking in the shoes of the guests we serve at the OAC. I’ve experienced homelessness on two occasions in my life but never to the extent of our guests.

I recently encountered a guest who described experiencing homelessness as constantly standing in line and hoping that at the end of the line he’ll receive some sort of help. Imagine standing in a line beginning at 6:00 am with no idea of whether or not what you need will be on the other side. I barely have enough patience to stand in line for mundane things like fast food or at Kroger. Yet, our guest do it nearly every day, whether it’s for an ID, a meal, shelter, or clothing, without any hesitation and usually a humble spirit.

My first ten months at the OAC have humbled me in ways I could have never imagined. Our guests have taught me to find joy in the midst of a storm, how to be patient in chaos, and how to have hope in tribulation. Sometimes, you have to be patient, trust standing in line, and wait your turn.

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Meet Me at the Palaver

by Kimberly Parker

A few days ago, I was having a supervision meeting with our Candler School of Theology intern, Emmanuel, who is from Ghana. One of the questions I asked him to reflect on was, “Where have you seen God in the work you have done at Central OAC thus far?” He talked with me about an African tradition: “Meet me at the Palaver” or “Come to the Palaver.” The Palaver is a large tree that serves as a community meeting spot in the shade where all can gather as equal partners to discuss problems, solve conflict, and heal.  Emmanuel talked about our lobby and how people come inside seeking assistance, help, and support for the things they are enduring. He saw a connection between our lobby and the Palaver – a place where people can gather, feel safe, and rest physically.

I’ve been reflecting on this concept since Emmanuel and I talked, and I’m now finding parallels everywhere. We recently had our monthly Main Frame Job Readiness graduation. During graduation, students are given the opportunity to share their thoughts and feelings about what the program means to them. One of the students, an older gentleman from the Virgin Islands, mentioned that the Main Frame had been a peaceful, safe, and restful place to be for him.  He powerfully contrasted how he feels in the OAC with how he feels out on the streets. Outside, he said, “It’s not safe; it’s not peaceful; things are chaotic. In this space it’s safe and calm.” 

Just last week, one of our regular guests travelled several states away to visit family.  As she transferred buses and drove through different states, she sent us pictures and updates through the OAC’s Facebook page letting us know about the progress of her trip. She updated us all along the way. I have continued to think about her and the way she saw us as a point of reliable sanctuary.  I believe that our staff and volunteers create a safe place for our guests each day. This guest found peace when she came into the lobby and even carried that with her as she travelled. She found a place she wanted to be and stayed connected to it. She found a community she could trust enough to tell us that she was leaving and where she was going.

This is humbling to think about, and I am grateful that we are able to offer such a place for those who choose to trust us with their struggles. Meet me at the Palaver is going to stay on my mind for a while. Our values state, “We believe in meeting people where they are with patience and humility, and treating each person with respect and dignity.” These values are similar to the ones that Emmanuel expressed to me regarding the Palaver tree.  My hope is that we continue to be the Palaver for our community of guests.

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Why Do We Close?

by Brenna Lakeson

Every August for the past six years, the OAC has closed its doors for services for one week.  To many, especially our guests, this can seem strange, indulgent, or even selfish.  Why, then, do we take a week off from providing services every August?  There are several reasons!

  1. Lack of case managers – This is probably the most practical of reasons.  In August, our summer interns have finished their hours, usually leaving us with three or four less people on deck.  In addition, August is a time when many of our regular volunteers take vacation.  Most days in August, we only have one or two case managers working when the ideal is four or five. This can get taxing and overwhelming.
  2. Organization and catching up – Our week without services gives staff time and space to reorganize, take inventory of what we need, and catch up on lingering projects.  Without the continuous piling up of new work and with the addition of three more hours per day to do work outside of case management, our staff can do things that usually take a back seat.
  3. Team building and goal setting – This is perhaps this most important aspect of our August retreat time!  Sometimes, the staff goes on a short trip together.  Other times, we stay in Atlanta but do activities together around the city.  This time together always involves evaluating the previous year and planning for the year ahead.  What needs work?  What big dreams do we have for the OAC?  The staff also spends this time building comradery and friendship, crucial for a high stress job like social services!

Hopefully this gives all our supporters a helpful glimpse into what we do during our mysterious week off in August!  We believe this week makes our team stronger, more productive, and more prepared to tackle the everyday challenges of the OAC.

We are closed for services August 26-September 2, 2019.  We will reopen with regular hours on September 3, 2019.

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Do Not Depend on the Hope of Results

by John Ellis, OAC intern

Each morning begins about the same at the OAC.  We gather as a team to pray, celebrate joys, and express concerns.  If nothing else, this morning ritual is a moment to breathe. The afternoons tend towards the unpredictable.  Some days are a breeze, procedures feel light and fluid, and the air in the lobby is calm.  Some are like gravel, with a cluster of frustrations and disappointments underfoot. The factors that determine which way the day goes are lost somewhere beyond my comprehension.  As my first month at the OAC came to an end, I began to consider how we end our days. Shut down your computer and reflect as you let everyone know you’ll see them tomorrow.  Volunteers and staff trickle out of the intake area as they finish seeing guests.  

In the back intake office, there’s a piece of printer paper held to the wall by two pieces of faded masking tape with a message printed on it.  It begins, “Do not depend on the hope of results.”  It caught my eye as we released hands from a prayer circle during one early morning.  At first, it struck me as pessimistic, the notion that the work I was to become a part of would appear worthless at times, that it might seem as if my efforts had no impact at all.  

One afternoon, I signed a Georgia ID voucher for a guest who’d waited two months to receive their birth certificate.  They beamed, let out the tip of a laugh as I handed them the voucher and wished them well on their way out. In moments like that, I feel that good kind of full.  Shortly after though, I served a guest with an air of agitation I didn’t fully understand. When I couldn’t help them in the way they needed, I felt a hollow guilt in my stomach.  

Weeks pass like this, considering the reactions of the people I serve and deeming the day as either good or bad once expressions of ease and frustration were tallied. 12:30 rolls around and I gather my coffee cup and backpack, and wave as I head for the door.  Time and time again my eyes fall upon the message on the wall, “Do not depend on the hope of results.”

Over time, I began to consider the message in its entirety.  The message on the wall goes on to say, “As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results, but on the value, the righteousnesss, the truth of the work itself.” It concludes with a reminder that as you struggle less for an idea and more for the people you serve, it becomes more apparent that service is centered around personal relationships.    

Slowly, like drops of water into a paper cup, I felt myself filling with a new sense of purpose in the way I carried out the day to day intake work.  I began to look for fulfillment not from a guest’s thanks and appreciation but more from the simple fact that I’m allowed a few moments to listen and take action for the betterment of another.  

With each passing day, I gather more of an understanding of what the quote means to me and what it reminds me of.  Our services hels alleviate some of the stressors that people experiencing homelessness carry. If, when considering the weight of my efforts here, I think only of the results, discouragement is inevitable.  If, instead, my focus shifts to the worth of the work itself, the knowledge that our efforts play a part in a varying sense of alleviation in the lives of those we serve, it seems more manageable and worthwhile.

Lately, the days go by quickly.  I don’t count the number of guests I’ve served; instead let the value of the work itself resonate within me.  Despite the potential for disappointment, whether or not I feel discouraged is irrelevant. Presence, attentiveness and action is relevant, though, and that’s where I’m choosing to ground myself right now.  I’m grounded with the knowledge that I don’t know everything, but I’m trying. I’m grounded with the knowledge that our work might seem hopeless at times, but it’s not.  

When 12:30 rolls around, I gather my coffee cup and look around the back room.  Once more, I see the message on the back wall. Less of a warning now, more of a reminder.  I wave again, and let everyone know that I’ll see them tomorrow.