Hope for the Poor? Not If It's Up to Me

My eyes grew wide as they absorbed the onslaught of visual information. Diverse faces and hunched bodies hurried past as I tried to focus on my mother's strides creating a crooked path through the Manhattan sidewalks. Her hand clutched protectively around mine served a better guide as my attention diverted to the towering feats of architecture in whose shadows we shivered. These behemoths of man's innovation dwarfed any building I had previously seen and simultaneously reworked my naive definition of "big." We scurried from one climate controlled store to another, this November winter feeling less forgiving here than in the open fields back home.

It was on this journey, inundated with foreign sights, sounds and smells that I met them. Our encounter was so brief as to scarcely be worthy of mention except for the questions they raised in the mind of a hopeful little girl.

A man and a woman. Huddled under how many layers? Three? Four? Seven? Each held a book in hand, escaping from the harsh reality of an impending Northeast winter, aloof to the brilliant sights and intrusive sounds that overwhelmed my senses all day. "My wife and I are HIV+," read the impeccable handwriting, black permanent marker on a cardboard canvas. "Please help." They never saw me staring. My unhesitating legs must have blended in with the ever-preoccupied crowd. But for me, all else faded into the background as we rushed past them and across the street.

"Mom." I tugged at my mother's sleeve as soon as the image of the woman's long brunette locks were out of view. "Mom. Why are they homeless if they can read?" My innocent question incited a response that shattered any previous notion my developing mind had concocted about the poor. Educated? Skilled? And still homeless?

There wasn't much time to think. We were in a hurry to catch the matinee show of the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City. The Rockettes, with their perfect height, impeccable kicks and shimmery leotards screamed for my attention, but all I could see was that man and that woman, cold, sick, ignored.

And we ignored them like everyone else.

I had never been warned that giving money on the street was unwise. I didn't know how often people abused the system. I had no learned excuses to relieve my conscience so I might enjoy the dazzling scene in front of me. And so I didn't. Until intermission when my mother assured me we would make a donation to a New York City homeless shelter when we returned home. With that promise, I was able to marvel at the second act, but a bitter aftertaste lingered.

How many homeless individuals have a walked by since then? As I enjoyed a day in the city, unwilling to be inconvenienced? While being consumed and distracted by the little universe whose center runs straight though me?

In the distant recesses of my mind there is a hint of a whisper, "What you do for the least of these...", but it is as easy to dismiss as an echo. The speaker of those words doesn't understand the modern system, a system that makes people untrustworthy, childish, manipulative. So I walk on by, hundreds, thousands of times declaring with my steps that I think those words irrelevant. And each step dulls the painful sting of compassion.

"Don't let yourselves be robbed of hope."

Pope Francis' words were directed to young prisoners, sure to be labeled, stereotyped and ignored by most. At first hearing of this exhortation, I received those words as if directed to me as well. For I, too, thirst for a hope that will not disappoint, a melting of my aging and jaded heart.

But, then, in horror, I see that I am the thief. The one who ignores. The one who labels. The one who daily fails to see the image of God in the eyes of the cold, the dirty, the unlovable. 

Kyrie eleison.

Going to the Chapel

28 Leacock Road has always been a place marked by the comforting blend of familiarity and celebration--holiday dinners, beginning of a beach vacation, a childhood sleepover.

I have been here, the home of my mother's sister, well over a hundred times. Past meals, conversations, laughter, tears and hugs have blurred into memories at large, pierced through with the fondness of familial love.

This day, the sixth of April, becomes another celebration infused with the familiar. The creation of a new family, new vows, new life will take its elevated place among the moments these walls have witnessed.

The bride--my cousin, best friend and in any way that means anything, my sister--has converted her childhood bedroom into a full out salon. Makeup and hair paraphernalia litter every horizontal space within reach.

So many whispered conversations took place in this room turned beauty parlor. A weekend spent here was the best my little girl mind could imagine. My school friends always knew they came second to my Lancaster cousin--the coveted title of 'best friend' among grade school girls always out of their reach.

As she waits for her cue and the chosen hour approaches, guests fill the living room turned chapel. Family and friends who have lounged here in pajamas and enjoyed easy conversation now gather in Sunday's best.

Grandparents settle into designated chairs, two of whom also exchanged vows in the bride's childhood home. Their lives intersected as a young man and woman and have now run parallel for 68 years. And we gather here to celebrate the parallelism of two more young lives.

The clock strikes four--a grandfather clock fittingly made by the bride's Pap. He is unable to be here in body, yet the work of his hands announce the long-awaited hour! The chimes are echoed by the steps of a frantic bride to retrieve her forgotten bouquet. She returns down the stairs with repeated exuberance. How many times has she raced up those stairs, and down? In excitement? Anger? Disappointment? Giddiness? This time she descends in a hurried anticipation and the ceremony begins.

Inside these four walls we played house, watched homemade videos, told stories, napped away holiday meals and talked for endless hours.

And within these four walls two became one that they may create a new home and write new stories.

Congratulations, Meghan and Jon!