Time For Another Dispatch...

Dispatches from the Field & Other Stories from the Margin

The Tiki Room and the Tired Ones

You’ve probably heard about the Enchanted Tiki Room if you’ve ever walked down Main Street in Disneyland, sun on your shoulders, a Dole Whip in your hand, and the faint sound of chirping birds drifting through the air. It’s a cheerful little corner of the park now, full of singing parrots and flowers that nod along in rhythm. But what most folks don’t know is that when Walt Disney dreamed it up in the early 1960s, everyone around him thought it was a ridiculous idea. “A show with birds that never stop singing? And they’re not even real?”

The engineers rolled their eyes. The accountants clutched their ledgers. The artists tried to smile politely. But Walt kept at it. He tinkered with gears and wires, brought in craftsmen, and demanded a thousand little adjustments until those birds looked alive, until the illusion wasn’t just good, by God, it was magical! It took years. It took faith. And when the doors finally opened, families stood shoulder-to-shoulder, jaws open, delighted that a man had the audacity to believe that joy was worth that much effort.

That kind of stubborn hope? It lives in the bones of social service workers.

No one lines up to cheer when you figure out how to get a young mom into permanent housing or when you finally, after weeks of phone calls, get a bed for a man detoxing alone in the woods. There’s no parade when the funding comes through for a pilot program that only you believed in. And yet, every morning, you walk into the office, shelter, or clinic with that same quiet belief that the work will matter and that maybe someone will walk out lighter than they came in.

Like Disney with his singing parrots, you learn to ignore the doubters. You look past those who say the system is broken, that people are hopeless, and that the paperwork is too much to fight through. You hear their arguments yet you just keep sanding the edges, smoothing out the process, fixing what you can fix, and creating spaces where dignity feels possible. The magic might not come with bright feathers and orchestrated songs, but I know you’ve seen it, in a laugh that wasn’t there yesterday, in a handshake offered by someone who used to flinch, in a kid who sleeps soundly for the first time in years.

And here’s the truth Walt knew, and you do too: delight matters.

People don’t survive on services alone. They survive on the moments that remind them they’re still human. They survive on little glimpses of something better, something joyful, something theirs. You build those moments into your days, even when nobody notices. A warm meal plated with care. A Christmas stocking tucked under a bunk. A birthday cupcake for a man everyone else forgot.

This work isn’t glamorous. And shame on us as a society, it’s rarely even noticed. But one day, someone will sit across from you, a little older, a little steadier, And they will tell you that it was you who made the impossible feel possible. And then you’ll nod, smile, and maybe even tear up a little bit, because you’ll know you did what Walt did. You imagined a world where the impossible could sing, and then you went ahead and built it.

So, to the tired ones in the field. To the case managers with aching backs, the overnight staff with bloodshot eyes, the outreach workers driving vans that rattle like tambourines, this one’s for you. You’re building rooms where people can breathe again. Rooms where people can find the faith to smile and hope again. And though you might not see it yet, one day, the doors will open, and someone will walk in and be amazed at what you’ve made.

Keep at it. The song is still playing. And it’s beautiful.

Well, that’s today’s dispatch. From the dusty corners and the quiet places, keep the faith, friends, and pass it on.