Hate (Voice)Mail

Bailey called this morning. Rather, she left a voicemail. A drunken, hate-filled voicemail. They say the ones you help the most often turn on you the worst.


I can now testify to that fact.


Bailey and her boyfriend J.T. arrived under the I-10 bridge five months ago. By then a daily stop, I met them just a few hours after their arrival. It was still winter and they were cold. I had been carrying blankets in my van so I gave them a couple along with some food. She thanked me and then presented me with a list of things she needed, including better blankets. No longer appalled at the audacity, I nodded and said I'd do what I could.


I was raised in the South. One of the first lessons I learned from my mom came at the age of five when I received a gift I absolutely hated. Lip snarled, I pouted until Mom pulled me to the side.


"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," she warned.


What?! A horse, now THAT would be a great gift! But this was an ugly, itchy sweater with blue polka dots. I didn't understand.


She continued with the gentle admonishment only a mother could give. "Sweetheart, a gift is never required. It is given by choice, with love. You should always accept the gift graciously and thankfully, even if you don't like it. Otherwise the giver may never want to give you a gift again."
Even at five, I understood exactly what she was saying even if the horse reference didn't make sense 'til a few years later.


Bailey never learned that lesson.


Nevertheless, we helped them under the bridge for over a month. Their original story was that they were headed to Texas, but later we discovered that they were just trying to survive in one of the few states were Bailey didn't have outstanding warrants and Texas was NOT one of those states.


That month, as J.T. drank more and more, he ruptured a hole in his esophagus and the vomit began filling up his chest cavity. Rushed to the ER one night, he went through a battery of tests until the never-before-seen problem was discovered and surgery was performed.


Unwilling to leave the stray cat she'd found, Bailey tried to sneak the cat in the hospital. She became belligerent and was escorted out by security. I remained at the hospital, trying to keep J.T. calm as he was strapped down to the hospital bed after trying to rip out chest tubes draining the poison from his body.


Bailey joined him on Day 3, after I promised to keep an eye on the cat. From there it was a roller coaster ride. He wouldn't make it through the night, doctors declared during Week 2. He was in ICU and had slipped into a coma. Surprisingly he did, though, and after six weeks he woke up. We were there every day, praying for J.T. and encouraging Bailey. We talked to nurses and doctors daily and talked the hospital social worker into giving Bailey a guest tray for meals, even though it was not standard practice.




When J.T. was transferred to another hospital in Jackson, we called friends and family members to check on them. They brought food, clothing, and even gift baskets for Bailey. We talked to them daily and were at the hospital when J.T. was transferred back once again.


J.T. was released last week. They refused all forms of help and programs that would've kept them off the streets, preferring instead the yellow-pages method of sharing their story with every church in the area until they had gotten enough money for a motel. When charitable lodging ran out after four days they returned to the bridge.


On Saturday I brought them their food stamp card that had been mailed to the church address.
Saturday night J.T. called, hungry and alone. Bailey had taken off, trading the card for Spice.
I brought him a meal and encouraged him to go to the live-in rehab facility near the hospital. Bailey couldn't go with him so she had refused to consider it. He asked me to arrange it.


By Monday, it was arranged. I'd also arranged for Bailey to get help for alcohol and drug addiction, something she had claimed she wanted help with for months. That is, if she came back.


She came back. $207 in food stamp trade doesn't get you much. Plus she ripped off the dealer so she had a mark on her head. Remember, street gossip moves faster than Ma Bell.


I got the voicemail 24 hours later. They'd gone to Louisiana. It was my fault, for not helping enough. I didn't care about them; I'd never really tried to help. SHE finally got him the help he needed, no thanks to me. I could lose her number, but please hold her mail until she got a new address.


I responded via text, a simple "I'm so happy for you." It wasn't snarky, but it also wasn't true. I'm not happy; I didn't help them at all. Not for eternal purposes. The ones that matter.


They are under a new bridge,  with a chance to sell their story once more. I pray that'll the Lord will open their hearts and send someone to share the gospel once more. Before it's too late.

Finding a Home

We were out on a typical street feed when I first met them. They were walking down the street as we headed to our first homeless camp of the day.


On Tuesdays, we meet at my house, next door to the church, and fellowship over breakfast before wrapping hot dogs and assembling sixty sack lunches to bring out on the streets. We go to homeless camps and homes where food is scarce, and often meet a few people on the road, walking or riding their bikes and in desperate need of a meal.


We had just rounded a corner when I saw them up ahead, walking and carrying two tote bags.


"Look," I said to my husband Dale. He drove because I'd perfected the art of jumping out during a rolling stop with a sack lunch in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.


The van got quiet. The running joke was that I start snapping my teacher fingers if the conversation gets too loud and we miss someone in need.


"I think they may just be coming home from the store," my husband decided. I've offended a few non-homeless people on the streets. But I always say that I'd rather someone get mad at me for offering them food when they don't need it than to pass by someone who does.


He sensed my hesitation. "It's your call," he said.


By then we'd reached them and I rolled my window down. "Hey! We have a couple of hot dog lunches here if you'd like one." Tears welled up in the woman's eyes as the man thanked us.


"Do you think you could give us a ride?" they asked. They had just applied for Section 8 Housing and were on their way back to the Salvation Army, another six miles away. As we drove, they told us their story. Ward and Rhonda from New York. They'd come down to stay with relatives but things didn't work out and they were at the Salvation Army. They had a small social security check coming in but couldn't afford the initial costs to rent their own place.


"This is great!" I exclaimed. "I'm working with an organization that helps homeless people get into apartments by paying their rental deposit, first month's rent, and utility deposit." I gave them the paperwork.


At that point, I'd given out a dozen of these applications. To be eligible you must be homeless and meet income guidelines to show that you can maintain your living expenses after the program pays your initial costs. No-one had returned their paperwork.


Four hours later Ward and Rhonda called me. "We have everything." They'd immediately gone and found an apartment, signed a lease, copied their identifying documents, and filled out their application completely. They were thanking me but the truth was, I was just as grateful. I'd begun to question if I was helping anyone at all or if I was just spinning my wheels.


They came to church a few times but are currently without a vehicle. We occasionally hang out and they call every few days. They continue to call me their "angel" but I believe THEY were sent as an encouragement from the Lord.


"Be not weary in well-doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not." Galatians 6:9 

Dearly Beloved?

How do I start a eulogy? Dearly Beloved...? Or is that just for weddings? Thank you for coming? We have gathered today...?

Truthfully, the problem isn’t how to START the eulogy. It’s the eulogy itself. What do I say? Roger Garrison rejected the Lord. Many times. In fact, the last time I saw him I told him he was going to die on the streets. He’d had a head injury a few weeks prior. The story was he’d been the wobbly, inebriated pedestrian in a hit and run. After his death, whispered allegations pointed to his walking companion as the attacker in a carefully staged robbery assault. The police didn’t care. This was Tent City, after all. Rumor has it as long as they confine the murders to within their own camp the animalistic rules of natural selection are more apropos than the criminal justice system. Then again, the rumor mill on the streets could rival any junior high locker room.

Whatever had happened, Roger had been sporting increasingly darkening bandages around his head and had maggots crawling out of his wounds. He’d been treated and released three times since the initial injury and he was getting weaker by the day.

“Please let me find somewhere for you to go,” I’d beg. “This is no way to live.”

He refused.

The last time I saw him I pleaded once more. “WHY?” I demanded an answer. “Why would you rather die out here in a filthy tent than go somewhere to get help?”

“Because they won’t let me do what I want to do.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“Drink and smoke.”

“So, drinking and smoking mean more to you than your own life?!” I’d like to say I was incredulous, but the truth was I’d been hearing a version of this on the streets for a year.  

“Yes.”

There was no conversation about the gospel that day. We’d had that conversation many times before. He’d smile and say, “Not today.” Maybe I should’ve tried harder. Maybe he’d already been turned over to a reprobate mind and no amount of witnessing could’ve brought him back. I don’t know.  But a few days later, when that call came in, I was devastated. I couldn’t possibly have done enough or he wouldn’t be gone.

Or I at least wouldn’t be sitting here now trying to figure out how to honor a life that systematically rejected the Lord and everything He stood for.

The coroner had him as little more than a John Doe. Because of our brief conversations I was able to provide enough information for the coroner and through social media,  I was able to track down his grown children with slightly alarming speed.

The Lord wasn’t the only one Roger rejected. His daughter said that her dad abandoned the family over twenty years ago. While initially stunned, she chose to recount a few happy childhood memories for me to share at the service. Several states away, coming to Mississippi wasn’t an option for her. We talked on the phone at length, however, and she’ll always be close to my heart.

One story stood out. She hadn’t seen him in eight years and their last night together turned out to eerily prophetic. They were watching an episode of CSI, where a homeless guy turned up dead and the team spent the hour trying to uncover his identity.

“I’m afraid that’ll be you, Dad,” she’d told him. “You’re going to die somewhere and I’ll never know.”

It wasn’t an unfounded fear. She was ten when her mother kicked him out of the house following the discovery of an affair. High school sweethearts, she’d put up with his affair with the bottle for years. But another woman she couldn’t tolerate. Not with two young kids at home.  For the next two decades, Roger drifted from place to place, working odd jobs and trying to maintain sobriety in the good times, and sleeping in tents and benches in the bad.

I knew none of this while he was alive. Nor did I know he grew up in an orphanage and hadn’t seen his three siblings since childhood. If I had, maybe I would’ve responded differently. Hindsight may not actually be 20/20 but it is a whole lot sharper than foresight.    

His son followed the pattern of 95% of family members I’ve met in this ministry. His dad was already dead in his mind. I couldn’t blame him; this was a man he’d seen only twice since he was five years old. My heart broke for the loss.

A balancing act. My ministry is always about balance anyway. Balancing my time between church and the streets, my alone time with God and time with my husband…I have to weigh out how much to help someone versus when I’m enabling them to remain in the throes of addiction..it’s all a balancing act and this eulogy will be no different. I will honor Roger’s memory but also use this a time to share salvation.

The service was beautiful. Because the coroner hadn’t released the remains, we just held a simple memorial service in the park. Many homeless attended, as did a local store owner Roger worked for many years ago. I wished I’d have known who he was beforehand; I’d have asked him to talk. I shared a few stories, like how Roger always wanted to stand next to me in circle prayers. I always thought he felt the divine presence of God while holding my hand and was honored until they day he leaned in and said, “I love standing next to you. You smell so good!” There were good memories and lots of laughter. An introspective look at life. A salvation message.  I’d like to think we gave a little hope to the hopeless that day.

Tents, Tarps, and Tears

The plight of the homeless is one not easily understood. Characterized in Hollywood as the affable drunk (Otis in The Andy Griffith Show), the vigilante without a conscience (Hobo with a Shotgun), or the suicidal yet misunderstood bum with a heart of gold (Jerry in Down and Out in Beverly Hills), most people view the homeless as one-dimensional and easily dismissed. The truth is much more complex.


The majority of the long-term homeless had at one point in their lives families and jobs. They fell within the parameters of what society deems normal. Many of these men and women battled issues such as depression, mental illness, alcoholism, addiction, and abuse until they could no longer maintain what we consider the simple day to day operations of life.


Some ended up homeless through no fault of their own at all. Corporate downsizing. Mortgage bailouts. Extended health issues.  These events, however, almost always result in short-term homelessness. In these instances, the homeless are more willing to stay in shelters, find less than ideal work, or stay with relatives. They are victims of circumstance and many will rebound within a year.


Others, though, even those who've never even struggled with addiction, find the lure of alcohol and drugs on the streets is a necessary coping mechanism. There are those who can walk away from the underground lifestyle without a second glance as they resume their lives. Others, however, are not as fortunate. The demon addiction is a powerful one, and many will never again be truly free and will spend the rest of their lives in and out of homeless camps, craving and despising the fallacy of freedom on the streets.


The McKinney-Vento Act, a little known piece of federal legislation since the late 1980's, has nine titles and addresses homeless issues such as shelters, education, food, and healthcare. In classifying homelessness, the act defines homeless as "individuals who lack a fixed, regular, and adequate nighttime residence." This definition was primarily used to identify and protect children who may be denied the rights to a free and public education due to a lack of paperwork. The act further describes the definition as "children sharing housing due to economic hardship," "children living in motels, hotels, RV parks, or campgrounds," "children living in emergency shelters," "children awaiting foster care placement," and  "children living in cars, abandoned buildings, substandard housing..".


While the expounded translation of homelessness applies to children here, it opens our eyes to a whole new subset of homelessness. We are not just looking at the proverbial drunk guy in the alleyway, but a whole society of those considered homeless under this scope. With extended families sharing living quarters, families residing in RV parks and camper trailers, and an increasing number of "couch surfers" in the United States, this statistical data of homelessness according to this definition is exponentially increased.


Whether an individual is considered homeless by this definition or is deemed a "literal" homeless (i.e. residing in a car, tent, or shelter), there are many groups and organizations designed to help. The government has made great strides in recent years to eradicate homelessness and many churches, civic organizations, and even individuals have found homelessness to be a worthy cause.


My blog is my day to day journey in a homeless ministry. Each day I encounter many tents, tarps, and tears. All of the names are changed but the events are real,  even the most absurd ones like the time Bailey refused to leave her cat behind when she went to visit her boyfriend in the hospital. The cat was clawing and meowing its way up Bailey's zipped jacket as she steadfastly denied having a cat while the doc kept insisting "NO PETS ALLOWED IN THE SURGICAL AREA!"


Homelessness is real. At times shocking, and at others, surprisingly normal. The complexity of homelessness lies in the fact that these are real people with real problems and real feelings. We've all heard the saying Life ain't easy! For many of the homeless, though, life itself feels like a death sentence.