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| The Corner Photo credit: Elisabeth Jordan |
My
friend Elisabeth has dedicated her life to helping the homeless. Several times a week
she goes to a place she affectionately calls “the Corner” – an intersection in
the area just south of downtown Dallas that is one of the most poverty-stricken
areas in the nation – and cares for the material, emotional, and spiritual
needs of the homeless men and women there.
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| Elisabeth and her homeless friends Photo credit: Elisabeth Jordan |
Recently
she invited me to join her, so I ventured down to the Corner to hang out with her
and some of her homeless friends. I did
my best to jump right in, mingling with the men and women scattered about, some
seeking shelter under the cool shade of a tree, others lined up in the blazing
sun awaiting entrance to the shelter they would call home for the night. I struck up conversations with a few and they
shared their stories with me:
- One man told me he had been on the street for years, proudly showing me his homemade mattress made out of plastic grocery bags woven together;
- Another man with the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen shared that he’s trying to overcome an addiction of 23 years;
- And another pleaded with me to call the mayor on his behalf certain that if I could just talk to him the issue of homelessness could be solved.
As I stood there listening to each man’s story, I earnestly
wanted to help, yet felt so helpless. I wished I could offer practical
solutions and words of advice that would fix their problems, but I had none. I wished I had my
checkbook with me so I could buy them what they needed, but I had left it at home.
I wish I knew the mayor, but I didn’t. Instead, I was standing there utterly
empty handed. I had nothing to give but myself…which felt woefully inadequate.
Lord, how am I supposed to help
these people? I was
at a loss. In fact, part of me wanted to bolt. I wanted to make up some lame excuse
about how I needed to be somewhere and leave so they wouldn’t discover that I
was a fraud, useless to them, of no help at all.
But,
I didn’t bolt. I stayed.
Instead,
I did the only thing I knew to do: be present with them. I offered to hold the
man’s grocery-bag mattress while he ate a sandwich. “Don’t set it down, someone
will take it!” he pleaded with me, so I stood there, making sure he saw me
holding it tight while he ate. Then I held the hand of the man with the kind
eyes as he told me of his addiction and his dependence upon God to help him
overcome it. I listened and nodded and cried, and shared how I needed to depend
on God for help, too.
All I had to give them was myself – my attention, my
compassion and love. But, oddly, somehow that felt like enough. In fact, it
felt like everything. As I looked in their eyes as we
talked about our lives, our families, our joys and sorrows, there was a
connection. We were relating deeply, authentically, the way human beings are
designed to. It was enough. I was
enough.
Sure, it would have been helpful if I could have given them
something tangible. After all, Jesus himself was full of practical help.
He healed. He delivered. He gave people fishes and loaves. He was - and is - the
God of provision.
But isn’t it true that the Lord is
also the God of presence? After all,
when God introduced Himself to Moses at the burning bush, He called Himself
simply, “I Am.” In that moment, it seems, His being present with Moses, relating
with him, meant everything.
As people made in God’s image,
maybe there are times when we are to be people of provision, and other times
when we are to be people of presence. Although meeting material needs is
important, maybe there are times where just being there, meeting needs of the soul, is of equal importance.
I had asked the Lord how to help
these people, and in the process I was the one who was helped. As I climbed
into my car and drove away from the Corner, I felt fulfilled, whole, and
useful. I hope I
ministered to those men, but I know they ministered to me. They showed me that I am enough.
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