It's cold tonight in Bridge City--not quite freezing, but close. The wind whips its way along the Willamette, stirring scraps of paper, dried autumn leaves, and dust in its path.
A long line forms outside the Portland Rescue Mission, a hundred or more souls looking for a warm place to sleep.
A bus parks under the Burnside Bridge and disgorges its passengers, a mob of eager youth. Tables go up, coffee comes out, clothes are placed on plastic tables, free for the taking.
A mother wanders by with her two grown children and all three dig into the piles pulling out shoes and hats and coats and blankets. They cart away a bag full of stuff--I don't see where it's stashed--and mosey back over for more.
Four or five men warm their hands around paper cups of fresh coffee. They're joined by more.
"Are the clothes free for everyone?" Sharon asks. She approaches the tables tentatively, unsure if she's allowed to touch.
"Help yourself," I say. "And have something to drink, too."
"I just need the clothes."
She does, too. Her thin jacket and jeans won't protect her from a night like this. We rummage through the gloves together and find a fingerless pair with a mitten flap that will keep her fingers warm.
"How can I pray for you?" I ask. It's been so long since I asked a stranger that question.
She doesn't even hesitate. "Strength," she says. "I'm 33 days clean and sober and I need strength."
"You've got it." I reach a hand for her shoulder, but Sharon's not shy about pulling me in for a full hug while I pray for her.
A woman wobbles up on her bike, its red strobe flashing in unison with the strobe on her dog's collar. The black pit bull waits patiently on the curb while his owner finds a sweater and a blanket. I hold the dog until his owner balances her goods on her handlebars, then she and the dog continue down the sidewalk. Some men pray over Matthew and some others, I didn't catch their names.
It's not much we offer--a small meal, warm hands, a little conversation--before we pile back into our vans and buses and head back to the comfortable suburbs. Just a blink of an eye for us, but for Sharon and the others, the cold persists, the struggle continues.
My heart grows jaded sometimes toward human suffering. I witness a drug deal and don't know what to say. My youngest child buckles her seatbelt and tells the truth, "Homeless people are nice."
They are and they aren't. Just like me.
2 comments:
Thank you for reminding me how blessed I am. That same day, John and I came out of a shop. We crossed the street to our car, parked nearby. I complained about the bitterly cold wind. First thing this morning, I read your blog. It brought to mind a poem my father often used in his sermons. I don't remember much of it except when the poet inconvenieced would whine, he would see someone with a genuine handicap and say, "I have two legs (or seeing eyes, etc.); the world is mine."
The world is mine by Joy Lovelet Crawford
Today on a bus, I saw a lovely girl with silken hair
I envied her, she seemed so gay, and I wished I was so fair
When suddenly she rose to leave, I saw her hobble down the isle
O God, forgive me when I whine
I have two legs, the world is mine
And then I stopped to buy some sweets
The lad who sold them had such charm
I talked with him, he seemed so calm, and if I were late it would do no harm,
And as I left he said to me “I thank you, you have been so kind”
It’s nice to talk with folks like you. You see, I’m blind
O God forgive me when I whine
I have two eyes, the world is mine
Later walking down the street, I saw a child with eyes of blue
He stood and watched the others play; it seemed he knew not what to do
I stopped a moment, then I said, why don’t you join the others dear”
He looked ahead without a word, and then I knew he could not hear
O God forgive me when I whine
I have two ears, the world is mine
With legs to take me where I’ll go
With eyes to see the sunsets glow
With ears to ear what I would know
O God forgive me when I whine
I’m blessed, indeed, the world is mine
Post a Comment