As the sun rose on 22nd Avenue, dew clung to the uncut grass behind the weather-beaten picket fence. The morning fog from Puget Sound had just about burned off in anticipation of the warm August day although a chill remained in the moist air. The small 3-bedroom house nestled in the overgrown yard would have been quite modest in almost any other part of the country. But in Ballard, a quiet north-Seattle neighborhood, it was a significant real estate investment.
On Sunday mornings in this part of the country, the streets and sidewalks bustle with activity. Rather than attending church services as they might in other regions, most people are out and about: shopping, walking pets, enjoying the great Northwest outdoors, and expansive art scene. On a gorgeous August day like this would be – there was no reason to be cooped up inside.
Yet that’s where she was. In the small front bedroom of their 1650sqft ranch style home, she sat at a small desk behind a Compaq branded computer monitor. Her fingers danced rhythmically on the keyboard – unswervingly dedicated to their task. The room was quiet. Dark. Cool but not cold. Glancing up outside, she could see the long shadows still cast by the house onto the street in front of her as the sun rose behind. Pillows and a couple stuffed animals lined her single bed in the corner, clothes littered her floor, a pile of rather heavy looking library books (seemingly too thick for a girl her age) laid next to the bed, and a lone poster of a young Harry Potter hung on her beige wall.
A door slammed elsewhere in the house.
Jordan heard the family’s maroon Chrysler minivan parked in the alley start up and drive away quickly. “Nice,” she whispered barely audibly, “No church then?”
A twinge of sadness emanated from her gut as she thought about his promise to spend time with her that afternoon after lunch. Shopping for clothes wasn’t her favorite activity in general and particularly over the past few months, but time alone with Dad was always welcome – especially given his recent work schedule.
I guess that’s off too, she thought.
Returning to her writing, she waited for her mother’s knock.
Ted Reynolds was pissed. His ’92 Town and Country wasn’t made for the driving he was putting it through – but this rage had to get out.
Why can’t she respect what I’m trying to do!?!? It’s not like I WANT to go in to work today – but if we’re going to keep this thing going in the right direction this is what has to happen!!! This is the cost!! What does she wanna see? …Me fail? …Me crash and burn again? FUCK!!!
He careened south through traffic toward the Ballard Bridge and downtown Seattle. Cutting off a Volvo, he heard the sound of tires screeching and horn blaring; this jarred him into slightly more thoughtful inner dialogue.
The truth was that he loved his career at the shelter. It was not only his life’s work but his dream: to do something for those who were on their last leg, to restore lives, to give hope, to systematically address the underlying causes of homelessness and poverty. It’s not that kids and a family were unimportant to him – he wanted to be a good dad and husband. And he truly wanted his family to learn to be a part of his work, a part of his mission, a part of his world.
Thinking about his daughter Jordan he felt guilty – I DID promise her I’d go shopping today…and I canceled on her last Sunday too for that golf meeting. I’ve gotta be a good leader at the shelter though; I’ve gotta do the right thing; I’ve gotta lead by example. This might be my only shot.
