At the commencement of Lent, the church I've been attending (via Zoom) began sending out daily devotionals. The following poem hit my inbox as I sat sipping my coffee on a Friday morning 9 days ago.
The Guest
Washed into the doorway
by the wake of traffic,
he wears humanity
like a third-hand shirt
--blackened with enough
of Manhattan's dirt to sprout
a tree, or poison one.
His empty hand has led him
where he has come to.
Our differences claim us.
He holds out his hand,
in need of all that’s mine.
And so we’re joined, as deep
as son and father. His life
is offered me to choose.
Shall I begin servitude
to him? Let this cup pass.
Who am I? But charity must
suppose, knowing no better,
that this man is a man fallen
among thieves, or come
to this strait by no fault
--that our difference
is not a judgment,
though I can afford to eat
and am made his judge.
I am, I nearly believe,
the Samaritan who fell
into the ambush of his heart
on the way to another place.
My stranger waits, his hand
held out like something to read,
as though its emptiness
is an accomplishment.
I give him a smoke and the price
of a meal, no more
--not sufficient kindness
or believable sham.
I paid him to remain strange
to my threshold and table,
to permit me to forget him--
knowing I won't. He's the guest
of my knowing, though not asked.
~Wendell Berry
This poem went straight to my heart. Profound and beautiful, I continued to contemplate it as I ran errands later that day. That's when she came into view, standing at a stop sign between a strip-mall and Target.
Just off of Highway 52, it's a busy intersection, though there's rarely cross traffic and therefore rarely more than a rolling pause required before proceeding through. It was cold. She was wearing a puffy ski jacket with matching pants, a hat, hood, mittens and boots. Her sign read, "Homeless. Please help."
She didn't look homeless, I thought. In fact, she looked a lot like me, though I don't own such quality ski pants. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. Questions about how she got there co-mingled with Berry's poem in my head. Despite the long line of vehicles preceding me, I had less than 30 seconds to decide what I wanted to do.
I don't usually give money to individuals standing on corners. I prefer to donate to organizations, like the local food shelf, instead. I decided I wanted to help, but pressure from the long line of vehicles behind me, none of whom expected me to thwart their path to Target, precluded me from assisting. With an ache in my heart I paused at the stop sign and continued through.
Continuing forward I felt sick. I questioned not only how it was she ended up homeless, but who was I to drive right past? The image of that woman did not leave me for days. I shared the poem and my experience widely. I considered writing about it here. That woman, the poem, the questions about her situation, they stayed with me for days. And then I moved on. I forgot.
I forgot until I couldn't. Yesterday, at the same intersection, I came upon her again. Same woman, same clothing, same sign... There's no reason that couldn't be me, I thought. With the heavy traffic, I again drove past, but this time I circled around and parked in a lot right behind her. As I searched for cash, I called her over.
It's odd. I just realized I never asked her her name, but I did inquire about her situation. She told me she had moved with her father from another state. Her father needed medical care at Mayo Clinic, so they moved to Rochester to get it. She told me about working, owning a home, and identity theft. She said, "You think it can never happen to you..." her voice trailing to a whisper.
She mentioned living in hotels, but when I asked where she was staying she pointed to a pick-up truck. "Where's your father now," I asked? "Is he getting the care he needs?" Again, she pointed to the truck.
I handed her some cash and told her how sorry I was. Related that I, too, had been through some difficult circumstances, how I had needed to utilize the local food shelf to eat, and how lucky I felt to have not lost my home. She nodded knowingly. "Good luck," I said, as she thanked me and walked away.
There but for the grace of God... That's what I thought. I felt sad and inadequate. I wanted to do more but didn't know where to begin. I started my car. I watched as she handed the cash through the window of that pick-up truck, as her father sat up from his reclined seat to receive it. I drove away. Sad, inadequate, humbled and grateful, "There but for the grace of God go I.
Next time I see her, perhaps I'll begin by asking her her name.