A Gift of Hope: Helping the Homeless Read Free Page B

spirits. In many ways, it was the best night I had had in a long time, and certainly the most useful one. And predictably, for a short time at least, it took my mind off my troubles. These people were, without question, far worse off than I. So the mission, that cold December night, was a success. I felt as though I’d done the right thing, and heeded the message I’d heard. And I thought I only “had” to do it once.
    But as I later discovered, and as happened every time wewent out over the years, God threw us The Big One, the curve ball, at the last stop. He always did. It never failed in eleven years after that. We stopped on the way back to my house, in front of a bank. We saw two piles of “things”: boxes, a blanket, what looks like debris until you realize it’s someone’s house, or “crib,” as they’re called on the street. One of the men who joined us to do this work shortly after, and is one of the founding members of the group, used to see cribs like these, and cheerfully call out “table for two!” so we would know how many to prepare for. In any case, we were aware that we were stopping for two people, and thus far it had been a good night.
    As we approached the doorway to the bank, which was somewhat sheltered, we saw only one person, or form, between the two piles of stuff. I couldn’t see the sex or age of the person, who was lying on a single piece of cardboard, with a thin, tattered blanket covering the form. A wheelchair caught my eye at the edge of the small encampment, and I assumed we would be meeting an old woman or man. We called out, asking if the person needed a sleeping bag or a warm jacket, and a young woman sat up and looked me in the eye. She was beautiful, with a face like an angel, long blond hair, neatly brushed, and huge blue eyes. She looked at me, frightened at first, and we explained that we had some warm jackets, sleeping bags, gloves, and socks to give away. In fact, we only hadtwo sets left, and had been careful not to stop at larger groups on the way back, so as not to disappoint anyone or cause a fight. So this was definitely our last stop.
    “You’re giving them away?” she said, looking stunned. I nodded and smiled, as her face dissolved before me and she started to cry. She couldn’t say anything, she just sat there on the street sobbing, shivering in the cold, and she thanked us profusely when she caught her breath. She said that she was with her mother, who had gone to use the bathroom at a nearby McDonald’s and would be back in a minute. We went to the van, and got what we had left, as I wished it was more. And when we came back, she volunteered that she was twenty-one, had cancer, had just started chemotherapy, and was starting to lose her hair. My stomach turned over as I listened. She could have been one of my older children. How could she be living on the street, covered by one ragged blanket and undergoing chemo? She kept thanking us and crying, unable to believe that we had appeared in the night and had anything to give her. As we talked, her mother returned, and the four of us chatted. They said they were afraid to go to a shelter, and had gotten hurt in shelters before. (Rapes, robberies, and muggings are common in homeless shelters.) They said they would rather take their chances on the streets, where they felt safer, than risk violence in a shelter. They quickly puton the jackets and got into the sleeping bags, and after talking a little more, feeling helpless, we wished them good things. They thanked and blessed us when we left.
    Back in the van, we were silent for the ride back to my house. Not a word was said. My mind was full of all we had seen, and my heart was aching for that beautiful and very sick young girl. I was haunted by her face, and everything she had said. And I did not know it yet, as I climbed out of the empty van back at my house, but that last stop had done it. The twenty-one-year-old girl with cancer had ripped out my heart.