I met a man on the street yesterday. He doesn’t remember me, though… because he was drunk.
I was walking to our favorite coffee shop in Lviv with my team. Jesse and I were trailing behind the rest of the group, deep in conversation about the Christian church.
Two young security guards, dressed head-to-toe in black, stepped into our view. They were about ten yards ahead of us, and they were carrying a gray-haired man down the sidewalk. The man was wearing army fatigues. And he looked to be about 80 years old.
The guards were on either side of him, supporting his weight by holding underneath his arms. They walked briskly, and his toes made light contact with the ground every few steps. They were determined to take him away from whatever they were guarding. Perhaps the goal was to put distance between him and some fancy restaurant guests.
“Please don’t hurt him,” I said beneath my breath.
We continued to watch the scene. The guards seemed nonchalant—completely unfazed by the situation, like they’d done this a million times before.
I mean, I’ve seen drunk people get thrown out of bars before. I’ve seen waitresses chase off begging children from the outside seating section. But this man was so old.
We rounded a corner and saw the guards walking empty-handed back in our direction. And they were giggling to themselves.
I looked past them and saw the old man. They had dropped him off in the middle of the street. Honestly, Jesse and I didn’t know what to do. We walked slower, both of us thinking aloud.
Is he blind? Is he drunk? Should we help him? I don’t think he knows where he is. Should we pray?
We came to the part of the street where the man stood, and we stopped—frozen, staring. He stumbled onto the opposite side of the street, almost barreling into another man. He tried to get his bearings. But he couldn’t. He finally fell to the ground, flat on his back.
Jesse and I ran to his side. And so did three other people.
We all helped him to his feet, then two of the people walked away. Jesse, a young Ukrainian guy, and I remained.
Again, we found ourselves not knowing what to do. As we wondered aloud some more, the old man, who reeked of liquor, heard me talking.
“English!” he proclaimed. “English!”
The young guy said something in Ukrainian, and the old man shoved him away. He turned toward Jesse and me and said “English” a few more times.
“Yes, English,” I replied. “Français?” he asked. “No, American.”
“American!… Michael Jackson,” the old man said as he kissed my hand.
I finally got my hand back. Then Jesse and I wished him well and caught back up with our team. But before we walked off, I noticed the medals that hung from the man’s uniform.
Sadness washed over me.
What kind of world is this? I thought.
In what kind of world does a man fight for his country, earn medals of honor, then end up a disgraced drunk? In what kind of world do people laugh about leaving an old, incoherent man standing in the middle of a street? What happened to him? What kind of trauma has he seen and experienced?
I don’t have any kind of conclusion to this blog other than to say… that man has been on my heart for two days.
Tears well up in my eyes as I sit here and think about him.
Tears well up in my eyes as I think about Vita, the four-year old girl who was dropped off at an orphanage by her mother. Tears well up in my eyes as I think about how the workers at the orphanage told us that Vita’s mom is a “night butterfly.” Tears well up in my eyes as I think about what must’ve happened to Vita’s mom for her to resort to prostitution. My heart literally hurts for that little girl, who isn't up for adoption because her mother still has custody of her. Vita will spend most of her life at the orphanage. She'll be put on the streets when she's 15-16 years old. And statistically, she has a 50/50 chance of ending up in the sex trade.
Tears well up in my eyes as I think about a group of people I know in the states. Tears well up in my eyes as I think about how they were excited that their establishment was voted the "douchiest" bar in the city. Tears well up in my eyes as I think about how women crave attention from these men. And my heart literally hurts as I remember how I used to be one of those women.
How on earth did humanity arrive at this point?
In what kind of world is a good laugh more important than the safety of a veteran who fought for your freedom? In what kind of world is a dollar more important than a child? In what kind of world is physical pleasure more important than intimate relationship?
My heart is just hurting today. I’m sad for the world. I want it to know Jesus. I think I want that more than anything.
"Sometimes it feels like I'm watching from the outside. Sometimes it feels like I'm breathing, but am I alive? I won't keep searching for answers that aren't here to find. All I know is I'm not home yet. This is not where I belong. Take this world and give me Jesus. This is not where I belong." –Building 429
Love,
Julie
