Connections

June 9, 2025

Greetings from the hopeful,

A few months ago I noticed a connection that startled me.  I wrote myself a note so I could think about it, but finally decided that it was not something I could write about, for two reasons.  This morning I realized I might be wrong, and so I’ll risk a few words, and your patience.

Fly paper was invented over one hundred and fifty years ago.  There are various modern iterations, but the most common are the yellow curling ribbons that dangle from the ceiling.

Every home I’ve ever lived in has had flying pests, but I don’t remember ever buying fly paper.  In fact, I have seen it so rarely, I can almost name when those moments happened.

Twenty-four years ago, I was with a group of volunteers in South Dakota. We drove there pulling trailers of equipment and supplies to build beds for children living in the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. 

We were told this: you are not here to save anyone, you are not heroes, you are not better.  You are neighbors who are willing to share what you have.  And so we cut and sanded and stained and drilled and hauled the lumber into hot, tiny rooms, and built the beds.  The same rooms where children slept on piles of clothing.  The rooms held all the things that were typical of children’s rooms; posters, photographs, mobiles, a few toys.  And almost universally, fly strips.

Twenty four years ago I wrote: “The children are curious, they watch as we work. When we leave the room, they climb up, tentatively, waiting for someone to stop them.  Smiles beam out from the top bunk.  We shake hands with their mother and go to the next house.  There is always a next house.”

There was a time in my privileged innocence that I could not imagine a place existed in this country where children would not have a bed to sleep in.  I am not naïve, I see poverty, I see people who are struggling, living in dire conditions, some who are without a home.  But through most of my life I have been insulated from the reality of how this matters to children.  This tunnel vision I have, which I’m not proud of, is the first reason I felt I couldn’t write this piece.

A few miles from where I write this, there is a small bedroom with a bunk bed that I helped build.  It is nearly identical to the ones I helped build in South Dakota. The need was identical, the process was similar, the construction was almost the same, the experience of bringing it into the home felt familiar to what I had seen on the reservation.  And there was another connection that bridged decades and thousands of miles.

Knock on the door, exchange good mornings with the mother, find our way to the room where we will build the bed. The room would be small, we would make room for the place where the bed will be. There would be posters, pictures, mobiles, a few toys.  And there in the corner, in front of a framed poem, or a thumbtacked birthday card, I see a golden yellow ribbon spiraling from the ceiling; a fly strip.

The families, whose children do not have beds, come to these days along different paths. I know some of the stories, can imagine the rest.  On the reservation there is racism and crime and drugs and drinking and unemployment and illness and despair. In this city, a few miles from where I write, like almost any you can name, you don’t have to look hard to find the same suffering as Pine Ridge. These social challenges don’t simply exist on paper, there are people, families, children, who are changed by the intersection of living and hardship.

One morning the mother wakes up, perhaps sleeping with a child in her bed, and goes to make coffee, remembering that the bed-people are coming.  They pick up the things in the little bedroom, setting aside pride, pushing away the embarrassed feeling that someone will see them, judge them, or worse, pity them.  They feed the children and tell them to stay out of the way when the bed-people come.  And then they wait by the window for the strangers to knock on the door, trying not to resent them, trying not to fill in blanks for their intentions.

One mother asked us: “Please don’t take any pictures.”  And that is the second reason I felt I couldn’t write about this. This little room, empty except for a few things the children love, and a sticky spiral tacked to the ceiling, is part of a home. It is to be respected.  

The mothers are answering the phone and making meals and picking up toys. They say to the kids: you stay out of there now, let those people work. You can sleep on the top first, but you have to take turns. Don’t stand in the doorway, now. Come eat your lunch you can climb on the bed when they are done. Yes, that is your bed. You can go in there later, let them get their work done. The children’s delighted curiosity is more powerful than what the mothers can contain.

We finish the bed and unwrap the mattress, and wrestle on the sheets and quilt, leave a book or a toy on the pillow.  We hug the kids, and we thank the mother. And we go to the next house. There is always a next house. 

In the end I chose to write about this because I trust you. You will see this glimpse of others’ lives, and not fill in the blanks you can’t know, and not judge or pity. It may inspire other thoughts, in fact I am confident that some of those will lead to action.

My experience with being a bed-person has given me a few things I’m grateful for.  Perspective, understanding, humility, empathy, hope.  I have been reminded that paying attention to the world is not just noticing the dramatic inspirational moments, but also the challenges of living, which give me lessons I might otherwise miss.

For me, the hope comes from knowing that while there will always be a next house, for many of them there will also be people who are willing to build beds, or bring food, or to listen, or to share whatever they have as neighbors.

Hope this finds you extending kindness,

David

Copyright © 2025 David Smith