On the way home from The War Room this morning (2am-ish) I ran into my friend Phil. He was outside of the Crosswalk, digging in the cracks of the sidewalk, looking (ironically enough) for crack. He looked so bad, that I thought he was this other guy named Dave. I actually called him Dave by mistake, but he turned around anyways (maybe being Dave has its perks). I ended up stopping to listen to him. It was about an hour before I crawled gratefully into bed, after getting Phil bandaged up (he apparently was in a fight with some rich drunk guys who whacked him over the head with a full beer bottle and then urinated on him) and hugged. I got that there was nothing more that I could do for him. There was no shelter. No food. No clothing. No meds. No phone. No options. All I could give him was my attention and my prayers. Talk about helplessness. It's one thing for Phil to feel helpless to help himself, but I felt helpless to help him. I know Yahweh is teaching me something in it all though - it's just trying to articulate it!

Then this morning on my way back into The War Room (The War College is on reading week!) I walked past a girl huddled and hunched over in a doorway on Hastings street just past the safe injection site. I walked past, even though I 'saw' her. (Like with the Samaritan's eyes - checkout Luke 10) The funny thing was that there was another girl across from her in the same doorway, but it wasn't the same. I continued to walk , but Holy Spirit did this thing He does, where He seems to tie a rope to her and a rope around my insides, so that the further I walk past her, the stronger the pull to return is until I either submit and turn around or rebel and resist far enough for the rope to snap. (Trust me though - that's never the way to go!)

So I stopped and turned around and walked back to where the girl was and knelt down next to her and asked her if she was OK. She said 'no' and started to cry. She said that she was dopesick (experiencing withdrawal) and hospital sick. She had sharp pain in her tummy and even though she had been given meds, she didn't feel better. She told me that when she was at the hospital, she had been discharged but didn't want to leave yet because she still had so much pain. The staff ended up calling a security guard to expel her from the property. Tears falling from eyes exuded degradation with every drop. I didn't know what to say, and just like with Phil the night before, I had no physical thing that this woman could possibly use. I asked about going to the free clinic to get herself checked out, or maybe to detox, so that people could look after her. She looked me fully in the face for the first time in our conversation with a broken-down expression. I knew she wasn't going anywhere. I've seen that face before - it's the face that says "I'm just not "done" out here".

I told her that my name was Heather and asked her hers. First she told me her real name - Ann. Then, almost as an afterthough as though she never meant to share the first name she told me her street name - Blacka. I told her that I had been going to walk right past her, but I stopped for a reason. I told her that my Higher Power asked me to stop. I told her that His Name is Jesus and that He wanted her to know that she's not invisible to Him. That He sees her.

At that, she began to stir. She reached her hand up to the filthy window grate as if to pull herself up, but there was no strength in those young biceps.

I said, "I'm sorry Ann. I wish that I could do more to help you."

The last words she spoke to me were "You can help me up."
When she stood, I was surprised at her frame. She was much taller than she had first appeared. Her shoulders were broad, though stooped and her legs were long, though gangly and bruised. Suddenly she seemed beautiful and graceful all at once.

As I removed my hand from under her arm, she turned her back to me and I read my cue. She was done talking to me. I turned around and walked on. My heart hurt, but Holy Spirit was satisfied.

It seems to me that I feel so much better when I can give someone in need something tangible - a coat, a sandwich, a number to call for help. That is when I am satisfied that I have given and that they have received and the need has been met. In those moments, it is almost as though I don't need to rely on Jesus for THAT. However, when I have nothing tangible to give away, I realize that all of it - though useful - is also meaningless.

When I have nothing physical to give, that is when I must rely desparately on Jesus to tell me what the person really needs from me. It's obviously a way more effective method, but it requires more on my part, because Jesus always gives His heart for that soul and then He asks you to share it with the person. That's a lot harder than handing over a coffee to one person in a line of fifty.

I wonder at that. He wants more from me than the ability to hand stuff out and be the divine dispensary. It may begin that way, but growth and forward movement will always come. He gets tired of us always bringing 'stuff' as an offering. What He wants is a broken heart. (Psalm 51:17) It's easier to bring a physical sacrifice though! But, if I don't offer a broken heart on behalf of Ann or Phil, who will? Anyone can come down and hand out sweaters, sandwiches and hot chocolate - Christian or not - but who will weep for the lost souls?