We sat in the Shoney’s feasting, if you can call it that, on the lunch buffet. We’d bumped into teach other at the hospital. Thirty years ago, we’d known each other when I was a much younger pastor in these parts.
“I guess coming back here after being an inner city pastor must be a bit different,” he said.
“It is in a lot of ways,” said I.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, one of the biggest challenges we had there was dealing with people who used drugs. I retire. The bishop asks me to supply a small church. Now, I find the problems here are the same as there. I cannot believe the drugs are so rampant around here.”
“We don’t have a drug problem in this community.”
“You what!!”, I exclaimed. “You have to be kidding. This place is overrun with methamphetamine.”
“Oh, it is not!”
“Are you putting me on? “I can’t believe that you don’t know about this.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“How about you come over to the hospital with me the next time I’m on-call and find out how many of the tragedies that roll in and out of there are meth-related?”
He leaned forward across the table, asking me if I was serious. From there we went to a discussion of drugs in the area. I talked to him of child abuse resulting from it; I spoke of unemployment, of poverty, of crime directly related to the problem. I couldn’t believe his ignorance.
I realize you can go a few miles either east or west of where we were sitting, stand on either mountain range, look down and see this delightful valley, fertilized by the flood plains of three rivers, the acres and acres of cultivated farms, the steam rising from the scattered mills dotting the landscape, and the cul-de-sacs of starter-home sub-divisions where the valley’s future is doing skin-the-cats on the backyard swing sets, and you’d never see the “big city” problems victimizing the peace in the valley. But the problems are there; he’d never been out of the valley for any considerable time. It was as if their presence occurred so slowly he never saw them. Maybe it was like the frog in the kettle of water that slowly, slowly starts to boil.
After the first few minutes he quit the arguing about the presence of drugs. He began to listen and ask questions. Yet the look of astonishment never left his face.
In some unspoken agreement, we paused, rose from the table and headed for the desert bar. I wasn’t craving sweets. I don’t think he was either. Maybe we both needed an excuse to continue the talk.
Back at the table, desert devoured (I did have a sweet tooth, after all.), he said quietly, “Well, at least we don’t have to deal with homelessness like you did in the city.”
I started to laugh, hard.
“What’s so funny?”
I pointed out the window. “See that fellow walking down the road?”
“Yes. What about him?”
“His name is Ed. He’s homeless.”
“He is not. He works part-time at the hardware store.”
“He’s homeless.”
“He is not?”
“What would you call ‘homeless’?”
“It’s someone who doesn’t have a home.”
I thought a moment, then asked, “How do you define home?”
“Well,” he said, “it’s a house, it’s a roof over your head … Oh, good grief, you know what homeless is.”
“I do,” I said. “Come on, let’s get out of here. There’s something I want to show you.”
We paid the bill and headed outside. He headed for his car, pulling the keys from his coat pocket. “Where are we going?”
“Just a couple blocks down the street,” I said. “We can walk.”
He followed my lead. I headed in the direction of the expressway.
“Where the hell are you going?” he demanded when I started walking up the southbound entrance ramp of the interstate.
“I’m going to show you homelessness.”
I led him into the wooded area that covered the triangle formed by the expressway, the intersection highway and the entrance ramp. He followed me up a barely discernible path through the grass. Back in the short trees I pointed to the pup tent, the Igloo water dispenser, and the footlocker looking box. Stooping down, I pulled back the flap of the tent, pointed to the sleeping bag, and said, “You call this a home?”
He stood staring. Then he turned and started walking away. I caught up to him and we walked back toward our cars.
“But he works. He has a job. Why would he live here?”
“He has a part-time job. There’s no insurance. The drugs for the seizures are expensive. He has a choice, pup tent and relative health or apartment and seizures.”
“I never knew,” said my friend.
“He doesn’t want you to know,” I said.
“Where does he ….?”
“Bathe, clean up?”
“Yeah.”
“The night manager at the motel over there lets him take a shower in an empty room.”
“This is more than I want to know about,” he said.
“It’s only a small part of what you should know about,” I suggested.
“Do you think I should tell my pastor about these things?”
“Somebody should.”
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