I am a child of God

The last time I saw him he was being taken away by the Crisis Intervention Team of the Memphis Police Department. He was put in the back of a police car at the corner of Claybrook and Jefferson; half a block from Manna House. That was about three years ago. But here he was crossing the street in front of me as I turned from Cleveland onto Jefferson on Monday morning as I drove to Manna House. It was like seeing a ghost. He seemed to glide across the street, and then when I looked back he was gone. Until he showed up at Manna House an hour later right before we opened.

                He did not stay long on Monday. I got a chance to say “hi” to him and that was about it. He seemed tentative about being back, hesitant to enter into any conversation with anybody.

                But this Tuesday morning as the crowd thinned out in the back yard, he approached me with his story.

                “I was in prison for two years I think. Then Lakeside. Then a halfway house. Then Lakeside. Then a halfway house. Then I left. The food was bad. They didn't treat me right. I just walked away.”

                “You on the streets again?” I asked.

                “I am. I don’t want to be, but I am. I got no other place to go.”

                “How are you doing? You feeling ok?”

                “They tell me I have thyroid cancer. Isn’t that a kick?” Then he told me he doesn’t want any treatment. He’s ready to die. He doesn’t want to have surgery or radiation or chemotherapy or anything.

                “I’m going on my own terms; my way.” Next time I see him I might encourage him to consider a different route. I did a little reading and thyroid cancer sounds quite treatable. Then again, the way our conversation proceeded I wonder how much he is in touch with reality. He wandered off into a monologue about finding precious stones in various places around Midtown. I listened as long as I could then excused myself to do some work.

                I went down the driveway and ran into another guest. He was very agitated.

                “They don’t respect me. My life doesn’t matter. I don’t need to be treated like that. That man shouldn’t disrespect me. I’m human too. I’m a man too.”

                I picked up that he had been rather roughly told to leave from somewhere. I could not make out the reason, but I could guess he had not cooperated with some rule and that he had not left gently. He got some coffee, sat at a picnic table by himself, and kept muttering about how he should be treated.

                I always feel a bit inadequate relating to guests like these. I’m not trained in psychology or psychiatry. The few books I have read about mental illness and homelessness have given me some insight into the depth of the interior struggles, the lack of societal support, and the need for better mental health care. I know that listening, being calm, and responding with a steady voice are all helpful. I also know that though those do not sound like much, I find it emotionally draining to keep doing these things.   

                But both of these guests were telling me something important. I had to listen carefully and let their presence and their words sink in through my thick head and heart.

                “I am a human being,” each of them said. “I am a child of God. I am more than what I struggle with. I am more than whatever it is about me that scares you or you do not understand. I want you to welcome me. I want you to listen. I want you to care. I want you to recognize that God is at work in me.”

                And so I turned later to read and to let this truth sink in, “In the hands of God every one of us is infinitely worthy; in the mind and heart of God, each of us is of eternal value. And no matter what the odds, no matter what influence, illness, or evil threatens, God struggles for our healing and salvation” (Craig Rennebohm, Souls in the Hands of a Tender God, page 43).