“God is so good!” Exclaimed a woman with short stringy hair and paw print tattoos on her chest. She was a middle-aged woman with a plethora of wrinkles and tan skin. She smelled like cigarettes and alcohol. Not exactly what I would picture when I imagine someone talking about the goodness of God. I went up to introduce myself to her nonetheless.
“Hi, I’m Emily”
She shook my hand and answered, “I’m Kimberly, it’s so nice to meet you. God is so good to keep bringing you guys here.”
“Yes He is. How long have you lived around here?” I asked just to make conversation. She was a new believer but she seemed to really have a passion for continuing to walk in deliverance.
We talked for a while and before we knew it, it was time to say our goodbyes.
That Sunday I saw Kimberly at church and later that week I ran into her again.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked me.
“Yes, of course” I replied.
She held her hands out on the table. I noticed she had a faded tattoo on her fingers. “Notice anything different?” She asked.
I was so focused on the obscenity in the tattoo that my first thought was that she had tried to get it removed. It was extremely faded so I figured, since she was trying to turn her life around, she was having it removed. I totally missed the fact that her left hand was twice the size of her right. “You tried to get your tattoo removed?” I guessed.
She shook her head, “No, look at this hand” She said holding up her swollen hand.
“Oh, what happened?” I asked, incredulous that I could miss such a thing.
She told me her tale and I listened. What really struck me was that no one would take her to the hospital when she asked for help. The woman was coming to them, in pain, with a clearly broken hand. Then I realized that my judgement had been clouded because I hadn’t noticed at first either. I prayed over her hand and hoped I would see her later to try and help in some way.
As I left to help facilitate some beach evangelism for the team, I continued to pray. I thought about how, so often, we look at homeless people and only see everything they’ve done wrong. While there is some merit to that, didn’t Jesus spend most of his time with people like Kimberly who had done everything wrong but decided to change their hearts. He had former tax collectors for disciples and let a prostitute wash His feet with her hair.
Modern society is not designed for second chances; it is not designed in a way that allows people to have their hearts change. We are hardwired to protect ourselves first and foremost which sometimes me denying help to people who need it the most. There is a cure but it takes boldness and it takes work.
The cure is discernment. In order to know when its right to help someone like Kimberly and when you need to let them be on their way, you have to take the time to look with the eyes of the Holy Spirit. You have to know what’s really going on in his/her heart. Have they had a heart change? Only God knows that for sure and the only way you can know for sure is by taking a moment to step back and ask Him, “How can you be glorified in this moment?” Instead of automatically assuming everyone that has a certain label also has the wrong intentions. All of God’s creation is innocent until proven guilty. Kimberly really did need help but others assumed she was trying to take advantage of them because she was labeled homeless.
The moral of the story is: anytime someone asks you for help, take a step back, listen to what the Holy Spirit has to say and act accordingly. I sometimes struggle to believe that men can have pure intentions for a myriad of reasons. I know that, if I continue to think like that instead of listening to what God says about my brothers in Christ, I will miss out on opportunities to grow. My challenge to you is to take a leap of faith and trust that the people God puts in your path will not take advantage of you. Even if they do, trust that God has something bigger planned that you can’t see. You never know when just one act of kindness can plant a seed in someone’s heart and bring them closer to the kingdom.
