Cigarettes, Sleeping Bags, and the Search for Healing

Homeless Jesus

Think about the last time you drove downtown in a major city. For some, it’s a daily occurrence—the morning commute to the office. For many, it’s a bit more rare, only happening when running an errand or visiting relatives on a holiday. Aside from dealing with obnoxious drivers, there’s something captivating about the city. It’s hard to pinpoint, but it’s always there. Sometimes it involves a lot of craning your neck to gaze up at all the cool buildings—the sleek, modern ones and the beautifully architectured old ones. It’s scoping out the local food scene or watching a street preacher with a megaphone and a cardboard sign. Today, for me, it was the people, not all of them, but specific individuals who caught my eye as I drove along the river in downtown Louisville.

I’d been heading up Second Street toward the bridge that connects Kentucky to Indiana. That’s when I noticed her. A woman (hard to tell her age) was bent down, snatching a half-smoked cigarette from the sidewalk. It was still lit, so she stuck it in her mouth. She’d already had a cigarette in her other hand, so she smoked the one while holding the other. This odd action wasn’t the main thing I noticed about her, though. It was her eyes. Those hollow eyes that had seen a lifetime of experiences, now gazing through the smoke that hung in the cool, brisk air.

As I drove on, that image stuck with me like a Polaroid shot. Before I knew it, one image was replaced by another when I saw a man lying on a sidewalk.  With his body tucked inside an old sleeping bag and his head resting on a bag full of belongings, he seemed to be asleep, despite the noise from the traffic.

Back at our house on the other side of the river, I stood in my kitchen, putting away a load of groceries. The sound of shouting came from somewhere outside. A quick peek out the window revealed another woman, standing alone in the street, shouting at no one. Whomever (or whatever) she was yelling at apparently had her pretty upset, as the lady continued the loud dialogue as she made her way up the block.

I must admit, reader, that as I write this, I am teary-eyed. I’m filled with a deep sadness—sure, for them, but also for me. My head fills with questions:

Why do people have to suffer like this?

Why can’t someone just wave a magic wand and fix all of it?

Why am I one of the lucky ones?

What troubles me just as much is the fact that these souls don’t just appear in crowded downtown areas. They appear right outside my door. But perhaps that’s a good thing. Maybe it means I can do something (even if I don’t know exactly what that something is). I can’t heal and restore every suffering individual in every city, but maybe I can help the lady out on my own street. Is she not my neighbor, after all?

I’m reminded that each of these people, even those I perceive as different from myself, has a soul. And each soul has a story, and each story is valued. Maybe that’s a good starting point: Hearing their stories. What experiences were on the path that led a person to wander Louisville’s streets, looking for discarded cigarettes? What scenes played out across the life of a person sleeping on the sidewalk? What was life once like for a lady who stumbled up my neighborhood street, arguing with a figment of her imagination?

Who were these people as kids? Did they ride bikes and climb trees? Did they play capture the flag with their friends on summer break? Did they have high school sweethearts, family pets, or birthday parties? The imagination can run wild with these questions, wondering if Cigarette Woman ever dreamed of becoming a realtor or perhaps a professional actress. We can ponder a world in which Sleeping Bag Man once acquired a full baseball scholarship. We can imagine Shouting Lady as a young girl, perhaps practicing her ballet steps in the basement before a big recital.

There’s something else I also can’t help but wonder: When was the last time someone asked any of those people about such things? How long has it been since they got to share their stories? I wonder what might happen if someone sat across from one of them over a steaming cup of coffee, full of curiosity about their lives, their dreams, their suffering. What if that someone were me? Would I be able to peer into the depths of their souls? If so, could I do anything about it? Would they want me to do something about it?  Regardless, it would be an honor to hear their experience and believe their words rather than my perception.  I am the different person in their eyes.

If you’re reading this, it should come as no surprise to hear that yes, there is something I can do about it. Or, to be more accurate, there is a Savior named Jesus who can do something through me, with me, and gift me from my new acquaintance. It’s why He came in the first place. He stepped into this world and saw the family who had just lost their home in a fire, the man or woman sexually abused as a child, a divorced couple, the child who had to watch a parent pass away. These are the ones Jesus came to heal and restore, saying it was the sick He came for, not the well.

But how am I supposed to know who is sick and who is healthy? Isn’t it dangerous for me to be playing that type of judgment game? Probably, but it helps to remind myself that I am one of the sick, just like “them.” I may not be huddled under newspapers on a park bench, but I have my share of scars, of broken dreams, of words I wish I could take back. But it’s this self-awareness that ultimately helps me see others in a way He sees them – in love. The most important key is that He is the one who determines the sickness in others, never me, with a condescending heart.  We all have a story, and our story either defines or informs us.

When I drop the act—the mask I try so hard to maintain in front of everyone—I can humbly admit that I, too, am broken. I need a Healer. I am Cigarette Woman. I am Sleeping Bag Man. I am Shouting Lady. I am the least of these, and He is the greatest of all to each of us.

Oddly enough, viewing myself this way sets me on a path of life. It’s like a load off my chest as I do what Paul said in Philippians 2: He humbled Himself to serve, and so we are invited to do the same. I can go about my day knowing that I can rest in Jesus, that He knows my heart and the hearts of every soul in every town and city. I can offer a glimmer of hope to the least of these, knowing I am the least of these too.  It’s called humanity.

I don’t have to fear becoming poor from giving too much. I don’t have to worry so much about myself that I forget about my neighbors, coworkers, friends, kids, or spouse. I don’t always have to have the perfect thing to say. I can listen, listen, and listen so much. Each soul is highly valuable to God, as is my own.  When we view ourselves and others in this way, it has an existential impact on our lives. May I become the eyes and ears of Christ as I drive through city streets, as I sit with my family at dinner, and as I summon the courage to approach a stranger on my own street. May I remember the comfort God has given me as I take a step toward comforting another. May the same be true for us all.

Peace, my friends.

Rob

(This is in memory of Nolan, my cousin's son, who was murdered after caring for a man who was homeless.)