What a Day!

What a day!

I’m mentally and physically exhausted. Fortunately for me, I’m spiritually stronger than ever. I’ll admit there was about an hour after I came home that I had a hard time shaking off the “street.” I’d been out longer than usual today and had encountered what can only be described as part soap opera, part action-adventure. With graphic violence. And mature situations.

But not language. No-one curses around me. I’m not sure if it’s a reverence to the ministry thing or just respect. Perhaps it’s because I’ve threatened to wash their mouths out with soap in the past. In any event, mouths are cleaner than usual around me.

But they are still filled with hatred and lies.

Today was unusually bad.

I met a friend from a veteran’s service program this morning and took her to meet a vet at Tent City. I arrived to find two ladies fighting, the boyfriend of one of the ladies with a broken hand from a fight the day before, and the 60 year-old self-proclaimed “peacemaker” approaching from behind with a baseball bat. It was almost comical that when I turned and Mr. Baseball saw me, he lowered the bat then made a couple of practice swings as if he were headed out for a game of pick-up.

They don’t know my son Cody.

Born in 1991 with baby blue eyes beneath a mountain of eyelashes, he made the neonatal nurses fall in love at first sight. He didn’t stop there. He charmed his teachers into overlooking missed homework assignments, his sisters’ friends into doing his reports, and his girlfriends into doing his chores. As the only boy in the family, he learned that being the cheerleading “base” or playing the Disney prince was the way to the hearts of his three sisters.

He also knew how to charm his mama. While the others would gag and proclaim a disastrous recipe “disgusting,” Cody would sweetly smile and tell me it “had a very unique taste” as he slipped it piece by piece into the built-in drawer for later retrieval. He concocted a plan with his PawPaw who lived up the hill that whenever he was grounded he would hang a white bandanna in the front window. PawPaw would call and ask for Cody’s help in some project he couldn’t do alone, and even though he was grounded, I’d let my son go help my dad ‘cause that’s what families do. The “projects,” I learned years later, consisted of cards, sandwiches, and root beer. ‘Cause that what PawPaws do.

So the doe-eyed innocent look doesn’t wash with me anymore.

It didn’t matter. By the time he reached me, the bat had completely disappeared. The fighting hadn’t.

We decided to go to a restaurant for the meeting. The vet hadn’t eaten anyway so I bought lunch. Throughout our meal, as he filled out paperwork, I did some internet research on the family he hadn’t seen in eight years. Within five minutes I found his wife, living less than five miles away, and one of his sons, who’d been adopted years ago but reached out through a funeral home guestbook of a relative.

 

What do I do with this information?

He’d asked me to look, but once I found them, he didn’t know what he wanted me to do.

“Say whatever you want,” he said.

What I want?!! What do YOU want?

The conversation ended as quickly as it started.

After this meeting, I took Mr. Baseball and Fighting Female 1 and Broke Hand to their appointments.

Rather, their places.  Because there were no appointments. And every single place we went closed down from 12-1. We arrived at the first place at 12:05.

That was one hour in the car listening to lie after lie.

I grew more and more frustrated. Then disgusted. Then mad.

Tell me you smoked up your entire check. Tell me you broke into a building. You can even tell me you killed someone.

BUT DON’T LIE TO ME!

There was no doubt I was being lied to. And not the I’m-running-a-con lie, but lies about events that took place and people I’m also helping. One girl was at a safe shelter and I’d been talking to her and the program director for two days. These three in my car said she was “laid up in Mr. X’s house on that crack.” Not only did all three claim they’d seen her there, but they also had passed along that information to the police. I was furious.

But was I letting the anger that ruled their environment into my own heart?

I never said a word, continuing along on our stops and praying to not lose my compassion.

Then Bailey called, followed by J.T. She’s on her way to Florida and he’s “got to help her because she’s in a bad situation.” Guess what, J.T.? You are going to be too when you let her back in. Those soul ties will destroy you.

I stopped by to visit Raleigh and Frances. She has been living with him as a caretaker, her first time off the streets and out of jail in years. She had been sober, trying to get an education, work off her fines, and turn her life around.

She’s back on the fence.

I could see it in her eyes, that yearning for Christ mixed in with a craving for the drugs. The battle raged within her and it appears the darkness has the edge right now.

I prayed with her, gave her my fence analogy (you can’t stay up on that fence for long..the barbed wire will start to cut and your strength is not enough to keep you propped up), and reminded her of Roger Garrison’s funeral service. A service she’s destined to repeat with her own estranged child if she doesn’t get her life together.

A few more phone calls came through on my way home and I turned onto our road wanting nothing more than to stand under a hot shower and let the water drain the physical and spiritual filth from my body.

But we live next door to the church and I arrived home to more needs. I felt like a car, already running on fumes, that had pulled into a gas station to find the pumps shut down. My engine sputtered a little.

While we were still in the church, my husband began to play the guitar. I laid flat on my back on the floor of the church, closed my eyes, and sang that hymn with everything I had.

I felt like I’d come back to life.

I guess with the Holy Spirit, we become hybrids.

Sunday Dilemmas

Sundays are a day of rest for most people and while it is a "work day" for us, the hours between morning and evening services are usually pretty laid-back and restful for us as well.


Today, however, I faced two dilemmas.


The first was simple and quite frankly, a no-brainer for me. My dogs were looking a little mangy and needed grooming. Princess, part poodle, has hair no clippers can get through. Even after brushing. And without the guard on. So it takes at least an hour with scissors before I can buzz her. Anabelle has such sensitive skin that she acts like she's in a torture chamber so I must groom with one hand while holding her still with the other. Isabella is easy to groom but entirely too hyper and will maim you with her Edward Scissorhands claws.


For that reason, my husband considers grooming them pretty close to breaking the Sabbath.


I disagreed.


My upcoming week is full. There would be no time until Friday at least. They were scratching more than usual and seemed really uncomfortable. Besides, I love taking care of my dogs. I spent four empty nest years between kids and dogs and a part of me needs to be Mommy.


So for me it wasn't work.


It was love.


Two hours into the process as I started thinking maybe my husband was right, my phone rang.


And the real dilemma began.


Susan wanted me to go with her to get her stuff from Ronald's camp. He'd beat her the night before and she left without taking anything. She didn't want to go alone but she needed to go before he burned everything she had.


I told her I'd call her back tomorrow and set something up.


My dilemma isn't going on a Sunday. While I generally avoid scheduling anything street-related on Sundays, there are exceptions in cases of emergency. This wasn't an emergency that had to be handled today.


My dilemma wasn't that she'd gone to stay with her sister, though the situation there was harrowing. Living in a pop-up camper in the tiny backyard of a friend, Susan's sister and her husband could be classified homeless themselves. Excessive drinking has caused volatile relations between Susan and her sister, Susan and her brother-in-law, and the married couple repeatedly in the past. It won't last long.


Yet still, these were not my biggest concerns.


My dilemma is that sitting on my desk are two checks for Ronald and Susan. One to pay the utility deposit and the other to pay the first month's rent on a new apartment. I was supposed to pick them up at 9 A.M. tomorrow.


Now what?


Who gets the apartment isn't up for debate. The application was in Ronald's name; he has the income to sustain it. Susan knew this, and in a moment of foreshadowing, declined to add her name to the lease application weeks ago. So the current situation changes nothing in the process.


Except my heart.


I've done some serious soul-searching this evening. Can I draw a line? Should I? You can be a drug addict, an alcoholic, a convicted felon and I'll help you. But when you hit a woman I'm through? Is that what Jesus did?


And then there's the guilt. I don't usually allow guilt to get even a foothold in my life, but I can't help but feel a little responsible.


The closer Ronald got to moving in, the more he manipulated Susan. If she didn't go to the store for him, wash his clothes, fill up the water jugs, etc. he would leave her behind in the tent they'd shared for the last ten years. She became angry at being controlled, he told me she was just stressing out, and I gave them the same speech I'd given my grandson just last week.




At the oldest, Joe Gunn is ten and was the only one who'd not gotten to come alone to Grandpa's house this summer. Dade, the youngest at four, has spent several weeks alone with us and doesn't understand why he can't come every time. So while Hollyn, the middle child and only girl, was here, Joe Gunn began talking about his trip to Dade.


"I'm going to Grandpa's next."
"No, me."
"No, Dade. It's my turn. You already went."
"I wanna go too."
"Okay, if you want to go, you have to clean my room." Followed by, "You have to let me play with your new Gameboy." And so on.


When his turn finally came, he was joined by not only his brother, but his sister as well. While this was due to circumstances beyond his control, I took the opportunity to share how manipulating his brother was wrong and not something the Lord would bless.


I had that same conversation with Ronald the very next day.


Apparently, the ten-year-old is the only one who received it.


So now I'm sitting here, frustrated at my part in this situation, and aggravated at Ronald. I also have to find someone to go with me now because I can't travel alone with him (the utility company is one town over) and I have to find time to help Susan get her stuff. I have no idea who Ronald will get to move in with him, but he'll need someone because he can't care for himself. Susan'll be back eventually, she always is, but for now I have to worry that the apartment will turn into a drug den. I just developed a working relationship with Ronald's new landlord and I'd like it to not be destroyed right off the bat.


I'm comforted by one thing only: the Word of God. Matthew 6:34 says, Take therefore no thought for the morrow; for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.


It's time to enjoy the rest of my Sunday.

Panhandling

A few months ago I was asked the question, "How do you know whether or not to help someone?"


I was speaking to a bible study group and the women had all encountered panhandlers at some point, never knowing whether to give or not.


They knew the biblical principal to feed those who are hungry, but some had encountered aggressive panhandlers and weren't sure how to handle them.


I told them my general rule of thumb is to give food, never money. Most understood but when the panhandler is on an exit ramp you don't necessarily have that option.  You either help them by handing them a few dollars or you pass them by.


These were generous women with good hearts and they couldn't do the latter.


They probably should.


While there are some who are genuinely hungry and appreciate the food, most panhandlers are strictly after cash.


Called "flying a sign," these men and women set up in heavy traffic areas with words on cardboard stating such things as "Will Work for Food," "Hungry, Please Help," and "Homeless, God Bless  You." This money is used for alcohol, drugs, and court fines, among other things. I've watched as homeless men peel off twenties after a day panhandling and ask me to go to the store to get phone cards, movies, or radio batteries for them.


Some people who panhandle aren't homeless at all, but rather find a day in the sun with a sign preferable to working an actual job. I've even seen shelters and ministries put people on street corners collecting money for their causes.


While this sounds terrible, I don't see much difference in the clubs and organizations who now stand in front of Wal-Mart every week-end selling nothing but collecting donations nonetheless. This something-for-nothing mentality is part of this generation's mindset and it is disturbing.


Even as a child, we'd hold bake sales or lemonade stands to raise money. We'd walk dogs or sweep sidewalks. Making money involved working.


Not so anymore.


Beware of long, convoluted stories. I watched one guy in a grocery store parking lot approach six different people with the tale of how he had broken down and just needed money for a hotel room until the mechanic could fix the car the next day. His wife had taken their two little girls in the store to use the bathroom and get water because they'd gotten so hot they were sick. Five out of the six gave him money before he shut the hood of the miraculously fixed car and drove off alone with a few hundred dollars in his pocket.


Sometimes it's hard to know what to do.


Here are my suggestions:


1) Never take money from your family's limited budget to help someone on the streets. I have had women give their last $40 out on the streets then call because they didn't have money for diapers and baby food. The thought is nice, but be responsible!


2) Pray before giving to those panhandling on the side of the road. Many people refuse to help someone panhandling. "If they can panhandle, they can work,"  is the mindset of many in leadership.  Panhandling is often a requirement in homeless camps. "It's my turn to go panhandle for the group," I've heard on many occasions. The last thing you want to do is enable the person to stay on the streets.


3) Check stories out. It's okay to verify someone's story. It's advisable to research ministries and charities. Be a good steward of your money. If someone is offended, chances are there's a problem. A person or an organization soliciting or receiving your donation should expect to be held accountable.


Above all, be led by the Spirit!