My feet scooted across the concrete as I made way around the borrowed car I was blessed to be using. The weird locations of Starbuckses have always impressed me. This one was sandwiched next to two out of business shops and across the street from an Office Max. It seemed out of place. My eyes glazed across the empty lot as I remembered that I only have a few bucks to last me the rest of the month, so my ‘Bux spending would be just enough to put some pep in my step.
Parking the car with too much caution, I weaved and shimmied in between parked cars to the curb. Before I did mission work abroad, everyone kept saying, “You’re going to be so different when you come home”. I am still understanding the weight of this statement.
I get strange thoughts that I’m sure that I wouldn’t have had prior to mission work:
“How much money do you think was spent on all these cars?”
“Man, could I fit my stomach in between these cars a few months ago before I started to work out?”
“How much food do you think is in the dumpster out back?”
“How many substances do you think were used/abused before the song I’m listening to was written?”
“I wonder if people sleep out here at night…”
“I wonder if that guy is praying or is schizophrenic…”
“What makes him different than me?”
“How much compassion can I give a person before it hurts?”
“How much can I really change this world?”
Even before I enter into the ‘Bux, my A.D.D. had overwhelmed me. I took a step back, and breathed.
As I said a prayer for peace, I heard a voice, “You a football player?” A disheveled guy shuffled over to me. He was wearing a hat, a tattered shirt, and Levis that had seen better days. He didn’t look too poor, but he did give off the mannerisms like he had not heard a friendly word in awhile.
He greeted me with a sheepish smile.
I tried not to seem like I was too engrossed in my own thoughts to be startled, “Me? Nah… this… this is my dad’s hoodie…”
The man nodded, and I saw had a small bulging black backpack. I waited for him to ask me for money. He didn’t. He continued nodding, smiled, gave a slight nod of affirmation and shuffled away.
A wave of emotions hit me. I kicked myself for making assumptions, got pissed off at poverty, got a little worried that there was some nomadic traffic in the neighborhood (there are little kids around sometimes), tried my best not to assume because I was once a “backpacking nomad” of sorts, and in some ways, I still am.
Maybe what bothered me so much was that he just seemed like he wanted to be seen. I don’t know how long he had been outside, if he was homeless, or if he was lonely. But for some reason, I felt like talking to him was loving my neighbor.
It really made me think, “When was the last time I chatted with a stranger?”
“How much of me do I give people I don’t know?”
“When was the last time I loved my neighbor well?”
