Friday, February 15, 2013

Why would a homeless woman say "I'm sorry"?

That's the question that has been on my mind for about a week now.

If you don't know me personally, you will just have to take my word on it that I have a big heart that breaks easily. Childfund.org and ASPCA commercials have me sobbing in less than 30 seconds. I have been known to set blankets outside in winter for the homeless cats to snuggle on. Seeing needy people gives me the same gut-wrenching guilt and hurt in my chest that can leave me crying and depressed for the rest of the day and several days after. I don't know what it is, but when I can't help someone it's like I'm automatically wired to ignore them and make them become suspicious in my mind, like they are a bad person and that's why they are so poor they can't own a house and take a hot shower once in awhile. In case you didn't figure it out, that adds another link to the guilty chain in my heart.

Honestly, it's something I've never taken much time to consider. Ten years ago I barely used my debit card; all my transactions were primarily cash or check. As the world has become more "digital", so is the way I deal with and treat money. I now no longer really think of my money in the bank as actual bills that can be taken out of an ATM, but rather a number on a screen when I log-in to my online banking profile.

To explain my thought process, if a homeless/needy person approached me a decade ago I was more likely to have a few bucks on me to spare for them to get a sandwich or soda at the local convenience store. Now I am often filled with even more guilt than I would normally carry because 90% of the times I am approached I literally have nothing on me that I can give. Not even a gift card to McDonald's.

Back to the story, on the way out of my college town there is a crossing between two major highways that is well designed enough that has special walkways for pedestrians. It has also become a focal point for some of the needy/homeless of this town to stand in shame and beg bearing a sign that often dons the same rhetoric that explains their life story in permanent marker on a small area of cardboard. Whenever I am leaving town to drive up to see my folks it often works out that I am taking off around meal time. I don't know how I plan it that way, but I usually have a snack of some sort in the car with me. I have found myself more than once either sharing or giving my food to whomever is standing near the light, always wishing I could do more than share a medium fries or an apple.

The last time I visited one of the churches up home it was insisted that I take a care package with me to keep in my car to give away. This church had begun creating care packages for needy/homeless people. It seemed so obvious. Of course! Care packages! Why didn't I EVER think of that? I figured it couldn't hurt, but that it was probably not going to be used because of the area of town that I live in. It's not that I live in a fancy area of town, actually quite the opposite. Homeless/needy people are actual centralized in my neighborhood largely because of the number of college housing in the area, which provides a wealth of bottles/cans to collect and be traded in at a recycling center for a few bucks and some pocket change. If you are an early riser it's not unlikely to see at least one homeless person rummaging through the dumpster bins outside the frat houses and apartment complexes.

As a female I'm not exactly comfortable approaching people outside of my apartment by myself in the wee hours of the morning, so the care package was untouched for nearly a month. I had to make a trip up to see my folks last weekend and I started to pull out the driveway before I had a gut feeling that I should run back in to grab the care package (I had brought it inside so the contents wouldn't freeze in my car).

It was like God had planned the whole thing. I pulled up to the red light at the very same intersection and for the first time I encountered a woman begging. She looked awful. Hurt, shame, hopelessness just seeped through her. I had to wave her over twice before she started walking towards my car, wiping away her tears. She looked me dead and the eyes and said "I'm sorry," before gratefully accepting the zip-lock bag full of small snack bars, a can of vienna sausages, and microwave bowl of ravioli complete with a Bible verse, contact information of the church, napkins and a plastic spoon. I was so taken aback by her apology that all I could reply was "God bless."

I cried for quite a few miles down the highway, not knowing how to react to her apology. Why was she sorry? Why was she apologizing for her plight? God has more verses in the Bible regarding loving thy neighbor and taking care of the poor than just about anything else, so why is it so hard for us? Why is it scary? How did these that are so blessed in His eyes become a threat to the safety net inside my head? I don't know her story. I don't know why she doesn't have a home or a job. I don't know why she has to stand outside on a cold Friday evening in February to beg in shame for a few dollars for food or a warm drink. I don't know why it's my instinct to ignore her or drive away from her as quickly as possible when she was too scared and ashamed to approach my car the first time I waved her over.

There are a lot of things I don't understand in this world and about myself, but I do know that it takes courage and bravery to do the right things in life. I don't know if I can really make a difference in the world. I don't know if I can give up every thing like Jesus asks me to. All I know is that a small and almost absentminded change in my life made a huge difference in hers.

I have another care package ready and waiting in my car for when God calls me to serve Him again. If you found this remotely moving or inspiring, I encourage you to get with a group of individuals (or your church!) and pool resources to make care packages for your vehicles. You never know if God may want to use you as a tool today, and how much it will bless your own life to be His hand.

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