I went out tonight to meet a good friend and spend some time together before I leave town. Downtown Springfield is a quirky place to spend time, and many of my fondest memories took place there. Shortly after parking my car, I got a text: My friend was home, suddenly quite ill. He would not be joining me.
Disappointed, I began walking back towards the car, meandering along some of my favorite streets, enjoying being downtown. As I walked past a shop, I noticed a couple sitting in the shadowy, recessed doorway with some bags full of clothes.
I smiled and said hello as I passed, making sure to make eye contact. I intentionally wanted them to know I saw them; when most people treat you as if you’re invisible, something as simple as that can remind you you’re human. Humans are important.
(Honestly, one of the things I’m dreading about the race is that I know poverty is rampant in all of the countries we’re going, and it’s going to be a constant sea of need and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to handle that).
As I walked past them I felt a tug in the back of my mind. Only God makes that tug. I love and hate that tug. I had an immediate sense that I needed to go back and talk with them. Let me clarify that: I needed to go pray with them. I instantly hated that feeling. I don’t mind praying with people, but the social inequality was so readily apparent that I didn’t want them to hate me for even assuming they needed to be prayed for, or for being an elitist, condescending prig. Or crazy. Crazy Christians are the worst.
We exchanged pleasantries; I asked if they were keeping warm, if had they eaten today. I told them I’d noticed them and thought I’d check on them. They said thank you and that they appreciated me doing so. I said good night, and resumed walking.
I didn’t pray for them at all. (What a chicken, eh?)
They said they’d eaten today, but maybe they didn’t have the means to later. Besides, it wasn’t too cold now, but later tonight it might get chilly. I ducked into a burger joint around the corner that I frequent, and got a gift certificate for them. They could come by later when it got cold, it reasoned, and then they could eat and stay warm. In the back of my mind I felt that same push though; You need to pray with them. I went back, gave them the gift certificate, wished them a merry Christmas.
I didn’t pray for them at all. Although in all fairness, this time I legitimately forgot to (which is not much better than chickening out, but is in my opinion far less indefensible.) Still, there in the back of my mind was the push. You need to go pray with them.
I walked along a few more minutes along some side streets, trying to decide how long is long enough when you’ve gone away twice and are now approaching strangers for the third time to pray with them. I arrived back at the sidewalk; she was not there, but he was. I approached and in the most fumbling, awkward way explained that something about them stuck out to me. He was quite receptive when I offered to pray for him, and I sat down next to him and after talking a little, did so.
I said that I’d love to get to know him a bit, but I also understood if he just wanted me to beat it and leave him alone. He said quietly, “No, man, you’re good. I just like to sit.”
Thank you, God, for Megan Williamson and Heather Whitford, my dear friends and squadmates, who just like to sit. I know what to do now.
“Okay, I’m good with sitting. The music from the bar across the street is pretty nice.” We listened to music coming across from Ernie Biggs, and not too long after he started talking to me, about a lot of different things. We talked about getting hassled by the cops. After a few minutes, Stacy pulled a pair of recent citations from his wallet; one for having an open alcohol container and another for obstructing a sidewalk. I wasn’t surprised to see them, given our position on the sidewalk and the acrid smell of cigarettes and alcohol lingering in the air. I wasn’t surprised, but it stirred something in my heart between sorrow and compassion.
Eventually, his girlfriend Jennifer came back and joined the conversation. They told me a little about themselves, and how they met at a local park. Like a bashful teenager he told me how he’d seen her and gone over to say hi. “That’s not like me,” he said, “but I just had to go talk to her.”
Once they figured out that I was okay to talk to, we ran the gamut. They both talked about their fear of being on the streets this winter. “Last year it was bad,” Stacy told me gravely, “they’d sneak up on homeless folks sleeping and then beat ‘em up. We started sleeping together, a bunch of us in the same spot, y’know, so we could be safe.” Indeed, he specifically asked me to stay with her for a few minutes while he went to use the restroom. “You keep her safe.”
Their friend Ray came by. He, too, was homeless, but still pulled a handful of dollar bills from his pocket and gave them one each. With slurred speech and a winning smile he told me a story of how he flew an Apache helicopter in the service and launched the drone they used to kill Obama (I was sure he meant Osama.) He shared a nip from his flask with Stacy before moving on.
Jennifer’s anxiety was so bad she lost her job. “I just had all these panic attacks. I really tried, but I couldn’t do it.” Her anxiety was no more surprising to me than Stacy’s citations; she had mentioned her childhood abuse a few minutes earlier. “Lots of us got abused, you know? But I figure his dad did the same thing to him. I had to break the cycle with my kids.”
Mostly, though, we talked about their experiences. I asked what they thought would help – really help – homeless people. “I don’t want to approach it like a problem to be solved, or like you need help; you’re not a problem, you’re people. What would make life better for you guys?” She was visibly surprised when I mentioned that some –even those in government-find the prospect of talking to someone who’s homeless awkward, scary or intimidating.
Jennifer spoke up, “We are people. Just talk with us. Get to know us. We’re not scary! We’re just different. ”
Stacy never did go to the bathroom; by the hushed conversation, I suspect Jennifer wasn’t prepared to be left alone with me, even if it was on a public street with dozens of people walking by. As the under-21 college crowd filed by on their way to clubs for underage events, I observed the dismissive, uncomfortable, and unfriendly looks that people gave us. Us. Because I was sitting there, and for those few minutes, we were a group of three homeless folks to the passersby.
As we became more comfortable together, we settled into a comfortable silence. I had a pad of paper in my pocket, and doodled a picture of the two of them together with a little note. Stacy’s eyes welled up as I got up to leave, “Thanks for just talking, man,” he said. I meant it when I said, “No, thank you, Stacy. Y’all blessed me.”
I can’t think of a single thing I did right leading up to me sitting and listening to the music; even my fumbling and stupidly praying for them before getting to know them wasn’t at all how Jesus did things. He always loved them first. I rushed straight to the prayer part of the ministry and forgot that I needed to get to know them first; that’s what Jesus would have done (without chickening out, forgetting, or needing to come back a third time.)
As I walked back to my car, I thought back to the citations. “How much could the fine be on two citations”? I wondered to myself. They’d named some of their friends who had dozens; one had almost a hundred. I knew it wouldn’t make much difference in the long run: “I’ll look him up on Casenet when I get home. It’s a long shot, but maybe that would keep him out of jail. After all, the judge wouldn’t care if I covered the cost for him as long as the fine was paid-“
Understanding struck me with sobering clarity, and I had to stop and lean against a lamp post for a moment. I’d just learned my second lesson of the evening.
