The homeless man’s eyes are cloudy blue.
He is a black man.
The cloudy blue mass covering his irises were not natural.
But then, what IS natural, exactly, about being homeless?
The eyes stand out, nonetheless.
I first saw these eyes shortly after he gingerly approached my truck as I was loading groceries into the back seat. But not at first.
My grandson was playing with a brand-new set of “grabby hands” – inexpensive stretchy rubber hands on long gooey arms – and called out in response to the man’s hesitant but toothy smile and greeting. “HI I’ve got grrrrabby hands!” was his counter-greeting.
“Oh, you DO,” said the homeless man to him, then gently to me, “Can I have enough to get a sandwich?”, as be pantomimed the action of feeding ones’ self.
Out of years of practice, I responded with a firm but gentle, “No.” and a shake of the head.
I’ve put myself in danger before, giving rides to strangers in parking lots. I’ve also decided it’s cruel to pay someone to stay on the street. Here in the 4th largest city in the USA, we have many shelters and many churches to help those who find their way to the places of shelter. Paying folks on street corners simply keeps them from going to the shelters, and keeps them in danger on the exposed outdoor environments. So I say, “No” as a rule.
“Ok,” said the man with the cloudy blue eyes.
At that time I hadn’t a clue about those eyes. We weren’t close enough to see each other well.
“I can pick up THINGS with my grabby hands!” shouted the grandson as the man wandered away and approached another person putting groceries into his vehicle.
I finished loading the items into the truck and corralled the grandboy into the back seat as well.
I looked up and over at the man, who was now standing near a grocery trolley collection stall. His forearms rested on the sun-baked, hot metal pipe of the stall as he seemed to wait to see what the world would send his way. My heart tugged as it always does, but there was a weariness from him I’d not seen – really seen – in a long time. I felt like recognised it. I’d felt before as he looked then.
“Gwumpa, I’m thirsty.” came a commanding voice from the back seat.
Thirsty.
I suddenly felt that man’s thirst.
Felt the physical and emotional thirst the man experienced.
Felt the spiritual yearning in that God-sized hole in his heart.
“Hang on, we’ll be back to my place soon,” I said to the grandboy in the back, “but first I need to talk to that fella.”
“Ok gwumpa,” came the response as I got out of the truck and headed over to the ageless man who also somehow seemed as old as time at that moment.
Sometimes the litteun knows my moods well enough to not kick up a fuss when something important is brewing.
“Sir?” I said as I approached the man.
He turned to me and that’s when I saw his eyes, those cloudy blue eyes.
Those cloudy blue eyes that had no business on a dark black man who’d spent a very long time in the Southeastern Texas heat.
“Sir, I know it’s hard out here.” I started, and shook his hand with mine; mine that had a small amount of cash folded up in it. “Would you be ok if I prayed with you?”
He looked at the money in his hand and nodded. We held the handshake and extended it into the “standard” prayer stance that I knew from decades of church-going. He seemed to know it as well. Right hands clasped in handshake, left hands on the other’s shoulder. It may be just a Southern USA thing, but I’m glad to have it.
I couldn’t get two words out before busting into tears.
That’s one of the reasons I don’t go out in pubic – that “gift” of empathy is overwhelming. I can read people’s body language as clearly as if everyone was wearing billboards and flashing neon signs. I can see stories laid out in malls, airports, elevators, you name it – and the emotions in those stories can drain an empath as quickly and sometimes as violently as placing a copper wire between the poles of a 9-volt battery.
I powered through the imagined mental images I saw in front of us, and prayed.
Home.
That’s the word and place that clamped my throat shut.
I “saw” his need to be “home” – wherever that may be – and we prayed for it.
Not in those words, mind you. This is a powerful word, and I believe that folks can be nudged “home” to a place that caused them to be homeless in the first place. It may be a silly belief but I know that some “homes” aren’t healthy. I don’t want to be emotionally responsible for sending people to an unsafe place.
So instead of praying for him to find his way “home”, God’s guidance nudged me instead to pray that he finds his way to where God wants him to be.
God knows where this man’s home is. In a million years of personal interaction, I’d never know this place as well as this man’s Creator would know it.
We prayed for God to help him find the place where God wants him to be.
Silently, I prayed that the God-shaped hole in this man’s heart pulls him to a place where he can see where he fits in God’s plan for things.
The grandboy and I manoeuvred our way around the busy car park afterwards. Plenty of people were around, and between cars and foot traffic, it was a while before we made our way to one of the entrance/exits.
And by seeming coincidence (psst – there are no coincidences in this world, especially where people are involved) at the same entrance/exit was that cloudy-blue-eyed ancient black man, stepping forward in what seemed to be a determined walk.
Where is he going?
What is his story now?
Where does God want him to be?
Will he make it to that place?
So many questions.
So many people.