David

Today is a "feel good about myself because I'm doing good things that make me look [from outside appearances] like a 'good person'" day. (please read that and the next few sentences tongue-in-cheek, with a hint of egotistical truth) Driving home from donating blood (because I'm a good person), I saw a panhandler across the intersection just as I was turning onto the freeway entrance ramp, and felt the Spirit nudging me to do something about it (because I'm a holy person). Using my GPS I went out of my way to backtrack and finally parked, grabbed a "homeless bag" of goodies (I really really need to rename those) and walked up to him.

David and I shook hands and talked for... maybe 15-20 minutes? It wasn't very long, but long enough for my ears to turn red (sorry Mom, I forgot to wear my hat), and my body to start shivering. As my friends know, I don't really wear coats, so I typically find myself ill-prepared for standing in sub-freezing temps for any length of time longer than it takes to walk from my car to a building. Anyway, I asked David to share his story. He started, then stopped abruptly and asked "you don't have a camera on you, do you?" I assured him I did not. (And funny aside: I actually forgot my voice recorder at home this morning, so I couldn't have been recording even if I'd wanted to!)

David is part (or wholly?) Native American, and grew up in "nord'east" Minneapolis, and in fact his parents still live here. I'm guessing he's mid-forties. He told me the reason he signs at this particular corner is because, for him, it's a memorial site, sacred ground. He had another friend experiencing homelessness who died last October, near this corner - the cops found him alcohol'd to death under a van in a parking lot, probably he crawled under there to stay out of the rain. David put a small bracelet on the fencepost at this corner as his own memorial.

I never blogged about it, but back in December I joined my friends JD and John to observe the Homeless Memorial March put on by Simpson House, a march down Nicollet Avenue in downtown Minneapolis, during rush hour, to remember those who passed away this past year either while experiencing homelessness, or who had experienced it in the past. When David told me about his friend, I wondered if I'd heard his name read at the memorial service. (If you're interested in joining next year, here is more information about the March, scheduled for December 17, 2015).

I digress. David told me he just checked out of rehab (meth) this morning, and is staying on a buddy's couch for the next few days, and planning to move to Albuquerque in early March. "Good!" I said. "Get out of this cold!!" He told me about a typical day signing (this was a new vocab word for me - when you see someone on the side of the road holding a sign, they call that "signing". I hadn't known. It sounds much nicer than pan-handling, or, begging), shared some funny stories about *good* encounters with police officers, about how much he makes in a day (today so far, after 4 hours: $13. Other days, like Christmas, $170 in three hours), and about witnessing multi-car accidents on the freeway on some of the icier days. Oh, and something I found fascinating: he said when he's signing and there are several beggars there, they'll take turns, like swap out every half hour, to be fair with each other... and so they don't get into a fight :/

He told me about his friends and their tent city, and that they keep each other safe by sticking together at night. He told me his parents are giving him the "tough love" right now, and that's part of why he's moving to New Mexico. (aside: having read the book "Boundaries", if I knew more about his history and his parents, I might actually/probably side with them, but, that didn't need to affect our interaction for today). And he told me about his bouts with frostbite.

We talked briefly about faith - I'd mentioned it was a "God thing" that I'd stopped, and he agreed about how "God works in mysterious ways." David had grown up Catholic, and I'm Lutheran (albeit in recent years moreso Pentacostol-Lutheran, if such a thing can be labeled). I asked him if he was going to stay clean, now that he's out of rehab, and he said of the drugs, yes, of the liquor no. I confessed to him "man, if I were in your shoes, I'd be drinking, too."

Eventually I left. I got to leave homelessness behind, get back into my nice, warm, too-expensive car, and drive back to my house, to be warmed by my new furnace. For now I choose not to feel guilt over this, but I will at least acknowledge my privilege that I get to walk away from homelessness, and hunger.

For me, interacting with David was much less awkward than talking with Gary, mostly because David didn't have the physical limitations/issues that Gary does (by the way, no new updates from Gary, part 4, yet:(. And in fact, talking with David didn't seem weird. I mean, granted, it's not like he's my best friend and I'm going to open all my darkest secrets to him, but, he was honest. Every beggar I've ever talked to (Matt, Gary, and others just for a few seconds with my window rolled down waiting for the light to turn green) has always been incredibly straightforward when I've asked them "what's your story?" I suspect when your dignity gets beaten down that far, there's very little you care about hiding anymore.

Now, if I were in your mind, Reader, I'd be asking me, "Why? It's one thing to give a beggar a dollar, or even a bag with water bottle and cereal bars, but, why, when it's freezing outside, would you park, and strike up a conversation?"

If you've read many of my previous posts, you already know that to answer those questions, I'm going to re-quote Beggars in Spain, which has been the most influential book in my life, second only to the Gospels:

What the strong owe beggars is to ask each one why he is a beggar and act accordingly. Because community is the assumption, not the result. And only by giving non-productiveness the same individuality as excellence, and acting accordingly, does one fulfill the obligation to the beggars in Spain.

Gary, part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

I saw you across the Hiawatha and 46th intersection, pan-handling from the median, as I turned toward home. Toward my fully furnished, food-laden home. I decided to be interruptible, to let this be a God-moment. I didn't know it was you yet - in fact my *expectations* were that you'd be a nameless stranger begging on the corner, that I could hand you a "homeless bag" (I really need to come up with a new name for those), and that when the arrow turned green, I could drive away, feeling good about myself because I'd stopped and acknowledge your humanity, but then not have to follow through in any depth. Those were my expectations, and if I'm bold enough to admit it, those were my hopes.

And so, uncannily reminiscent (in retrospect) of the night we met, I turned at that same corner, went down Minnehaha, came back on Hiawatha, and got into the turn lane.

I'm at a loss to fully describe what emotions took place when I started to recognize your unkempt, graying beard, and the eyes hiding above it. Excitement at the opportunity for redemption from my previous failures. (see "Gary, part 3") Dread at the reality that encountering you again might mean bringing you to church again. (see "Gary, part 2") Joy akin to finding a long lost friend. Relief that you were still alive and relatively "okay." Hope that our story, yours and mine somehow Divinely intertwined, was not yet over. Peace and a sense of resolution because I could finally hear what happened in the chapter after our last meeting.

I rolled down my window, and fumbled out what I think were truly genuine words about being glad to see you again. I'm pretty sure they were genuine, anyway. I'd reached acceptance from my failed attempts to contact you, but I still felt somehow incomplete. Enough "I"s.

You shook violently, muscles spasming, probably because the temperature was at the freezing point. The arrow light had just turned red, so we had some time to talk. You told me you'd been hit by a drunk driver 7 days ago. He drove for an entire city block with you still on his hood/windshield, before he was stopped by police. He's in jail now, while you spent a week in the hospital, recovering.

The light turned green. I turned and parked at Walgreens, and came back to stand with you. Why are you out here? I thought you moved into your apartment? You did. But you have no food. Your check from the VA won't come until the 15th - because of the snow out east, 1,500 veterans' snail-mail checks got delayed getting mailed, and you were one of them. You've set up direct deposit for next month, but that's no help right now.

Oh.

And here my greatest worry this morning was running late to my car's oil change appointment. Thank you for the reality check.

I thought about offering to go grocery shopping for you, but before I could offer you said there's a woman in Des Moines who wants to give you a new kidney, and your sister is going to come down from International Falls to drive you there, tonight. Maybe. If she gets off work in time. Otherwise you don't know how you're going to get there. You've been waiting for a kidney a long time, and if this doesn't work out, you told your sister you might put a gun to your head to end it, because you don't have much (any?) hope left to keep you going. You weren't melodramatic about it, you weren't asking for a pity-party, for you this was just a matter of cold facts.

The doctors want you in Des Moines by 9 p.m. so they can get you checked into the hospital and prepped for a 3 a.m. start to surgery. I briefly considered what it would look like for me to drive you myself, but asked instead if there was a bus or train or something that ran down there. Apparently there is! It costs $45. Which is another reason you're out here begging today. No food, and no bus fare.

$45 is a lot more do-able than a 4.5 hour (x2) drive. I offer, "If you want to take the bus, I will buy your ticket." Unspoken were the words, "even though I mostly trust you, by buying the ticket myself I know exactly where the money is going." A gift with strings attached. You say they only take cash, something about no credit card readers on most of the busses, and the ones that do have them, the credit name needs to match the ticket holder's name. That's fine, we can stop at an ATM on the way; I re-iterate that "if you want to take the bus, I will do that for you." You agreed.

While we were standing on the median, a driver-by rolled down his window and handed you his pocket change. You told me later you knew him, that he'd only come off the streets recently himself. I don't know the right vocabulary right now for the emotions that evoked.

I'm also left to my own imagination wondering who may have been influenced, or who I may have indirectly ministered to, by the act of standing out on a median of a very busy intersection, talking to you for over a quarter of an hour. Who may have seen that and been moved, or a seed planted? I will never have that answer, and I'm okay with that, because I can choose to imagine at least one person was affected by what they saw. I hope, anyway, because if we're not spreading good, and if there are no hearts open to being changed, then that is a sad world indeed.

You jaywalk and I follow (is it mean of me to think briefly "no wonder you get hit by cars"?), you struggle up the grass to the parking lot where my car waits, blame me that you stumbled backward and fell to your knees (sorry, guess I'll stop trying to help), and finally we make it to my car. You warn me that your walker's wheels are muddy, so I lay down a blanket on my back seat before you fold it up and stick it inside the car. You're remarkably ... "proud"? might be the word? You don't want help, you want to do as much on your own as you're capable of. I guess I can identify. I'm impressed. You might be a beggar today, but with an "I can do this" personality trait, I don't believe you are by choice.

Standing outside my car, you light up a cigarette, and explain it's going to be your last one. Like, ever. Because you'll be spending the next 30 days in the hospital, and they won't let you out for a smoke break. Your New Year's resolution was to quit smoking, and today's the day.

All-told you were remarkably more coherent today than the last time we talked. Maybe it's the hope of a new kidney tonight? Or maybe it's that you're more comfortable around me after a few encounters?

We stopped at the bank for me to get cash, then onward to the UofM medical buildings. You tell me how you've been on anti-rejection meds for the past three months. You're generally excellent at giving directions, though we did have that one disagreement when you claim you said "turn left here" and I definitely heard you say "turn left up there at <street name>" but whatever. I learn your other sister is moving back from Germany soon to live with you in Minnesota and help take care of you. All in all it kind of sounds like your life is coming back together.

I dropped you off and got your walker out for you. You got out of the car all on your own, despite your weak legs. Definitely an encouraging sign. You've got fight left in you. I asked if you could ask the hospital in Des Moines to call me after your surgery, so I know how it went. Unspoken: "so I know if you survived." You said you would. Time will tell on that; who knows what rules they have, so even if you ask maybe they won't be able to. But I hope to hear. I ask you how much money you want, and hand you enough for the bus fare, and a little extra for food.

And somewhere in our parting comments, you mentioned how you liked my morning church, Jacob's Well, and wanted to come back. I told you to call me when you're back in town, and I guess I'll wrestle through the implications of that in a month.

I feel at peace with our story. Not just acceptance at my own inability to change the situation (as before), but true peace, a sense of completion, resolution. Maybe our story will continue, maybe not. But I do thank you Gary, because you have expanded my comfort zone. I mean, you still make me feel uncomfortable, but... less so than I did before. And I believe that's what they call "growth."

May God travel with you and bring you healing. Amen.