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.