No Slack Jesus
Hey there. Hugh here. While Karen has been on the road, I have been supposed to blog some here, but as you can tell, I have not.
What passes for a snowstorm in Raleigh, NC (about 5-6 inches) hit last weekend, bringing my fair city to her metaphorical knees and leaving my friends who live outside in a very real lurch. I have been swamped trying to make sure everyone was warm, safe and OK.
Anyway, here is a short narrative I wrote a while back about one of my “typical” days – in which a homeless man shares with me a great theological insight.
Note: The way we talk, the choice of words we use, all of that is part of our story and part of who we are. Life on the streets is not pretty and it is not polite. Many in my position clean up the language when reporting what is said; I have chosen to leave it. I will not dishonor the people I speak to by imposing my grammar on them.
*****
I was on my way to log onto the Internet at a local coffee shop when I saw a gang of folks I know standing in a huddle in the park. I stroll over. The mood is solemn.
“Hey guys,” I said. “What’s going on?”
Everyone murmurs and shuffles, looking at the ground. I notice one older guy everyone calls Slim was sullen and weeping.
“Slim,” I said. “How’s it going?”
“Bad,” he says. “I went to give plasma this morning like I always do on Fridays. This time, they wouldn’t give me any money. Instead, they told me I am HIV positive. I got AIDS, man.”
HIV. For most Americans it no longer means what it once did. However, these folks know that, if they get it, they will not have access to the life-giving drug cocktails and cutting edge treatments; for them, HIV spells death.
Having already heard this story the crowd begins to melt away; I am uncertain if it’s out of a desire to give us some privacy or a desire to get out of the cold; in any event it was welcome.
I’ve known Slim for about two and a half months. I have helped several of his friends with job applications and have let them use my computer to check email for messages to family. He knows me to say hi, but he has never really opened up to me. He is much older than most of the street folk: perhaps 50 or so. He told me once in conversation he had been homeless for seven years.
“They tested me, like they always do,” he begins to explain. “They test you every time. They wanted me to sign a paper saying I had HIV, but I ain’t signing sh*t.”
After several minutes of conversation, I managed to extract the following details.
That morning, Slim went to sell plasma. Many homeless people do this; it is the only thing many of them have to sell. You lay on a cot and stare at the wall while they insert a needle in your arm. After they take blood from your body and extract the plasma, they put the blood back in you. They sell the plasma to the various bio-med places for research and pay you $10-$15; you can expect it to take about two hours. If you are a regular donor, they pay bonuses; an extra $5 every third visit, say.
The routine tests on his blood for HIV showed positive. He was told he had to sign a statement saying he knew he was HIV positive. He refused and left – he later reveals that reading is not something he does well, so he has a fear of signing anything. Understandably, he was in shock by the time I heard this story, so the finer details were a bit hard to nail down. As near as I can tell, he had no second test and no referral to any health care options.
“You need to go to the health department,” I said. “You need to know for sure.”
Slim is crying. “It is Christmas, man. I don’t need this.”
It goes like this for about 10 minutes, when it is revealed that Slim does not have the two dollars for the bus to go out to the Health Department . I assure him I can spare $2.
“Will you walk with me to the bus station?” he asks.
“Be glad to.”
We begin to walk toward Moore Square Station, the central hub for the transit system here in Raleigh. Slim is beginning to calm down. He has the two dollars I gave him clutched in a death grip in his hand.
“You are a nice man,” Slim says. “I know you help S___ and H___ out with clothes and help them, let them use your phone. I tells everyone what a nice man you are. I would ask to borrow your phone, but I got no one to call.”
“No one?” I said.
“Well, I got a Mom, but I haven’t talked to her in four years. I want to call her, but I am scared. I am afraid she don’t want nothing to do with me anymore. I done bad things.”
We talk about his Mom for a bit. It turns out she lives in Maryland and the family has endured one too many broken promises, so they no longer talk. I urge him to call; four years is a long time. He promises he will think about it.
“You are a nice man. Why you so nice? I mean, you help us out, you talk to us… I ain’t nothing, man. My own Momma don’t want to talk to me, you don’t even know me and you help me. Why you doing this?”
I hesitate a minute here. I know folks who would see this as an opportunity to swoop in, tract in hand, tell them about how Jesus will solve all their problems, fix everything. I try to imagine what Jesus would say.
“I care about you guys, even when it makes no sense to, because Jesus loved me when it made no sense for him to,” I tell Slim.
He perks up, looks at me from the side of his eyes.
“Jesus?”, he said.
“Yup. Jesus”, I said.
I think I have lost him now. He surprises me.
“I know Jesus loves me – my momma told me,” he said. “But that Jesus, he is a motherf*cker.”
I chuckle, imagining what my tract waving friends would do with this revelation.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Oh yeah. The thing about Jesus is, he don’t cut you no slack. He want all of you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.” I now really wish some of my tract waving friends were here.
We’re at Moore Square Station now, standing in the blue section, waiting on the bus. The air is cold on my ears, the turbulence from the exhaust fumes pressing my jeans against my ankles. The two dollars has managed to disappear; after a lengthy search they turn up in a coat pocket.
“Thank you for doing this,” he said. “I don’t want to die from AIDS. ”
“Well,” I said, “we are not even sure you have HIV. The first step is to find out for sure.”
We agree to meet up this afternoon in Moore Square about dark so he can let me know what the verdict is. While we are working out the details, the bus pulls up and the doors open, a line of patient commuters waiting to board.
It is one of those moments – they happen sometimes- when God tells me just the right thing to say.
“Slim,” I said. “What does your momma call you?”
He smiled, remembering. “Bobby. She call me Bobby”.
“OK, Bobby,” I said. “I will see you tonight.”
He laughs that I use his name. “Do you think Jesus cares I have HIV?” he asked.
“If you have HIV, then Jesus would be heartbroken,” I said.
“You gonna pray for me, aren’t you?” he asked.
I assure him I will. His spontaneous bear hugs almost knocks the breath out of me, tears streaming down his face.
“If it is OK, I gonna pray for you too,” he said into my coat.
Then he turns, embarrassed at the sudden emotion and steps onto the bus.
As he waves to me from his seat two thirds of the way back, the bus pulls away, the exhaust kicking up leaves that swirl around my feet as both our tears dry on my coat.
Love in action – I was listening to another guy talking about how he hates it when people say “Jesus loves you”. He said it comes across as – I can’t stand you but Jesus loves you.” Then one day as he was ministering to the homeless one of them told him they loved him and he just could not say it back. He said it wasn’t because he didn’t care – that he did – but to tell this man he loved him would then take him into a different level. It would mean more than just giving a buck here and there or something warm or food. To say ‘I love you’ demanded more. A few weeks passed and one day speaking to this man he told him he loved him as tears poured down his face – he took the man home and gave him a bed and the man lived with him and his flat mates for three years and got back on his feet, was even best man at his wedding. Do you know who I am talking about? You may have heard of him and I am not sure if he said he cried as he told the man he loved him – so don’t quote me on that – haha!
I do pray you can let us know how Bobby is doing and what the result was.
Tears falling here, Hugh. Thanks for taking time out from your crazy schedule to post this. Thank you for loving the forgotten.
Thanks so much.
Hugh: Thanks for your love and compassion and the artful retelling of this story. All in a day of life. Any day.
Karen: Maybe a better word is invisible. To say forgotten would mean that we once remembered but now no longer do. The folks I know feel less forgotten than invisible because it seems that so often that’s what we have willed them to be.
Roger: Guilty as charged. Yes. Invisible.
I have chill bumps on me, what a great story, I’m blessed to be able to read your story and I hope I can do the same someday. Wow
This is inspiring Hugh! No-one feels lost when just one person cares. We may feel invisible at times, but Jesus knows & He knows the plans He has for us! & this is just a day in one life….how many others have you touched through Slim & the story he told of that day. How many more days like this are there when just a simple jester of kindness brings restoration & hope to those who feel hopeless. Keep it up! God bless you. Annie
What a beautiful story Hugh, thanks for sharing. What you do with these people is amazing. It’s so good to hear about people sharing unconditional love. God Bless you! DeColores!