Gift from a Homeless Man on Easter
Easter.
It’s my favorite. It’s something about the coming of spring I’ve always loved, the story of the Risen Christ, redemption- personified.
The irony, for me, is that it’s always this time of year that I find myself reaching an unexplainable sadness. I can first remember it during my days at Stratford Academy, when I first discovered theatre. The end of the winter musical theatre production would herald an ending I had never quite felt before: I would no longer, for that year, be with my tribe of people.
I had not learned to identify my feeling as such, the loss of my tribe. As I’ve grown older, I’ve gotten better at finding my tribe, those I connect the best with. But that feeling of loss still finds it’s way to me this time each year, the need to find something greater than myself.
And so, in the midst of that darkness each year, Easter still finds a way to break through into my soul. Finding the perfect Easter outfits for my kids, doing the egg hunts and more. But not this year. This year I didn’t bother with the outfits, kiddos would be with their father this year. I only half heartedly looked for one for myself. We did out Easter Egg hunt at a new church, and it was on Palm Sunday. It was a lovely Palm Sunday, but for Easter Sunday itself I was alone.
I would roll out of bed, my mother sending me a reminder text that I was to do the Bible readings in church that day and she was at church for the Easter brunch- but it had not been served yet and people were still just talking.
Bumbling through I threw something adequate for church on, my hair was still ok from the evening before- thankful for my curly waves in their natural state, and I put makeup on in the car.
I would arrive at church to find the brunch was basically done, in a matter of only 30 minutes I had missed it. The table was empty of the food I expected- like finding an empty tomb when expecting to find a resting body.
Mom didn’t bother to send me a text saying they were done. Irritated with her and myself I left and went to the only place that was open and close my for food and coffee: Dunkin Donuts, a place I had sworn to never go into, a place I had to recently relent to due to working in tv news with awkward hours and little choices for a quick meal in the rush of a break we get while reporting in a 24/7 news cycle. My job is to man social media, it never really ends.
But it was the quick, annoyed trip into Dunkin which then brought me back to my church feeling somewhat alone. Sitting in my car picking at a meal I didn’t really want but felt I needed to have so I didn’t pass out in front of everyone, drinking coffee that I needed also so I didn’t pass out.
Timing is everything, and there’s a season for it all.
It was as I walked into my church, this place where I have felt so much inner conflict in the past about my role and what am I really to do here, that I saw another man walking up. It was rather clear he spends a lot of his time on the streets of our town.
I find myself identifying more with the lost than the found many times, and so I spoke. Perhaps as one might expect, he asked for cash. Thinking I didn’t have any I told him I didn’t, but he was welcome to come in. He declined but asked to sit down on the steps, to which I said please do, and opened the church doors- perhaps hearing the music could be something that would help him to know it’s ok to come inside.
Feeling like I had lied, I stepped inside and looked through my wallet. Two five dollars bills were there. I reached in and grabbed one, going over to him.
We chatted. His name is Randy. I say “is” because as I write it, he “is”- not was. And if you read this later I hope he still is. Randy told me he loved church, but did not want to come inside. He was dirty and he stank. The last time he was cleaned was somewhere where they sprayed him down with a hose, and it hurt. It sounded less than humane.
Randy had once had a printing business, printing magazines. I told him we had something in common, as I’m a writer. And then he told me he had been in prison, the Feds didn’t like it when he printed money. I laughed and said yeah, I could see that being the case.
Another parishoner walked up, and said he was welcome to come in. Randy declined.
Randy wiped a tear away, he told me of some injuries, and gestured towards his walking cane.
I told him I needed to walk inside and put my robe on for church, but that I would come back and check on him.
I did, and of course he was gone.
The cynic might say he got what he wanted and was gone, but I’d like to think he gave me more.
I wonder sometimes if Jesus Christ walks among us, if he comes in fleeting moments – asking for something from us. Do we respond?
In telling me his story with no filter, Randy reminded me of Christ’s coming- and his ascension- that there is a light after darkness, and people and seasons coming into our lives for a period of time defined by God.
Randy was gone, our meeting brought about by an empty table, the forgiveness of a place that I felt had hurt my community, and I was left with wonderment at my church. My church which has brought me to salvation, which had helped me along many a spiritual jorney- has laid that foundation wherever it may lead me.
Love to all y’all,
Molly
