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.