I hurried
from work tonight and made my way to the city center. I had volunteered to help
with an event hosted by the local homeless coalition, in which high-poverty
community members were given a free meal and an opportunity to sign up for
local and/or government services, receive a free haircut, and look for used
clothing items.
I slapped
my name badge on my sweater and was asked to stand by the door and direct
people to the registration table. One by one they came in my direction, holding
filled-out surveys asking them where they had slept the night before, would
they have a place to sleep tonight, and were they hungry? I acknowledged them
with a smile and pointed them in the right direction.
As they
filed past me, I couldn’t help but wonder about their stories. Some had evident
disabilities of one variety or another. Some proudly wore evidence of former military
service. Others were elderly, in pairs or single. White heads and canes shuffled
by.
Issues of poverty,
transience, or homelessness are complex. Societal stereotypes abound. Assumptions
are plentiful. Do some of those apply to some of the cases? It’s possible. But
to assume that we know a person’s story because of how they look, or the fact
that they have to submit to a head lice check before receiving a free haircut,
or where they go to obtain food or necessary services, would be grossly unfair.
Every
person present tonight had their own story. Some smiled brightly and returned
my greeting warmly. Some barely looked me in the eye. One animated guy reenacted
an entire interaction with his cat, complete with human/cat dialogue and
clawing-at-the-recliner actions. To a person, manners were evident. They nodded
and thanked me for the event. I did nothing except wave my arm to the right and
smile. But they were grateful, nonetheless.
It was conspicuously
evident how respectfully each person was treated by the organizational and
volunteer staff. No judgements here. I watched a tiny woman who manned the used
clothing rack. She couldn’t have stood more than 4’ 10”. She was older but spunky.
Watching her body language from across the room, you would have thought she was
working the sales floor at Macy’s. I watched her pull a plaid shirt from the
rack and hold it out for a tall man standing beside her. She held it up in his
general direction, ran her hand down the sleeve, then shook her head and placed
it back on the rack, only to choose a different shirt. They were both smiling and
satisfied when he walked away with his new find.
It was
nearing the end of the event and a thin man with long, straggly hair, walked in. I guessed him to be about 40. He had been to the meal in the basement and
had chosen some food bank items to take home. Just as I directed him to the
registration table, the plastic grocery sack that held his food split open and
grapes, day-old donuts, and a loaf of white bread spilled on the floor. “Oh,
dear!” I said and rushed to help him pick his things up. Another volunteer found
a new bag for him and as he gently placed his precious items into the new sack,
I heard him say softly, “I used to be a banker and now I’m a beggar.” He placed
the last item in the bag and looked me in the eye. “I’m a beggar,” he said
again, apologetically.
“Oh, my friend,”
I wanted to say. “What is your story?? How did you get here? What path led you
this place, on this night?”
It is cold
here in North Dakota. Winter is not for the faint of heart. Nights on the northern
prairie are for down comforters and adjustable thermostats. I sit at this
moment clad in warm jammies, ready to pull a mountain of blankets up to my chin.
I am warm, fed, and comfortable on all levels.
I left the
event and spent my thirty-minute drive home pondering what I had seen and
heard. Wondering why my lifepath had led me to an adjustable thermostat and
mountains of blankets, and why others will shiver through another night? It was
all a little too much. I felt a bubble of emotion push through my fatigued mind
and constrict my throat. By the time I hit mile marker 172, I tasted salty tears
on my lips.
Nights like
this are a blatant reminder that it is not enough to give a few dollars through
the United Way campaign or to place a folded bill in the Red Kettle this
Christmas. There are people… PEOPLE… with names and faded dreams and longings
and stories, who need me to do more. Need US to do more. God, help me to be faithful
(oh, darn, here come the tears again). Help me to love and give and use
whatever gifts or talents I have to walk alongside people who are struggling. To
see them as individuals. To regard them with dignity. To validate them as more
than a socioeconomic class. To pray for them. To be the hands and feet of Jesus
in their lives.
And,
please, God, keep everyone warm tonight…
