I recently met a man who told me how the system is broken. I was uncertain as to what ‘system’ he was speaking about, but I nodded, encouraging him with my undivided attention.
“Do you know how much a bus pass is in this town?” he asked.
I hesitated, not sure if he wanted me to guess or simply wanted me to wait for his answer. In my hesitation, he bowed up, and his reply felt more like a spit in the face of society.
“$120 for a month, there and back each day. $120 a month!”
“There and back where?” I asked.
“Work. That is if I had work.”
I looked at the man as he looked at me. He was close to my age, maybe a few years older. His gray beard had scraggly strands poking through like thin rusty, bent nails. Eyes the color of the sea on a cold, rainy day, he looked at me with a hint of desperation.
“How long have you been without work?” I asked.
“Well, it ain’t for lack of trying if that’s what you’re getting at!” he snapped.
I knew then that he was not fighting against me; he was fighting against something greater than the both of us. He didn’t know me. We were strangers whose paths had crossed for a few moments in the span of our lifetime.
“I was not ‘getting at’ anything, sir. I was trying to understand. Please explain,” I said.
His eyes cooled just long enough for the storm in them to pass. He nodded as he spoke, giving weight to each word like it was attached to a ball and chain. I could tell this man was a prisoner of war — a war that began within himself.
“I have been homeless for almost two years. No one wants to hire a homeless black man with dirty clothes and broken teeth. But they don’t know my mind. My mind is solid. My mind remembers when it wasn’t always this way. Sometimes, my mind is too good. I don’t want to always remember,” he said.
“Sure, there are resources that try to help someone like me find a job,” he continued.
“Okay, so I get the job. I got it. Good for me. Then what? How am I supposed to pay $120 for a bus pass to get to the job? I don’t own a car. And the wage of the job isn’t a liveable wage. I can’t afford no bus pass. I can’t afford to work. Don’t that beat all? Don’t it?”
“That doesn’t make sense, I agree,” I said.
“You want to know something else? Most think homeless people don’t want to work. Well, guess what? Most of us would rather beg to have a job than beg to take a dollar we didn’t earn. And you know something else?”
“What?” I asked.
“There are a lot of homeless people who do work. That’s right, you heard me. A lot. They just don’t have the jobs that pay enough to get out of the cycle.”
A woman interrupted us and handed the man a small piece of paper. “Here ya go, James,” she said as she headed to another man further down the street.
He turned the piece of paper toward me. “Food voucher. Lunchtime. Gotta go, or the good stuff will be gone.”
He gave me a hard stare before he left. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”
“Yes, sir. You too,” I said slowly. This time, I was the one nodding, giving weight to each word like it was attached to a ball and chain.
“Wait up!” he shouted to the man at the end of the street.
I knew I would never see him again, but I also knew I would never forget seeing him.
I thought about James as I drove home. My mind also remembers all too well at times. Many years ago, I ran into some hard financial times. I vividly recall skipping meals to be able to give the provisions my infant son needed. Most of my paycheck was spent before it was deposited.
One month in particular, I recall pawning a bulk of my valuables to pay rent and layering the bed with multiple blankets I bought at a thrift store to keep the cost of heat at a minimum. I remember praying over my son as he slept, pleading to God that he wouldn’t get sick because, if he did, I was terrified that I would not be able to afford a doctor.
I remember crying until I had no more tears left to cry.
That season passed, partly due to the generosity of others and God opening doors to better financial opportunities. I worked three jobs at the same time for a year before I felt like I was no longer treading water.
Most do not know that part of my story, but my mind remembers when it wasn’t always the way it is now. Those years don’t seem far removed despite that infant son now being several years older than I was during that season.
I am thankful that I remember.
I do not have all the answers, but I do have Jesus, and I know He understands what it feels like to be downgraded and disregarded. And I know Jesus was with me just as much on the days that I could cry no more as He is on the days I cry out in worship and praise.
As we go about our daily living, may we take inventory of what we can responsibly and safely give to others, for we are all God’s children.
As such, we are His family and should do our best to take care of our family. What this looks like to you is personal, and it could be anything from lending an ear to donating clothing or a financial gift. No matter what it is, may it be something that leaves someone better than how you found them.
“Then those ‘sheep’ are going to say, ‘Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?’ Then the King will say, ‘I’m telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me — you did it to me’” (Matthew 25:37-40, MSG).
This column was initially published by CherryRoad Media. ©Tiffany Kaye Chartier.
