Reflections from the weekend "Fast from the Middle Class"
I met a black man, or rather he met me when he invited me out of my chair to meet his friend, a staff worker. He was homeless with only a white t-shirt and basket ball shorts to cover his back. Fastened around his waist he wore a black back-support, the kind stockers wear at the grocery store.
He said he wanted to talk to me because of the clearness of my eyes and a countenance about me he had not seen in a long time. This is one of many reminders I received that weekend that it is impossible for me to cover up my blessed background and stable life situation. Right now, it is just who I am and so deeply ingrained that I cannot simply turn it off, and I do not need to.
His structure was two of me. His eyes were the color of coffee. He had picked out a tan trench coat from the tables downstairs before breakfast trying to hide his shoulders which hung like leaves off his trunk-like body. Occasional lone tears slipped from his eyes as he shared his story. What could make a forty-two year old black man cry freely in front of a five-foot-four, twenty-six year old white woman., especially one who did not trust white people until he left the south and moved north.
"For six days I have not eaten. I have given up, and I have been drunk and stoned under that bridge over there. I am tired; not just today, but of life. I dreamt for those six days of killing myself and ending it all. I am tired of fighting, really fighting. I do not know what brought me here today for breakfast. The food in my stomach is so foreign to my body that it is being rejected. I feel like throwing it up. I am not even sure I want to make it through today." All I could do was listen. He wanted no answers, just question.
"Do you know where I have been?"
"No, I have no idea," I said.
"I am from a nice family. My mom prays for me every day. There is a family in the suburbs who takes care of me. I cannot keep taking from them. I cannot keep receiving their charity."
"Why not?"
"I do not deserve it. I have done nothing to help them in return. I have nothing to give back. They do not ask anything of me, but how can I keep receiving that? My mom still prays for me every day, but you know what really struck me that she said," he asked.
"No, I don't."
"'I pray for you every day,' she tells me, 'but when will you start praying for you,' she asked me. I had no answer. I know God's love is sufficient for me. I know his grace is complete. I have read the Bible over and over again. I know what it says; I know what it teachers. I can repeat it back to you. I have lost my Bible three times and it always comes back to me, somehow. I know God loves me."
"Can God be trusted," I asked him.
"Yes."
"Why can you not trust him with yourself. You do not have to be clean. That is God's job. You do not have to be worthy because none of us are worthy. Jesus came for people like you who see your dirtiness and need for a savior. Trust Him with yourself since you know He, alone, is enough."
"I cannot do that. I am too dirty. I cannot let that go. Did you know I have been in jail? I have been in prison for years. I have seen so much death; more than anyone should see in a lifetime. I cannot stand it anymore! I am so broken and full of junk! Did you know that I have not been hugged, truly and honestly in years. I have sold my body to men and women alike for drugs, but nobody has hugged me. Do you know what I really want?"
"No, what do you want?"
"I want to be really held. I want to feel love again. I want someone to wrap their arms around me. Is that so hard?"
"I don't know. I really don't," I responded.
"Do you know what I want to be," he asked me.
"A preacher?"
"Yeah," he laughs. "I want to be a preacher. I want to tell people about God. I want to teach them the truth! I am an artist, too. Did you know that?"
"No, I did not. Do you know what I see in you," I asked him. "I see a man being chased after and sought by God. You have the truth. You just need to trust it. You lost your Bible and God keeps bringing it back to you to remind you of Himself. I believe God is in you and working. He is the one that makes you worth anything, only him, not yourself."
"You really think so?"
"Yes, I do. It's like this. Think of a piece of art. This piece of art does not search for the artist, right? It is a creation of a creator. We are the art. God created us, but we cannot seek him. We are his creation. He must reveal himself to us. So, the fact that you know he exists and understand so many of these truths are evidence that He has revealed Himself to you. Otherwise you would not know he existed. He loves you! He is hanging on to you and is not letting go. When are you going to hang on to him?"
"It seems so simple, but I just don't think I can do it. I wish it was that simple."
"I know."
"Did you know I have HIV? I have told everyone I have been intimate with. Some appreciated it and others were angry with me. I did not do it on purpose? How can they be mad at me? I would not have been intimate with them if I had known. How can they say it is my fault? Some now recoil at my presence and nobody touches me anymore even though that is not how you get it."
"They are just ignorant."
"I wish I could give. Nobody lets me give anymore. Everyone gives to the homeless, but nobody ever lets me give back to them. I have so much to give! But, nobody lets the homeless give from who they are. They have taken our identity and made us feel useless by not letting us share who we are. I just want to give of who I am and what I have. Someday I am going to write a book, a bibliography of my life."
"I hope you do because I think you have a lot to give," I said.
This man would have kept my ear all day. I thanked him for "giving" me his story and encouraged him to give it to other people. There was nothing else to say. I prayed all day that he would make it through today, tomorrow, next week and continue to see the truth, eventually being relieved from his despair. I shook his hand as I left. I knew I could not hug him, but I wanted to leave him with one good, honest touch. He never once asked me for anything but my ear to listen. That is all he wanted, a chance to give. The desire for love, identity and a chance to give is what makes a large black man cry in front of a girl. He knew life was too short to hold back.
We don't love by chance; rather, we make room for the ones we choose to love.
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