I’ve always understood that I have a soft heart for the homeless. I don’t say that in some self-congratulatory way. In fact, in some ways I find the business of engaging and caring for the homeless people I come in contact with much more difficult because of that.
I wish I were one of those people who could feel confident that the best way to care for the down-and-out, the mentally broken, the victims of addiction I encounter on the street is to give to a specific charity I believe in or work at a soup kitchen. Or, I wish I could be someone who decides the best thing I can do is constantly hand out change or carry a PB&J in my purse.
When I was a tender-hearted high school and college student in small cities in Texas, my homeless encounters were few and far between. I took to the belief that I could not love too much and that I should have confidence in God’s protection of me. I gave out money with courage. I once ran home to make a woman and her kids sandwiches and brought them back to her. In college, my friend and I even gave a homeless couple a midnight ride to their lean-to off a shady dirt road near the railroad tracks (don’t tell my parents!). I had a certainty then, a confidence, that I should do what I could and trust that showing kindness would bless and offer hope.
Twelve years after the shady railroad track car ride, I’m stunned at my innocence and grateful that my body wasn’t discovered on the edge of town somewhere. I’m a mother now. I have to be practical. And I live in a city where my encounters with those in such difficult situations are daily. In our old neighborhood, I recognized many of the faces who spent their days in the park August and I frequented. Once I offered a young guy on the sidewalk an extra PB&J in my bag only to have him hold up the biggest bag of fresh carrots and celery I’ve ever seen. Only in San Francisco.
So, I’m in a constant struggle to know in each situation I encounter what my reaction should be. Should I give a couple of bucks? Should I pass by and say, “Not today”? Should I engage in conversation? How should I protect my son without teaching him that the most broken people we encounter are those we should avoid and fear? I long for him to be a man of justice and compassion. Those are not simple values to instill (especially when I feel so far from being that sort of woman).
This past Sunday, I walked the four blocks home from church alone, having shooed Chris and August off to the park, carrying two paper bags of baby clothes a friend had loaned me. As I approached a busy intersection near a bus stop, I realized that across the street, a man on the sidewalk was convulsing. From my view on the other side, it seemed no one was near him. A man and son stood 5 feet away, staring, people were waiting 15 feet away at the bus stop, a woman beside him hailed a cab. I walked toward the scene hoping for some explanation.
As I approached the sidewalk, I looked to the man and his son standing nearby. “Is he alright?” I asked. “Should we call an ambulance?” The man’s phone was up to his ear. “I am right now,” he said.
I looked at the convulsing man. He was visibly homeless. His stench was difficult to misplace. His convulsions seemed less like a seizure and more like something drug induced. I tried to speak to him and though his eyes were open, he could make no eye contact.
“This man is calling an ambulance for you,” I said as I leaned down toward him, 8 months worth of a baby in me and two huge grocery bags packed full in my arms.
I thought about staying there beside him on my knees. I could have held his hand or touched his arm. I think Jesus would have. It was daytime. People were all around. I would have been safe, right? But Jesus wasn’t a woman and he wasn’t a mother. And he didn’t have a husband who begs her to be careful. I didn’t touch him at all.
I said, “You’re going to be okay.” Then I stood up, thanked the man with the phone and walked two blocks to my house, hoping that the sirens I heard in the distance were his.
I wish I knew the truth of my heart. How much of me was repulsed by his smell, the drugged look in his eyes? How much of me was in a hurry to get to my Craigslist appointment so I could pick up a baby swing? How much of me was afraid? How much was wise?
Perhaps the question I should be asking myself is how long had it been since that dear man on his back on the sidewalk had been touched in a compassionate way by anyone? And how did I fail to offer him love?
It’s such a hard balance, Micha. I, too, have a husband who begs me to be careful and to never, ever put our son in danger. I have my guidelines. I don’t see many homeless people out here, in the nice suburbs, right on the edge of Target and Kroger. But every single day I drive down a road with broken down trailer homes sitting next to opulent mansions. I don’t get it. How does it feel to live in a big fine house and look out your window to someone in a falling apart house?
The other day, I saw a woman walking. The wind was cold and sharp. I recognized her as one of the baggers from my grocery store. I drove past her, but then couldn’t take it. I was on my way to the bookstore, where it would be warm, where I might indulge in a yummy expensive coffee. I looped back around, and gave her a ride to work. It’s not much. I still haven’t told my husband I did it. But I can do so little. It seems like the least I can do, to offer kindness to someone I know marginally.
Sometimes I think it hurts more, to care and not to be sure how much or how to help, than to not care at all.
We are failures.
Here Him say “well done Micha” not “not enough Micha”.
YOU ARE DOING ENOUGH!
Trust Him. As you care for your baby, He cares for that man.
Your worth is defined by God not what you do for God girl!
Thanks for sharing your struggles that are all of our struggles!
OMG. So devastating and so true. There’s no part of me that doesn’t relate to this.
Thank you for sharing and asking. Let’s all keep sharing and asking this question of ourselves together.
Let’s also show ourselves and each other compassion as we try to answer.
Yikes! I face this, too, all the time and wonder if my varying degrees of responsibility are driven by love, logic, hormones, empathy, fear?
“Sometimes I think it hurts more, to care and not to be sure how much or how to help, than to not care at all.”
So true!
First, I wanted to let you know that I read your blog regularly. There is absolutely no reason that you would know me; in fact, I’m not even sure I recall how I found your blog, but I think it had to do with a poetry search during Advent.
I hope you don’t mind, but I shared this particular post (with attribution, of course!) with some of the staff at my church, my best friend who is a social worker in Child Protection, and my sister who has spent the majority of her adult life working in some sort of inner-city missionary capacity. It has generated significant discussion and reflection.
I wanted you to know that you have made a difference. Thank you.
This is a very slow reply, Eliza, but I want you to know I’m so grateful you found the blog! Thank you for reading it. And thank you for sharing this post with other folks. I love that it provoked discussion! That’s so much better than something just tormenting me in my head!
I truly am grateful that you shared it. Blessings to you!
Hey Micha
thanks for this post. I’m actually in the midst of a small class at church looking at a lot of these issues and we’re doing it through a book called “When Helping Hurts.” I have not read the book, only snippets, but the pastor who’s teaching the class says overall the book’s got a lot of good points to consider (though he wouldn’t agree whole heartedly with everything, which I appreciate). We’ve had some amazing discussions and I have this great article from Christianity Today, January 2011 titled “Should Christians give money to people on the street who ask for it?” It highlights three theological approaches to interacting with homeless people on the streets. It’s really interesting. I’d attach the article itself but I don’t know how. (looking sheepish). I work with a lot of people who are very close to the poverty line (make too much to qualify for assistance but too little to have financial security or savings or health care or nutritious food, etc. etc.) and then I come home to my big house in a nice, safe neighborhood where I can buy the food I want and fill my cars with gas when I want to. It’s a dichotomy that’s hard to manage sometimes. I’d love to hear more thoughts about this from you and others, maybe after t-rexy is born? : >
Andrea
I’m thankful for your perspective, Andrea. That dichotomy is so difficult to struggle through. I’m so grateful you’re doing what you’re doing, though! I’d love to read that article as well. (If you find a way to send it to me? There’s always email!)
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