Tag: Homeless

In Memory of George

Published on by Marilyn1 Comment

george

George was one of those guys that I saw early morning. As I would wander up Tremont Street from the Park Street T Station he would be setting up in front of the Granary Burying Ground. This cemetery is Boston’s third oldest cemetery and the final earthly resting place for the likes of Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and Paul Revere.

Outside of this historic cemetery, George would set up his earthly belongings. It was a perfect spot in many ways — never in the direct sunlight, but always in the line of visitors to Boston who might spare a dollar or two for the homeless.

So early morning I would walk by and we would greet each other. No matter how grey the day, George would smile. His personality showed through and as I would pass by he’d never fail to say “Have a good day Babe!” Maybe it’s because I’m daily growing older, but somehow I loved that he called me that. I never gave George money. We would just talk and then I would go on to work and he would continue on in his day.

It was the beginning of August that I realized I hadn’t seen George for a couple of days. Perhaps, I reasoned, it was too warm and he’d found another spot. Two days later as I passed by his place in front of the iron fence of the cemetery I stopped cold. Flowers adorned the fence and there hung a picture of George along with a typed story about him. I gasped aloud as I read it. The picture resembled a magazine cover with a banner over the top that read “Rest in Peace.” The bottom had these dates:

October 7th, 1972 – August 4th, 2016

George Dagraca, 43 years old, had died. 

I felt a sense of shock and sadness. I didn’t know George’s story, I had never heard it. We were early morning greeters and our conversations didn’t go deep. Turns out, he was a heroin addict, addicted to those highs that could temporarily remove him from some of the pain of his youth.

Along with the picture was a eulogy of sorts, by someone like me who met George on his daily walks.

We don’t fully know who we will meet in life, who we will touch and who will touch us. Many like me mourn his death and somehow that gives me hope. Because if we who barely knew him care about his death and mourn our short, daily connection, how much more so does the God who sees a sparrow fall?

My faith holds me tight in times like these. Earthly status means nothing to a Heavenly God. Whether our lives be small or great, he counts the hairs on our heads, the freckles on our noses. He cares about our habits, our diseases, and the addictions that sometimes kill us. This is the goodness of the Lord.

A favorite verse comes to mind many times when I walk on Tremont Street and I think of it today:

“I would have despaired, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage,  Wait, I say, for the Lord!”*

I walk up Tremont Street, a sky brightening over the Atlantic Ocean. Sparrows sit on the fence above George’s memorial.

In a sky brightening,in sparrows chirping, and in a homemade memorial I see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. And it is enough. 

You can read more of George’s story here. 

*Psalm 27:13-14

The Least of These

Published on by Marilyn5 Comments

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As  I walk out my front door, I smell Autumn. The chill morning air is accompanied by a bright sky bringing a promise of a glorious day. How is it that seasons have their own smells?

It doesn’t take long before I begin to see the least of these. The least of these are on street corners, or huddled into city doorways, blankets wrapped tightly around them to ward off the cold.  Cambridge and Boston are not unique; every place has the least of these, but some places hide them better than others.

Our news is full of the least of these. Refugees, the homeless, the marginalized, the unborn, those who are victims of human trafficking — all those with no voice are the least of these. And the truth is – it’s often easier to ignore them, to call the “least of these” a problem rather than to try to figure out what to do.

Maybe the most important thing is to make sure we never lose sight of the least of these. Maybe it’s not about doing, as much as praying. The biggest message we have heard from refugees and displaced people in Iraq, Turkey, and Lebanon is “Don’t forget about us. Remember us. Pray for us. Tell our stories.”

Maybe it’s all in these words:

“When we draw near to those who are most sinned against our call is not first to ‘make a difference’ but to allow the pain of that encounter to disturb us.”

“Why are those who are named ‘oppressed,’ ‘poor’ and ‘the least of these’ so prominent throughout Scripture? Perhaps to show us that God draws very near to the most vulnerable not because they’re any less sinful, but because they are the most sinned against. They are the ones most likely to be lamenting. By telling the truth about brokenness, we too learn to lament. When we draw near to those who are most sinned against, our call is not first to ‘make a difference’ but to allow the pain of that encounter to disturb us.”

All of us bear the image and stamp of our Creator God. ‘The least of these are image-bearers and what I do for them I do for God.

Will it take a lifetime for me to really get it? That whatever I do for the least of these I do for God?*

Who are the least of these in your world? How do you remember them?

*From The Reluctant Orthodox Volume 19 “The Least of These” 

On Lovers’ Quarrels, Crazy People & Early Morning Grace

Published on by Marilyn7 Comments

homeless sometimes in the city

The following was written at the end of March.

The wind almost blew me down the street. It was bitter cold and came with a force. The proverbial March lion was not going out as a lamb, instead it continued to roar with sub degree temperatures and cold winds.

Hopping off the subway at my early morning hour I came across a lovers’ quarrel. Voices were raised in accusation, frustration, and anger. Like many couples, one was trying to hush the other, embarrassed for the scene.

And like many quarrels, it wasn’t working. Instead, the arguments grew louder and more forceful.

The world – it doesn’t get easier. My senses are alert to pain and brokenness; to lover’s quarrels and severed relationships.

It’s these moments in the city — the moments when lover’s quarrels, homeless veterans, and broken people remind me that I need grace. Every day. Every minute. It is these moments when Valerie asks for money instead of coffee, because she wants to buy black pants and a white shirt – her “interview uniform” she calls it. It’s these moments where I look at the faces surrounding me and every one of them has a furrowed brow. We are the people of the furrowed brows.

And then there are those early morning moments where I pass someone and immediately think “God, be with the crazy people.” and then I immediately follow it by the Jesus Prayer because I know there is such a fine line between the crazy people and me.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have Mercy on Me.

And in these early morning moments it’s so clear we can’t do this without grace. I can’t do this without grace.

This world overwhelms, Jesus offers the only solution.

Heaven meets earth on a Sunday morning and the body and the blood offer grace. Earth meets Heaven on a Monday morning, begging for restoration. Sunday will transition to Monday until the end of time. But the one who gifts us with time will ever offer grace.

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Did you ever think about how muffins can be such grace? This morning it hit me — Stacy’s creativity is grace for me every Monday. She says this about today’s muffins “This week’s muffin is going to be a variation on the British traditional Easter simnel cake, made into muffins and decorated with marzipan balls to represent the apostles.” Head here to get the recipe for Easter Simnel Muffins

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It’s Getting Cold

Published on by Marilyn7 Comments

It’s getting cold.

I walk to work in the morning with my body bundled into a warm coat, my feet in boots, my head down to keep the wind from biting too fiercely. We who are on these streets walk quickly, there is no room for small talk or conversation. We are glad to get to our destinations and breathe, away from the wind and the cold.

It’s getting cold. Yet there are still homeless on my streets. There are still men and women huddled together, spooning under blankets for comfort, there are still signs that say “Homeless. Can you help?” Shivering in the morning wind, Charlie asks me for spare change. I get him a cup of coffee and move on.

Border crossing - Turkey Syria

It’s getting cold. And Syrian refugees in no man’s land are in flimsy tents with little to guard them from the incoming winter. Bare feet and no jackets for children of all ages, families that have nothing left, a system strained under fear and corruption that has to fight to make sure aid goes where it is most needed.

I am acutely aware of all of this as I take a hot shower and sit before a warm heater drinking hot coffee. It’s getting cold and there are so many without — without heat, without home, without family. I can hardly bear this, hardly bear the thought of millions of refugees that can’t keep warm or nourished. Hardly bear that I walk by homeless huddled for comfort.

“This is not the way life should be” I shout in my head to a silent Heaven.

It’s getting cold and I have my choice of 3 coats to wear and scarves line my closet. It’s getting cold and I have warm sweaters and food, heat and light. I pray the only prayer that makes sense: “Lord Have Mercy” adding a question to the end of the prayer:

“How can I bring warmth to a world that is so cold?”

How do we bring warmth to a world that is cold? 

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date raisin muffinsI don’t know about you, but I find baking healing. Especially when the goods can be shared. Stacy has an amazing recipe today: Date Syrup Raisin Muffins. One of the things I love about Stacy is that she links stories to her recipes. Here is what she says about this recipe: “This week on Monday, 2 December, the UAE celebrates its 42nd National Day so I decided to create a muffin with some local-ish flavors.  This muffin is made with date honey or syrup and cardamon along with some cinnamon and raisins.  For those who can’t find date honey, molasses is an excellent substitute both in deep flavor and consistency.” If you try these muffins – let us know! Either click on the picture or the link above to get to the recipe.

*Photo Credit: Cliff Gardner
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Learning to ‘Be’ Instead of ‘Do’

Published on by Marilyn3 Comments

Learning to Be

In the spring I moved to a 4-day work week. Basically 40 hours in 4 days instead of 5. This is a good move for me as I needed the space a 3-day weekend provides.

But it also means that on Thursdays I’m tired. Really tired. I meander more than usual, I am unable to efficiently get dressed, get to the subway, get to work, and click control/alt/delete.

I’m finding that inefficiency is a gift.

I’ve found that in the inefficiency that is Thursday I stop and find out the names of those on the streets: those who curl up under the tall pillars of St. Paul’s Episcopal Cathedral; those who cuddle concrete and brick walls close to ward off the cold; those who spoon together for physical comfort under tattered blankets, their hoodies pulled tight over their heads.

It’s on these days that I learn more about buying coffee instead of giving money; where I find out who needs surgery, who stole a wheelchair, why Sheryl is so thin.

I am not sure why this happens on Thursdays – maybe it’s because I’m tired and with my tiredness, more relatable. But I think it’s more that I give myself permission to be more than a machine, I realize how I live the ‘now’ is important, realize getting to work a few minutes late because I stopped to get someone a coffee is somehow worth it. It’s these moments I will remember when I can no longer work, not the efficient minutes in my grey cubicle.

There is a stark contrast of this Boston to the Red Sox Boston, to the Celtics Boston, to the Harvard, MIT Boston, to the Robert McCloskey Make Way for Ducklings Boston. And yet this is part of the fabric of the city and the people here don’t much care about that other Boston. Their lives are caught up in the crisis of today with its hunger, addictions, and relationship struggles.

I will never know how to “do” poverty; “do” homeless – and maybe that’s part of the problem. Before I’ve always thought of this as something to “do” and it is in the doing where I trip up. I alternate between guilt and pride, between true empathy and anger, between ignoring and connecting in a sickly sweet way that oozes pity instead of true concern. Maybe “doing” is all wrong – not what this is about.

Because on these days, where interacting is natural and comfortable, where there is no guilt, where I am tired, I learn what it is to just “be”. To relate human to human in the early morning fog of tired, steam rising from manholes, and the city in its pre-workday quiet.

Maybe it’s about “being” instead of “doing”. Maybe in being I learn to bear witness to the human story that gets lost in the doing. Maybe.

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Image credit: wrangel / 123RF Stock Photo

Warm Slippers and Tortellini Soup

Published on by Marilyn10 Comments

I asked her if she was hungry and she looked at me out of her one good eye. “Yes! A bowl of soup would be great!“. And so I got it. Hot, steaming tortellini soup, bread to go with it, a banana, and mango Snapple. I stooped down to give her the heavy brown bag and help take the soup out for her. “You need something for your feet!” I said. “I’ll be right back”. “You would do that for me?” said she, completely shocked. I smiled and left her in her usual spot outside the 7 Eleven on Washington Street, but inside, I was feeling a little bit great.

And so I got them. Strong, boot-like slippers with good soles. And as I was buying them I had that little feeling inside again – the “I’m a little bit great!” feeling. I pushed it aside and looked around me, afraid that someone could have overheard that thought, felt the feeling. I would have hated to be found out. To have it discovered that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about Sheryl, there was a little something in it for me. A little something that would pat me on the back and say – “Wow – look at you! Aren’t you something?!”

But I pushed the thought down, and resolutely walked back to Sheryl, warm slippers in hand, slightly Pharisaical in my bearing.  And there she was. No food. No soup. No banana. No mango Snapple. No napkins. No spoon. No bread. Nothing. Just Sheryl. Sheryl asking me for money.

The Pharisee left and the plain outright mean in me came out. “What’d you do with the soup?” I demanded. “I just bought you soup. Where is it? Where is the banana, huh? Where is the Snapple? I like Snapple, I would’ve drunk it.” She peered up at me with the good eye – “Oh, It’s over there in the square with my boyfriend.”

I was furious. And then I stopped short. I had given away something and it was no longer mine. I gave the food to her, and it was then hers. I had no right to ask her what she had done with it. I had no business giving the food if there were strings attached. The self-righteous part of me was what was angry. I had taken my precious time, when I had things to do and places to go. I had done this for her and look how she repaid me! And I realized that the minute I let those “You’re so great” thoughts come in, it ceased being about her anymore. It was all about me.

I put the slippers on her, humbled. If I choose to give, it can’t be about me. The minute the gift leaves my hand, I have relinquished my right to it. It belongs to the receiver. If it was any other way than it wouldn’t be a free gift. It would be like the offers that fill my inbox promising me a free iPad or trip only to discover that I have to complete 12 to 15 offers and scroll through numerous pages before I can even think about a gift, exhausting me in the process. In the case of Sheryl and me, it has to be about her. That’s what a true gift is. It can’t be about strings attached that would entangle me. It has to be about a free gift and grace.

When I see her again, she may not have the slippers. And I might choose a different way to show I care. But whatever way I choose, it has to be about warm slippers, tortellini soup and God – it can’t be about me.

“You Mean I’m Not Invisible?”

Published on by Marilyn13 Comments

I often write on Saturdays about sitting comfortably on pillows with my coffee. I think because these are the days when I realize I am one of the small percentage of people in the world that has that sort of comfort and luxury. I have time to think about the week and revel in the luxury of time.

Just yesterday I walked past a bruised woman, sprawled on the street, trying to look into people’s eyes and beg for spare change.  She is a regular fixture on the street, just part of the scenery along with store fronts, fruit stands, and vendors selling t-shirts. I’ve had interactions with her before. One time I threw away her shoes, because I thought she wanted them thrown away, only to be screamed at in colorful language (who first termed swear words as colorful in writing anyway??) “Bring me back those %$&#@ shoes!” Thankfully I was able to retrieve them and an unlikely relationship is developing, when she is sober enough to remember me. I turned back after she shouted “Am I invisible?” toward some people walking the other way. As I went back she threw up her hands and said “You mean I’m not invisible?” I laughed “No – you’re not invisible. You’re quite loud!” She laughed too, thanked me for the change and went back to shouting after people.  Another reality check from the city!

I don’t know much about the homeless. It is my daughter Stefanie, a passionate advocate, who has been able to help me understand a bit more about this complicated issue and I plan to have her do a post for me soon. But I think a lot of us know about feeling invisible – as though people look through, not at us. Sometimes, like the homeless woman, we may long to shout out “Am I invisible?”. We feel as if we are insignificant, like ants busy going about their business in the ant world, but stepped on easily by others.

Sitting here, with time to contemplate, I am aware that though I may feel invisible to much of the world around me, I have a Maker and Creator intimately aware of my needs and longing to be a visible presence in my life. To Him, we are fully visible, fully worthy, fully loved.

Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?~ Matthew 6:26

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