One Day of Hospitality

J. Nektarios deBrouwer

I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.

   -- Matthew 25:4

It's quiet. It's 11:15 a.m. on a Thursday. The priest who presided at our weekly Divine Liturgy is gone, along with the worshipers. Soon we unlock the door, and our "work" day begins. I wonder who will come in today and what kind of shape they will be in.

A week ago, Jimmy Jones came in -- drunk. Like most of the homeless who come to us drunk, he attempted to bluff his way in. I told him to come back when he was sober, and he said he'd see me tomorrow. I don't like turning away people because they are drunk. After all, they are still hungry. I don't like to see people hungry, but I like even less to see people drunk, particularly if they are chronic alcoholics. So I remind myself that sometimes loving your neighbor means saying "No," and sometimes it means saying, "You must be responsible for your actions, no matter what the cause." Probably Jimmy Jones will go hungry tonight. But maybe, just maybe, he'll sober up.

Or maybe I'll walk outside tonight and find him lying on the ground in a stupor, like I found Larry Flickweiller three weeks ago. Larry has been on the streets for a while now, by his own choice. When he comes in, he usually doesn't want much, maybe a pair of socks and clean underwear. As far as food goes, he wants only enough for that day. He has no way to cook, so I give him food which can be eaten from the can. He's lost his can opener again, so I give him a new one, along with a plastic knife and spoon. Forks aren't very popular with the homeless; they break too easily. But with spoons, you can eat most anything.

This past Tuesday, Mary Oxford came to us needing food and money to pay her water bill. The food we could help with, but we can't afford to pay her water bill. We can barely pay our own bills. Mary has four children and a husband. Her husband can't work on a regular basis, but I don't question why. I give her a referral slip and the phone numbers and addresses of three organizations that have funding to help pay water bills. She says this is the first time she's had to do this, so I'm confident that one of the organizations will help. But I wonder what will happen the next time.

Two new people, Estrella and Carmen, come in, both in their twenties. Between the two of them, they have nine children and no husbands. Estrella is a bit timid. Carmen is a bit aggressive; she is going to get all that she can -- for free. I explain that, while they are welcome to take what they need, they don't necessarily get everything they want. Carmen isn't real happy about this, so I have to tell her several times. I also have to tell them, over and over, that if they won't control their children, they will have to leave. Finally, I tell them they must leave, and that from now on, one of them will have to stay outside with the children while the other shops. They both, especially Carmen, leave angry. I don't understand that. They have at least two complete changes of clothing for everybody in their respective families, and food for at least three days. I wonder why Carmen is adamant about us respecting her needs when she doesn't respect ours.

Larry and Mike come in. Their "home" is underneath the bridge in a little cave they hollowed out. They fill the Center with the rank aroma of the committed homeless. They tell me that, while out selling newspapers, somebody got into their cave and stole their clothing. They've been coming into the Center for at least three years; and about every six months they lose what little they have. I give jeans, T-shirts, and underwear to each of them, plus gloves and hats. This time their portable stove didn't get stolen, so I throw in a big can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, a package of soft cookies, and a jar of instant coffee -- kind of a special dinner to cheer them up.

Herman Cloud Walker and his wife, Phyllis, come in. Between them, they have six children. Herman works construction, but in the middle of January, with a foot of snow on the ground, things get tough. Herman is a proud man, so it's always hard for him to be here. This time it's even worse. Phyllis's father has died. They have enough money to buy either bus tickets or "proper" funeral clothes. And they need to make some phone calls which they can't afford. Herman is frustrated, Phyllis is crying, and I do something I seldom do at the Center: I get coffee for them and invite them into the office. I talk to them for a few minutes, and then tell Herman to make the phone calls, but to keep them short. While he's on the phone, I ask Agnes, one of our volunteers, if she will help Phyllis find some nice clothes. Agnes says she remembers unpacking some clothing that would be appropriate for a funeral. Like a mother hen, Agnes takes Phyllis under her wing. Meanwhile, I go to the records and pull out a file. When Herman is finished with his phone calls, I show him my own file. Three and a half years ago, I had just a suitcase and fifteen dollars to my name. Herman relaxes a little bit. Then we find him a nice dark blue suit, shirt, tie, and dress shoes. When they leave, Phyllis is crying again, and Herman is still frustrated. But at least they know there's a place where they are treated with dignity.

Tricia comes in, wearing her "off-duty" clothes: jeans, sweater and tennis shoes. Tricia lives with her mother who is seriously ill. She takes good care of her mother, but the money she makes isn't enough to cover everything. When you're good looks are fading, and gravity is taking its toll on your body, and your pimp doesn't want anything to do with you, then it's hard for a lady of the night to make a decent living. Tricia is always on the verge of making a fresh start, but somehow I see her month after month, needing food and looking for clothes. I feel sad to see Trish reduced to selling her body and I won't let her take clothes that could be used to ply her trade. We keep a stash of clothing for our "special ladies," things like an around-the-house-sweater, a fairly new pair of jeans, or a nice scarf. After she has picked out some clothes and gotten the food she needs, I go to our "special ladies" stash and find a pair of decent jeans with a matching blouse. She smiles -- it's nice to feel special when most people use you like an object.

It's quiet. It's 3:15 p.m. The door is locked, and the volunteers have gone home. It's been an average day. We said "No" and we said "Yes." We fed some people, we clothed some people, we talked to some people. They are pretty much the same as you and me. They may be broke, they may be down and out, their husbands may have left them, or they may be on their way to the local clinic to be deloused, but in the end they're pretty much like you and me. But that's not too surprising, is it? After all, when they walk through the door, they all have the face of Jesus.

reprinted from In Communion (issue 8, Pascha 1997)

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