I sat in the leather armchairs in our dining room, and looked through the entry way full of sturdy shoes and sweatshirts into our livingroom lined with couches and tapestries. I found myself thinking, "Man, but I am spoiled."
See, I had just received a phone call from the Mental Health Emergency Response Clinic of Phoenix, Arizona.
"Excuse me, sir. Have you ever heard of a Ronald McDaniels?" the man asked.
"I have heard of a Ron McDaniels, but I didn't know he was in Phoenix."
"Oh, well, we are trying to assess his situation, and he is unable to answer our questions right now, but your number was on his body." My heart sank, because I knew exactly who he was talking about.
One night last summer, just as we said "Amen" after thanking God for revealing Himself to us through His word during Bible Study, there was a knock at the door. Behind the knock was a man in an electric wheelchair, his wild gray beard covered his chest down to his naval, trying unsuccessfully to cover the grimy clothes doing a poor job concealing the equally dirty skin underneath. It was clear this fellow had lived many hard years in an unforgiving city.
"Excuse me, sir. But my scooter has a flat, do you have an air pump? All it needs is an air pump. See I can get around just fine, but I need air, and this other guy over here," he pointed to a neighboring house down the street, "gave me some air, but its already flat again." He kept going for a while, talking with enough animation for a theater, explaining to us why he was in our neighborhood with a flat tire. "Oh, geez, I am so tired." He said, letting his entire weight fall into the nook of his seat. "I drive around hours a day, and now my tire is flat, man. And when I go home," he held up his bandaged arm, "well, things are good there, either. My mom says she loves me, but my brother-in-law and I sure don't get along. You know he threw me out of my scooter the other night? Yeah, and there wasn't even a reason!" The stories kept coming, and a few guys went in search of an air pump. While they were gone he noticed someone had a Bible. "I see you are studying the Word," he said. "Are you believers?"
And THAT started the real conversation. It lasted several hours. Apparently he had been very involved in pentecostal ministry for many years on the streets of Stockton before he became a paraplegic. He talked on and on about how the Lord has used him, and he continued to give us advice and admonishment, "In the Lord." He seemed quite sincere, but our knowing what HE did was quite important as well.
At the end of the night he had showered and had repaired his tire, and he was off.
Ironically, we had been studying how to respond to outreach in real ways. The Lord is not slow in keeping His promises.
As the weeks went on, Ron was in and out of our house, sometimes sleeping, sometimes showering, but always talking. He would talk about the Lord, he would talk about his family, and he would talk about his fiance. She lived on the East Coast, and they loved one another, he said. It took her several months, but she eventually made it out here, and we were able to meet her. Not more than a few days after that, they took off to Arizona because her son was in some sort of trouble. After that, my communication with him was spotty at best. I heard his fiance was causing trouble; then that she was the greatest thing to happen to him, several weeks later. I never really knew what was going on, but he had told me he was coming back to California. I told him we'd love to help in any way we could, but we couldn't give him a bed and three square a day; we were college kids, I thought he'd understand. I'm sure he did, but I am not sure he ever made it back to California.
Right now he's in Phoenix, unable to respond to questions. I began praying; the only thing I knew to do. There is so much pain. My mind wandered to another friend who is on the streets. She is clearly mentally unstable, and she also staid here a few nights. We ended that, not feeling morally immune, and we haven't heard from her since. When she left she said there was a letter she was waiting for; we've received 15, all from various government programs or mental clinics. I fear she would also be unable to respond to questions if anyone found her body.
It is a hard reality to swallow, and it makes me sick. Not because people I know and care about are lost and dying, but because I look around myself while listening to my Bose speakers, and think, "Why? Why is the wealth so unequally distributed? Why am I still so wealthy?"
And that's really what brought it home for me.
See, I am going to Kenya this summer, and the ticket costs $2200, and I don't have much more than that in my checking account. I have several months' rent to pay this summer, and currently no job. Once summer session is done, I'm headed up North where my Dad'll have things for me to do, but that's like robbing the monastery. I've been worried recently that I won't have enough money to keep going to college consistently, and I may need to take a semester just to work. We'll see.
But I was so pre-occupied with it all. It consumed me; it governed what I did and did not do. I used to always be the chauffeur because I had a large vehicle and I like driving, but I've been asking other people to drive because I am afraid of coughing up the dough to fill up. And it is so stupid. Look around, I tell myself, look at those who you say you love who are without a penny, dropped by every safety net established, and dropped by compassion as well. Completely abandoned, the most attention these people get are when they are unable to respond to questions, their bodies found God-knows-where.
It makes me a little more humble, realizing how caught up I've become praying for poor-little-me when there are real issues out there not being dealt with because I am too self-centered. It is humbling, and in that state of humility I find my prayers become a lot more honest, and I weep for these people.
I hope these tears Jesus has given me for these people are not alone, and I trust in His plan that they are not.
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