The Gift

Yesterday, some Good Samaritan placed a $100 bill under my windshield wiper blade. The donor had packaged the treasure in a cellophane wrapper with a note about the gift of the Christ child.  Clearly, I had been blessed for  no good reason.  The implication seemed clear to me:  someone else needed to receive a similar blessing just because.  

As I thought about giving the gift away, or passing it along, my mind raced and I found the anticipation of giving the little treasure to someone who really needed it extremely satisfying. 

Arriving at CitySquare's Opportunity Center this morning, I observed a long line in queue to shop in our grocery store.  Our customers waited patiently to get in the building and out of the cold. 

Possibly my gift should go to one of these lovely persons. 

How would I decide?  There were so many people in need.  Who could know the correct choice?  As I stood almost paralyzed in my confused, elusive discernment, emotions flooded my heart.  Tears filled my eyes. 

Who could choose?

Everyone needed my gift.  The scale of the need just in our center outstripped the capacity of not only my meager offering, but our entire "blessing ecosystem." 

This many precious people, reduced to depending on charity to exist, infuriates me. 

It is so wrong. 

We can do so much better. . .if we decide we want to do better.  

And, oh yes, the $100 bill found its way into the grateful hands of a grandmother who came to "shop" for Christmas dinner. 

Thanks to the special angel who left the gift on my windshield.  It proved to be an eye-opening gift. 

Charity won't do

POVERTY, INC. | Official Trailer from POVERTY, INC. | The Movie on Vimeo.

Moving beyond charity. . .

Showing a Lack of Faith

To feed the hungry, clothe the naked and shelter the harborless without also trying to change the social order so that people can feed, clothe and shelter themselves is just to apply palliatives. It is to show a lack of faith in one’s fellows, their responsibilities as children of God, heirs of heaven.

Dorothy Day
Source: The Catholic Worker (February 1945)

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Sick. . .and tired

Last Thursday we took part in a "big event" out at the Opportunity Center just across the street from "the Corner." 

A number of our community partners showed up to be with us. 

We served several hundred meals. 

People were pleasant, engaging and joyful--on both sides of the resource line!

The folks who came with the meals did a superb job in delivering them.  It wasn't just another "hand out.'  The volunteers from this company really spent time with the homeless poor who came to retrieve a box lunch.

But, simple "retrieval" wasn't possible with this group. 

If you came, you talked to these people, both at the service line and then in lawn chairs arranged for conversation! 

For them, it wasn't about the meal. 

No, it was about the common humanity of everyone. 

Beautiful event. 

In the midst of it I walked up the street a bit to invite others to join us. 

As I walked, I spotted him.

A man, slightly built, about 60-years-old, I'd hunch.

He looked ill. 

His skin tone was deeply yellowish, betraying possible liver disease. 

He was sitting on the curb resting his feet on a drain opening. 

I invited him to join us for lunch.

The only word in his reply that I could hear was "sick." 

"Are you feeling sick," I asked. "Do I need to call for a doctor?"

"No!" he snapped back.  "I said, 'I'm sick of stale sandwiches,'" he explained. 

"I'm sure you are and I'm sorry," I replied before retreating up the street further. 

He told me the truth.  (Actually, the sandwiches this time were boxed, beautiful and not stale, but this gentleman had been to plenty of our rodeos!)  He'd eaten my sandwiches before and he was tired.

In reality, what he was tired of was having to depend upon and settle for what I decided to bring his way. 

He wanted more, and he wanted more on his terms.

I wasn't offended at all. 

He just told me the truth as he saw and experienced it.

I left our encounter more determined than ever to work for the development of more permanent supportive housing.

Someday, I hope to watch him move into an apartment of his own where he can prepare his own meals, as he likes them.

If I'm lucky, maybe he'll invite me to dine with him in a home of his own.