Conversation of Compassion

There he was.
One the corner, standing in the shade of a pear tree, holding his cardboard sign.

On a whim, we had decided to eat breakfast at a fast food joint; never been to this one before, but here we were, and so was he.

It was almost as if time slowed down as we drove past him, so that we could read his sign, see his face, take in the whole scene.
His sign said "homeless marine" on top, and "god bless you" across the bottom.  Crude cardboard, half crumpled, letters all capitalized in neat thin black marker.
His hair was braided under his ball cap, his t-shirt dark colored but faded, his jeans well-worn, almost threadbare.
His smile was desperate, yet beaming with hope.
He waved at every car that drove past him; ever car that pulled into the McD's in front of him was paid close attention to... words of greetings, blessings and well-wishes for a good day to each one.  Some greetings were ones of recognition, but each one given whole-heartedly.

My husband and I were moved, something shifted.  We decided to buy him some breakfast; it was one of those rare days we had something to give.
On our way out of the parking lot, we asked if he was hungry.  He replied "Yes Ma'am!" So handed over our gift of a meal.
We spoke with him briefly- we found out he was a Marine some time ago, that his name was Russell.  We told him we were both prior military, and that we'd be praying for him.
     (I know it sounds overused, but that's what we said. Leave me alone.)
He thanked us, reciprocated the prayers, and we drove on.

For the next thirty minutes, we drove in complete silence.  No chitchat, no jokes, no radio.  The cars on the road with us didn't even seem to produce any sounds.  Nothing.
God was working on each of us; compassion was tumbling through our thoughts.
But so was a mocking spirit:
     -Here you are thinking you've done something nice. (putting me on the defensive)
     -You gave him a measly biscuit meal while you kept the bigger, better, tastier breakfast.  (accusation... this one hurt)
     -Is that really all you could've given him??  (enter doubt and second-guessing)

All this was going through my head while thinking about this man, the situation he was in, how'd he get there, was he trying to feed a family with whatever was given to him throughout the day, etc.
By the time my husband and I starting talking, I was almost in tears; between the battle raging in my head,and the genuine concern I was feeling, I was sooooo ready for the silence to end.
We went back and forth with our questions about this man:
     Where did he sleep?
     Was he trying to feed a family?
     When was the last time he talked to anyone in his family?
     Was he safe where he was?
And so on.

He permeated our thoughts and prayers for the rest of the day.
My concerns were typical female; nurturing in nature...food and clothes.
My husband's were very male:  shelter, job.
     (We make a great team)

The days went by, and our physical separation from his situation lessened the urgency of our prayers and concerns. 

Until last Friday.

I had to run into the city again to pick up supplies for work.
Within ten minutes of being on the road, thoughts of Russell snuck into my brain again.
And so did the destroyer, the accuser.

For well over an hour, my curiosity of meeting this man again was overwhelming.  I prayed for God to put me where He wanted me; I'd be in the same area again, if it was His will, I'd see Russell again.

Fear crept in:
   -You're alone this time.  What girl in her right mind goes to see a homeless man alone??  What if he does something to hurt you??
     Smash that!  God's got me, no weapon formed against me shall prosper.  ( I was a bit more prepared for the attack this time...)

Then doubt:
   -He won't even be there.  Don't waste the gas.
     Smash that too!  I'M GOING.  If he's there, it's meant to be,  If not, I'm not out anything.

Then my own heart kicked in.  I realized I wanted to know this man.  Who he is, his life, his military service, his family, how he got where he is, where he slept. 
The only way to find out was to talk to him.

My heart lept when I saw him.  I must have been beaming when I pulled up to him and asked him to come in and eat lunch with me.  I saw hesitation, but he met me at the door of my truck after I pulled in to park.
We ordered our meals and cookies (insert Homer Simpson donut-drool noise here) and sat down together.
He profusely thanked me, and we each blessed our meal.  I was so intent on talking to this man that I rushed a quick prayer over my food, only to look up and be stopped dead in my tracks.

He was still blessing his food.  His eyes were closed, hands open facing up, quietly, almost inaudibly, praying.
I almost cried.
I was half-embarrassed, like I walked in on something private, something intimate: his beautiful, quiet worship.

Russell and I sat there for almost an hour talking.  We chatted about our parents, our kids, time spent in the service, being raised up north, bad decisions, hunting and fishing, and tattoos.
Then we got to the meat.
He spoke of Jesus, he spoke of God, as a trusted friend.  He talked about the church he went to, he talked of his dreams to have a ministry.
He talked about his current station in life, how he know that he would only be homeless until God called him out of it.  In the meantime, his goal was to spread a little bit of Jesus to everyone he met.

And that he did.

We could've sat there for hours talking.  The more I talked with him, Russell was becoming my friend.  But we had to part ways.  So we hugged, blessed each other, and parted; I to my truck, him back to the corner in the shade.

Since then, I've learned a couple things.
  1.  I thought I was helping Russell.  Turns out, he was helping me.
  2.  Whenever I step out of my comfort zone, thinking I'm going to help someone else, that when God teaches me.  He changes my perspective.  He humbles me, lovingly.
  3.  This has changed my life.

You see, once I saw past the label of "homeless", I saw the man.  The human being, the person with a family, a history, feelings, a heart.
Just.  Like.  Me.

I connected with him.  He's a veteran, we're veterans.  He's homeless, we've been painfully close.  He begs for food, we fight to feed our family.

The three things he publicly stated, I related to.

I saw the human behind the sign.
And I realized it could've been me.


My instant reaction is to put it on myself to find him a job, secure some shelter, and find a way for him to be fed.  I racked my brain for days, agonizing over different possibilities for him.  And I realized suddenly that he's only one of many.  My perspective broadened:  the city of Raleigh has homeless people all over the place.  What could be done for them?  North Carolina, these United States - homeless everywhere.
An overwhelming task, and it isn't just mine alone, or a task set for only a few organizations.

I was gently reminded last night to bring this into the church.
There are churches everywhere, awakening to the call of the Holy Spirit.  These churches are hungry for their part in God's mission field, so to speak.  They realize that our job isn't to seek approval from another person who's just as clueless as we are, it's to seek God.  It's not our assignment to seek our own justification via presence in a pew on Sunday morning.  The longer we sit in the pew without doing anything with what we're learning, the frustration factor grows.  They get it.  They understand the mission:  GO.

Every single one of us has/had a mother, a father, siblings, cousins, children.  These are the faces of the homeless.  Does compassion change, or become intensified, when the face is one you recognize?

Every single one of us has made mistakes in our lives, been down on our luck, and suffered.  Will our compassion change when we realize that each one of us could be the one of the faces of the homeless?

Russell's passion for God, and his appreciation for, and joy despite, his station in life has taught me to be oh-so-very-thankful for everything God has given me.
     I may not have a huge house with the white picket fence, but I have a roof over my head.  I have a climate-controlled space that relieves me from the elements.  (Thank you JESUS for my air conditioner!)
     We may work our tails off to fight to keep the lights on, and food on the table, but God has given us bodies that allow us to do so this season. 
     And He always comes though for us.  ALWAYS.  It may not be how we expected; usually it's better.
     He is teaching me, day by day.  I cannot wait for the lesson to be completed before I step out, I'll never go if that's what I'm waiting on.  So much of the lesson comes after I go.

We are the Body of Christ.
     Hands, feet, hearts.
          So I'm going to starting reaching out.


(I'm positively sure I'll be posting more on this subject...)

Lessons from a Butterfly

(written 9/24/12)

We overlook the little things so often that it's almost painful.
The tiny, the ordinary, the taken-for-granted.
A butterfly, for example.
     One decided to grace me this morning, by landing directly in my path.

It was brilliant, beautiful.  Eye-catching and breath-hitching.

God teaches me really big lessons though really little things, and I love it.

Immediately I saw how similar to people she was, this butterfly, what a stunning snapshot of humanity she was.

The colors were the first things that caught my eye.  Colors so radiant, that only God could create, and nature herself could display.
     What struck me, was that without that color, she wouldn't be who she is.  The color was strictly an identifier, what made the kind of butterfly she is unique.  What those colors represented, how she is initially identified tells so much.  She, as this particular kind of butterfly, is native to a particular geographic area.  But it's this geographic area that tells of the surroundings, the climate, the food sources, the life, the struggles, the level of perseverance she has to develop to endure and overcome.
Hm.

My eyes are drawn to a blemish, a tear in the delicate wing, which provides flight, her mobility.
     Aren't we all damaged?  Haven't we all experienced something along our journey that damages us, hurts us, tears at our spirit?  Something we have to recover from, something that changes us, who we are.  Whatever this thing is, it leaves a mark, a scar.  A reminder of the trauma endured, the battle overcome.  One more thing in the list of life experiences that continues to shape the person we are becoming.

She closes her wings rhythmically, as if breathing.  It's almost like I'm watching her tiny heart beat.
In the brief moments of her wings being together, I see the spots on the underside of her wings.
     A stain here, an imperfection there.  Flaws, faults, imperfections; we're all riddled with them.  Sometimes they're hidden from immediate view.

Those imperfections, the dark discolorations, they don't take away from her beauty, they only add to her uniqueness.

And I'm struck:  I need to look at ALL people this way:
      As individuals, colorful and delightful; revelling in the uniqueness of each one, not judging for what they've been through.
     Celebrating and loving each life as the precious gift it is, chosen and set apart for its very own journey and purpose.
    

Conviction

Have our hearts become so focused on ourselves that we've forgotten how to be compassionate to other human beings?
    
          (Mine has.)


Have we been so stricken by fear that we're afraid of anything that isn't like us, or anything that may (or may not) disrupt our little slice of normal?

          (I have been.)


Are we rendered speechless when kind words or prayers of encouragement are needed?

           (More often than I'd like to admit.)


Do we restrain ourselves, when we should be reaching out?

          (All the time.)


What would it look like to break that chain that holds us back? 
What would it look like to overcome fear for just long enough to step out of our comfort zones?
What would it look like to reach out?

           What would it look like to care for others more than we care about ourselves?

My answers are different that yours.  My heart is different that yours, my calling is different than yours. 
    
BUT... if we were ALL to do that, can you imagine how different this world would look?


Each one of us might, just might, impact a life.

  
Just one.  That's where it starts. 

It has to.