Dismissals

Jen is an acquaintance. I don’t recall how Jen first heard that I’m a Christian. It’s not on any billboards and I don’t have a bumpersticker, but Jen let me know that I better not try to convert her. What could I say but, “OK. I’ll try not to.” That was it, until Jen heard about my ministry at the men’s homeless shelter in Cleveland.* She asked me what I do there and I told her. And, I told her how much it means to me. Now Jen wants to volunteer there. Maybe I did convert Jen, just a little.  *Lutheran Metropolitan Ministry’s Men’s Shelter at 2100 Lakeside Avenue in Cleveland, the largest men’s shelter in Ohio, known as “2100.”

Maria, from Mallorca, was young and a stranger on these shores. She spoke only Mallorquin and some Spanish. She fell ill from a virulent infection. Doctors asked questions. Maria could not answer. There seemed little hope. My mother stayed with Maria, tended to her and whispered kind words as Maria drifted in and out of consciousness. My mother painted Maria’s fingernails bright red. Maria would awaken, see the red, then drift again into fevered sleep. When the fever broke, Maria didn’t know where she was or what had befallen her, but Maria marveled at the bright polish on her fingers.

At the cemetery to visit with family gone on ahead, I saw a woman digging around a mossy tombstone. It leaned a few degrees from upright. She pushed against the stone. I walked on over, said my “Howdy” and together we set the stone aright. We shored it up, tamped the dirt, and admired our work. I asked, “Your family?” She said, “No, my neighbor’s. She broke her hip a while ago and not been here for the longest time. I’m trying to get it redd up, maybe to bring her here to see. It’d mean the world to her.” 

Ted is homeless … unsheltered. His diagnosis is plain. From a wound on his leg, gangrene has taken hold. Many warned Ted about it. He listened to a few words, then walked away at his painful pace. Last week, I saw Ted on the sidewalk. He leaned heavily on his walker. I spoke my blunt words to him: “It’s your leg or your life. It’s one or the other.” He nodded, turned and went. Many had spoken to Ted in this way and I expected little from it, yet word came this week that, thank God, Ted will have the operation.

Whenever I’d tell Pete what was worrying me, he’d listen and say, “I admire your problem but I don’t have a solution.” Or, “That’s certainly a predicament but I have no idea how to fix it.” I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. I wanted someone to fix what ailed me and make everything right again. Pete wouldn’t do that. He’d walk alongside carrying some of the load, but leave it to me to sort it all out. I learned from that. Now, when someone brings me their troubles, I hear them out … then walk alongside, a companion on the way.

I stood next to her and watched as a fine, young horse loped around the corral, close to the fence, keeping an easy gait. She squinted, her eyes following the horse. Then she said, “His gait’s off. It’s his left front.” I kept my eyes on the horse’s hooves, trying to see what she had seen, but I could not. I asked her. She said, “Don’t look at the hooves. Watch how his head moves. That’s the tell. See how his head bobs up when the left fore lands? He’s taking the weight off that leg. That’s where he’s hurt.” 

As do most deacons, I have a day job … my own business that I started 40 years ago. It’s paid my bills, educated my sons, and kept me fed and busy. I once enjoyed work … travel, meeting people, working in courthouses and libraries, talking to folks, writing and receiving letters. Then, some years ago, it became less fun, a slow change I did not discern. Winding down, the change becomes clear: No travel … no telephone or letters … no going about seeing people … only the computer … me alone, every day with the glowing screen, emails, the websites with all those ads. 

Roger and I were friends in grade school. We rode the same bus. Sometimes, kids made fun of Roger because he wore his brother’s hand-me-downs. Some Saturdays, I’d ride my bike to Roger’s house. We built forts in the woods out back. One day, I arrived just as Roger was stepping from a small outbuilding. When he saw me, he was flustered. He said, “I just go in there to tie my shoe.” My father had told me that Roger’s family had “no plumbing.” From that Saturday, I began to understand something of the inequities of this world.  

I am considering a new credo, new words to carry me along when the going gets rough and my energy flags. I’ve had an array of short sayings over the years, mottos to give me courage and insight for the next step. I once had an ID bracelet engraved, “Amor Vincit Omnia” (the Poet Virgil’s “Love Conquers All”). For a time, my own words “Talk is cheap. Deeds speak” carried me through some hard places. Then Matthew 7:12 … “Do unto others …” and so many more … succinct reminders and tiny prayers. Of late, “Respect the dignity of every human being.”*  *B.C.P., The Baptismal Covenant, p.305

A line of cars was backed up to the main thoroughfare, mostly people waiting patiently for a free a bag of fresh produce*. Wearing a collar, I was Greeter and Traffic Director. Commuters, with no need of produce, sometimes entered our line. I would wave or knock on their window, “This is the line for free produce!” Most waved and drove off but a few ignored me entirely. They showed me a dismissive hand or stared straight ahead. It was the collar … they were afraid that I would evangelize, proselytize, or otherwise try to convert them. I learn every day.  *Courtesy Greater Cleveland Food Bank

I’d heard it a thousand times, “Seeing is believing.” One day I saw a man I knew, working at a gas station. He’d been an alcoholic as long as I could recall but there he was, pumping gas, checking tires, making change. I chatted with the boss. He told me, “He’s a good worker since he quit the sauce. Gives me a full day’s work. It’s been OK for both of us. Like they say, “Believing is seeing.” I said, “You mean … ” The boss stopped me. “I’m saying, if you believe in someone, then you’ll see what they can do.”

My mother-in-law asked about my time as a listener at the men’s shelter. I said that I sit on a chair in the hallway with another chair pulled close and listen to whatever a man may have to say. Mom wanted to know more and I tried to explain, but mom is 93 and wasn’t about to let me off easy. Then she asked me, “Can I do that?” Once a week, mom sits in the hallway of the shelter. All manner of men sit in the chair next to her. They talk to mom and mom listens.