In the Ghetto...

This is the first in a series of reflections I am writing from my personal experiences of life…

 In the Ghetto…

 ghetto

1. (n.) an impoverished, neglected, or otherwise disadvantaged residential area of a city, usually troubled by a disproportionately large amount of crime

2. (adj.) urban; of or relating to (inner) city life

3. (adj.) poor; of or relating to the poor life

I will never forget the weekend of May 30th, 1986. Casey and I had ventured deep into the White Mountains of Arizona on a backpacking trip. We were at a crossroad in our life, and decided that a prayerful time together in the wilderness might bring us some direction. As I write this, I smile. What can I say, we were young, and one of us might have had a flare for the dramatic.

Which path to take? Should we stay in Show Low where Casey could continue in his pastoral internship, or move to Tempe where he would pursue a degree in social work? The answer came. It was time to move on. Satisfied with our decision, we began the hike down from the mountaintop, where we were met with a near-death experience. Many times over the years that followed, the story of that perilous journey has been told.

It all started as we began our descent. First, a fierce thunderstorm rolled in and waged war on us with pellets of rain and hail, followed by lightening bolt strikes so close that the hair on our arms saluted through soaking wet skin. After the storm passed, we realized that we had become disoriented (a nice word for lost) and as the day wasted away, so did our water supply. With darkness and dehydration quickly approaching, we became concerned for our survival. 

Casey decided he could cover more ground if he took the lead and went to find help on his own. He hid me in the shelter of a thicket of bushes. “Stay put,” he said. “I promise I will come back for you.” I remember curling up in a little ball, peeking through my fortress of leaves, and hoping the sound of my teeth chattering together would not attract a bear. I won’t go in to all of the details, but there was help to be found and since I am writing this, you know we survived.

Two months after our wilderness adventure, we left our home in Show Low with our two children, Cliff (6) and Heather (3), as planned. We would have to spend a year in Prescott, living with my mother-in-law while Casey completed his Associate’s Degree, before we could move on to Tempe, and Arizona State University. (That was a very long year!) As we were making the plans to depart to our final destination, we also discovered that I would be giving birth to our third child in February, just eight short months away.

We arrived in Tempe in June of 1987, where Casey immediately registered to attend the ASU School of Social Work. Our beautiful blessing, baby Caila, was born on February 12th, 1988. The five of us lived in a little 2-bedroom apartment in the complex’s cul-de-sac, a bike ride away from ASU. The Evergreen Terrace Apartments also happened to be right in the middle of a section of Tempe that residents had not-so-affectionately labeled, “Sin City.”

Now that I am older and a little wiser, I realize that our near-death experience was a metaphor of the journey to come. We didn’t know it at the time, but as the Ewbank family descended from the heights of our mountain home, our old worldview was taking its last breath. We would soon be seeing life through new lenses. Much like in our backpacking journey of 1986, we would be challenged to survive, only this time it would be in the setting of the sidewalk jungles of Tempe.

For two years, we would face the danger and fear of lives caught in the storms of a life of poverty. We would feel the loneliness of the lost, and join hearts with those seeking refuge in a dry and thirsty land. We would experience the despair that comes when there is no shelter from life’s injustice. Most importantly, we would learn life lessons which have served us well and that, perhaps, could have only been found… in the ghetto.