Dear Neighbor,

When I was a child we could occasionally afford to fly to Long Island, New York, where my mother grew up, to visit her side of the family. These were always treasured trips. The first one I remember was when I was 5 years old. The holiday season was in full bloom, and it was bitterly cold. I remember the excitement of getting dressed up to go into “the city” for a special treat, though I don’t remember what it was. What I do remember was that Manhattan was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was huge, and loud, and the buildings and streets were otherworldly. I returned to my grandparents’ house that night with a changed view of the world, but not because of the magic of the city. Early in the evening, as we navigated the streets, we encountered a man, bundled in ragged clothes, and pleading those who passed him for spare change. I tugged desperately at my mother and asked for money to give him. We didn’t have much but of course she gave me what she had, and I gave it to the man. And then I cried. I didn’t understand how a person could live on the street, but most confusing was that I was surrounded by so many grown-ups, and no one was fixing it. My mother, with her infinite compassion, tried to explain the problems and complexities of the world to me, but somehow, I felt betrayed, and my understanding of the world shifted.

Fast forward 33 years. I am a mother now, with three young children of my own. I’ve been working on housing in Whatcom County since my first child was just months old. She will be 11 in February. My littlest is 3, and on a recent outing to downtown Bellingham, walking down the sidewalk midday, we navigated around a person, sleeping in a doorway. I saw little Finnley taking in the sight – a person, a sleeping bag, concrete – and my heart broke. As you might imagine, we talk about housing and inequality a lot in our house. We talk about the visible nature of our community struggles, and failures, from the disaster of our inadequate mental health system, to the consequences of racial and economic segregation of our neighborhoods, to the legacy of colonization of these indigenous lands. But those are big words and Finnley is 3. In that moment, as we walked around a sleeping human, wrapped in a ragged sleeping bag, I thought back to the moment in NY City as a five-year old, and I wondered, what will her brain do with this blatant acceptance and disregard for the obvious suffering happening right in front of her mother. It’s been a couple months now since that moment, but I haven’t been able to shake its heaviness from my heart.

As we enter another winter season and the pandemic continues to fuel hardship, I find myself wondering, do we even see people anymore? I wonder at the mystery of keeping our hearts tender and nestled in the outrage of injustice while needing to go on with life. I wonder what that struggle means for us, for our community, and for the beautiful humans around us who are left vulnerable as they struggle to survive.

I want to live in a Whatcom County where our hearts stay tender, and I want that tenderness to inspire us to act. In fact, if we are going to change things so EVERY CHILD has an opportunity to thrive, then there is a role each of us must play. As Lydia Place continues to adapt in response to the growing need, I ask you to stay with us, join us, learn with us. As we settle into this season of darkness, I draw my hope from knowing that you share our vision of what this community can be, for all the families who live here, for EVERY CHILD. Lydia Place will continue to advocate and adapt to the growing needs of our community. We won’t give up on the children and families who need us most. And I know you won’t either.

With gratitude,

Emily