Homeless, needy, poverty, and me

I remember the first time I had to walk past a homeless man. I say, “Had to walk past” because my family was on vacation and we had “important” dinner plans to attend. I don’t remember his exact cloths or colors, or smells, but I do remember walking past. I remember as an 11 or 12 year old feeling something deep inside of me scream. A scream of pain; a scream for my attention. I knew I needed to see him; I needed to recognize him, to look deep into his eyes. I remember fighting this, thinking, “what will happen if I do, what will take place next?” The unknown of this moment terrified me! But I had to look, and as I looked at him, the image of this broken, needy man looked deep, deep into my soul. As I said I don’t remember the exact man, but his image, the street, the town, this feeling was burned deep in my being.

I paused for a moment, hesitating in my step, looking, thinking, trying to figure out how to respond, and then the nudge, the gentle pull of my dad’s hand, reminding me of our destination. A destination that that man, the one sitting there could not be apart of.

As our steps continued down the street this man’s image was still before my mind. As we ate a gourmet meal and enjoyed the beauty of the town we were visiting all I remember was not the sights to be seen but this man’s image. That night as the bellhop greeted us, and made our way through the luxurious hotel lobby, my Dad realized my mind was elsewhere. In his gentle way he asked if I was ok. I waited to say I was, that I was fine, that the thoughts in my head where on the wonderful food that he had just provided, or on the amazing sights and experiences we were having, on the street trolley that I had just ridden like Dick Tracy, but I couldn’t lie, and Dad knew, so I asked “how do we help that man,” and he knew immediately who man “that man” was. My Dad is a great man, a godly man, a man who I have much respect for, but I don’t think he was ready that that question, I don’t think he had an answer.

He tried to share how God does want us to help, but how we’ve got to be wise in who and how and when we help. Because we don’t want to provide drug money or booze money or lady money. He tried his best, I’ll give him that, but if it was boiled down to the root of what he was saying it could have been “we should help, but we can’t help, the need is too great, we are too small, and wisdom says take care of your own.”

As the years went by, as I tried to forget that man’s image, as I became better at “just walking by,” “looking the other way,” and “not helping continue their unhealthy habits” my heart silently and slowing became hard. I continued to go on trips; mission trips, trips to the cities, trips to local “poor places,” trips all over the place. But each face I saw, each situation I observed, each eye I looked into, the scream in my heart would still be there, still screaming for my attention. The scream continued, yet softer and fainter as my experiences of “walking by” grew.

As I said my Dad is a godly man, and over time God has continue to mold him and shape him into a reflection of His heart. I don’t think my Dad has forgotten that day in the hotel, the piercing question, and his honest attempt to respond. A few years ago, Dad brought this old conversation up again. He shared how his response has haunted him, that he now disagrees with his response, that he was wrong in his answer. He shared that he is yet to find the correct answer. He has played out different scenes in his mind, looking from different angles, and trying to connect the words of scripture with the streets of today. The best thing he said, what he admits he wished he had said, was “son, don’t harden your heart, they need you and God has called us do something, keeping searching for how.”

“They need you and God has called us to do something, keeping searching for how.”

I’m still seeing the needs, though only a sliver of the needs, those that can be seen on my commute to work, or from the window of my house, or the rumors of a neighbor. But may I really SEE the needs, to not just notice them but to see them, the feel them, to let then sink deep, to not just notice and extend my pity, but to notice and extend my hand. “To extend my hand,” how? I don’t know, but may I do something.

I don’t want to be an extension of cheap charity, of charity that is needed; yet that does not restore. May I give, but give in such a way that extends honor, and respect, and value, and communicates to the recipient that “I don’t see them as homeless, or helpless, or beggar, or worthless, but that I see them as valuable, as having something that MY life needs, as having a place in MY community, in MY world, not across the tracks or around the corner, but next to me?

God, teach me how to be a giver of value, a giver of hope, a giver that not only meets needs but also builds into. Use me in such a way as to fix the problem not just give quick fixes. Let the images sink deep, sink hard, and let them be combined with a stirring in my heart from you.

Help me to stop walking by.

reading

Books can be like a nasty car wreck. You want to look so bad but with ever fiber that screaming, “look” theirs an equal fiber begging “no don’t, just drive.” Now, I know that’s a weird way to look at reading, but once we read we are accountable to what we’ve read? What will I do with what I now know? How will I respond? Do I really believe what this person is saying? Do I believe enough to actually change something about my life? As I said reading is like a car wreck. You want to see what’s in the pages, what ideas, what stories, what truths, yet you know that if you look you have to respond. I hope I’d never leave someone hurting on the side of the road, but I fear I do that with what I read, getting some sick fix on the facts, but not letting the facts become real enough to believe.

So may we as readers, be brave enough to look, to read, but may we also be brave enough to respond, to change, to let truth sink in, and not just look and point.

May we not be a reading “rubber-neckers”

PS. here's the book I'm currently reading

friends

So I've recently joined the facebook fan club. It's fun to see friends from High School, where they're at, what they're doing, what's happened in their life. I'm feeling a little old right now. I'm being reminded to actually enjoy the days that seem to fly by, not just try to get my to do list done.

dirty dancing

Ok, I’ve got to confess, Pearl has been watching “Dirty Dancing” and I’m currently fighting to not get sucked in. I don’t know if I could tell the guys at work that’s how I spent my evening. Anyway, enough of the 80’s highlights.



Thoughts:
We are all a statistic in some way or another. Some of us fall in the big numbers, some on the small. Statistics about how we will live, how we believe, how we drive, how we learn, the list can go on and on. Some of our statistics we are proud of, some we are not, some we hope that we will be a part of, and others we’ll pay big money to stay out of. But what happens when those we care for become the statistic we don’t like. When life and choices all of a sudden play out and we’re left asking how. How them? Not them? Someone else? Not my friend? It these moments, these moments of great shame, pain, and disappointment, these are the moments when the Statistics must be forgotten, when what we are or what we’re not must be tossed to the side and the heart pulled to the front.

May I, as a living statistic, remember that you and that person over there, and the one around the corner, are a statistic, someone who has experienced life, its ups and downs, but may I also remember that I and them and you are also a human, a reflection of God’s creation who’s heart is far more important then what they’ve done or not done.

hands, feet, life?

The young adult ministry that I am apart of is doing a series in the fall about social injustice, and our need to be restoring the world and being active in bring God's kingdom here. I heard Bono say that "Africa is sexy” basically that it's now pop culture to care for Africa and the aids issue, but the need is more then just pop culture, it is God given. If we are to be the hands and feet of Christ, what are my hands and feet doing? It's one thing to spend a buck and get a ONE bracelet; it's other to say how do I love my neighbor? The kids in the city school who's parents are crap? The single mom down the street? God has called us to love and to be known by our love, but I'm often more known by my mouth then my hands, my sweat, my time. I believe that redemption lives in us, because God resides in us, so we can be vessels of redemption, hope, restoration. I'm just trying to figure out what baby steps I personally can take, and what steps can I make available to those in my faith community. So we cannot only wear a bracket, but also a tool belt or whatever the need may call for.

homelife

The move has happened, the job change is underway, now it’s time to do all those things I said I’d do once August came. Like exercise, walk my dog, blog, develop rhythms that connect me with God, etc. Well, here’s the moment of truth, it’s time to get started.


The house is coming along, we’ll have projects to work on, paint on, organize on, and repair on, till my birthday in March if not later. There always seems to be one more thing to do. For about a week now we’ve worked till around midnight unpacking, painting, and moving. Last night we made some big steps; our bedroom is finally clear of boxes and looks half ordered, the study and kitchen are almost done, so once we dig through the remaining boxes in the living room, hallway and those boxes still hiding in random corners we can start working in the disaster zone formally known as the basement. But after all of that, I must confess that I simple love our new home. It’s the kind of home I’ve dreamed of, the way I feel sitting in the living room, the way the study connects to the bedroom, the twisting staircase, the old woodwork wrapping around the floor, the list could go on, but I’m realizing that at times I’m going to have to really work to keep this house in it’s proper place, people before property, cause who knows, with my electrical skills and the age of this place (built 1905) it could be up in smoke at the drop of hat.

Now to the heart stuff, I long for our home to be a stepping-stone for people. A place that whatever the next step they need in life they can find it in this house. If it’s a caring ear, I pray there’s someone here to listen, if it’s a friend, that a friend can be found, if it’s direction, that wisdom will be in this place, if it’s honestly, the truth will be told with boldness yet humility and grace. I do long for this home to not become my kingdom, my comfort zone, my treasure, but a safe place, a place of love, a place of grace, a place where you simple know there’s something different, and that something different being the reflection of the God who calls us his friend. This home must never be mine, must never be held more closely than people, but I do love this house of brick and sticks, and long for this stinkin old place to be a modern day sanctuary for those who enter.