I’m learning that the next steps along my path to wholeness sometimes show up in unexpected places.
I wrote this post about my encounter with a ‘bum’ on Tuesday night and saved it in my drafts. When my heart opens, my fingers humm on the keyboard, and sometimes I truly don’t know when to stop. The draft slept here, in my laptop. I would need courage to post this, and decided it’d be best if I slept on it, too.
10:40 a.m. Wednesday: I got my blog update from John Sherry, at RealSimplePeople.com. You may remember that John’s post was on my list of 10 Posts that Helped me Let Go of Fear and Pursue My Dreams. He’s the one who taught me to keep my chin up and write from my heart. John’s post this morning was entitled “The Story of Homeless Man”.
It didn’t seem quite possible that we were both writing about the same unlikely topic, at the same time, on opposite sides of the Atlantic. I e-mailed John and sent him the text you’ll find below. In true fashion, he encouraged me to publish the post, share my heart and my emotions. He reminded me that the message needs to be shared in order to do its good.
Thank you, John. Here’s an honest post … by Jane.
I had a class downtown tonight. After class I was walking down the sidewalk alone. A guy called out to me, “How you doing, how you doing, you got some spare change so I can get something to eat?”
The familiar knot in my stomach made itself known as I said, “No, sorry,” when I knew damn well that I had plenty of spare change.
I walked the rest of the way down the sidewalk, and then drove home with heightened awareness of my seat of privilege on this earth. That I can write from my warm and safe home … on my laptop, about buying organic veggies and about networking to make dreams come true. A seat of privilege.
As I made my way out of the quiet downtown streets I had the thought that I should start a site called helpthebums.com. Would it be about helping bums? How does one help bums, exactly? Are all bums homeless? Are all homeless people bums? What is a bum anyway? I hate the word, and can’t think of a time when I’ve ever used it … but maybe I have. The sick feeling in my stomach continued to stir.
I replayed the question in my mind … “you got some spare change?” The moment I saw this guy, from yards away, I judged quickly that he was probably in some altered state, that if I did give him any money, he’d surely spend it on maintaining that altered state, and not on food. He was thin, probably because of the drugs, the alcohol, the malnutrition. He didn’t need my money. He was only a block away from the Salvation Army, after all.
Rationalization. Do this to the least of these …
If he wanted food, perhaps I should’ve walked to the diner across the street and ordered him a cheeseburger.
Suffering is upsetting to witness. I am kind and generous. I have a tender heart. I want everyone to be well. Everyone isn’t well.
Guilt … a heavy heart.
When I drive around the city, back and forth to work, I avoid eye contact with the guy holding the sign at the stoplight that reads “Need Work to Feed my Family. God Bless.” I change lanes, just in-case I get caught at the red light where the guy with one leg sits on a bucket. On-occasion I see the couple who looked like me in the beginning, now with long hair, and worn out clothes. I think they must love each other, to wait day after day for something, and wander to their spot in the nearby woods each night.
How did they get there? What happened to their jobs? Did they have families and friends? Is there no-one they can call for help? But for the grace of God, go I!
I can’t justify my actions, my inaction. There is no justification. I can say that there are services to help these people. I’m not sure that there are. I can say that I’ll give money to a homeless shelter, and I never get around to it.
I know that addictions need to be fed. I know that hungry stomachs need to be fed. I know that empty souls need to be fed. What is my part?
Complacency is a lovely vessel in which to store my guilt.
Teeny tiny pieces of guilt, love, fear, and complacency. These are among the stones along my path to wholeness. They’re part of who I am, and of what I have yet to learn.
Thank you, katerha for the photo … I searched long and hard for it!
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