Just Tell Them Who You Ahh

A recent conversation with the mayor of one of Covington County’s municipalities was a good reminder that sometimes we have to offer up a fresh explanation of who we are and what we do.

Most of the public has no concept of what it's like to keep people alive and safe from harm. There's no way for them to know that our tiny program — small by design — makes it a daily mission to love survivors by providing everything from a safe, nurturing home to counseling, substance and alcohol recovery support, job training, higher education, employment, medical, dental and vision care, financial literacy courses, parenting guidance, a house curriculum developed for each survivor, and an individualized case plan.

Now, about my grandmother. Grandmother Hazel was a grand lady whose lovely southern accent didn't include the letter R. "Darling" came out "dahlin" and "are" sounded like "ahh."

I could hear her voice in my head when I told the mayor that no other organization in Alabama does what we do. No other organization in this state can say that 100% of its long-term graduates are drug and alcohol free, living independent of an abusive partner or trafficker, and thriving. And no other emergency services residential program in Alabama is nationally accredited.

The mayor graciously responded, "I think the city council members might need to hear that."

That's when Grandmother Hazel whispered, "Dahlin', just tell them who you ahh!"

Why do women thrive after leaving Bethesda House? I believe it's because survivors — sometimes for the first time in their lives — experience unconditional love. We love them by listening and by empowering them to make decisions about their own future. In tangible terms, we love as lavishly as our budget allows: healthy food, exercise, and all the other services already mentioned.

And when a survivor is ready to live on her own, we love her by rallying the community to fill that new house with furniture, dishes, and all the small things that make it feel like home to her and her children. Then we walk alongside her for at least six months of what we call Aftercare — staying close to offer encouragement, and sometimes the tough love it takes to help her stick to a budget.

Grandmother Hazel would tell you love isn't complicated. It's just showing up, again and again, for the people who need it most. That's what Bethesda House does. And that's who we ahh.