Under the Bridge

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.

Culture Mindset

Beloit College puts out a mindset list every year that gives a snapshot of what this year's incoming freshman class had experienced. You can view the complete list or just enjoy the sampling I've selected.

This one's for Marion and all her classmates.

Most students entering college for the first time this fall—the Class of 2014—were born in 1992.

1. Few in the class know how to write in cursive.

2. Email is just too slow, and they seldom if ever use snail mail.

4. “Caramel macchiato” and “venti half-caf vanilla latte” have always been street corner lingo.

5. Clint Eastwood is better known as a sensitive director than as Dirty Harry.

6. Doctor Kevorkian has never been licensed to practice medicine.

7. They never twisted the coiled handset wire aimlessly around their wrists while chatting on the phone.

8. Unless they found one in their grandparents’ closet, they have never seen a carousel of Kodachrome slides.

9. Bud Selig has always been the Commissioner of Major League Baseball.

10. Russians and Americans have always been living together in space.