Homeless at the heart

WASHINGTON – As I watched the line of cars drive out of Elsey’s lot, I said goodbye to friends headed to the coast and loaded up my bags into the small passenger van waiting at the curb. This wouldn’t be a relaxing break from the constant stress of classes, nor would it provide me the deep tan I’d hoped for.

Instead, it would alter a tough exterior and wash away the stereotypes of people who needed help. I destined for the nation’s capital.

I rode shotgun on the way there, accompanying the ever-entertaining campus minster, David Weatherspoon, as he howled out Top 40 songs to the group who had joined him. A second van followed behind, hauling the rest of our crew. As we crossed the river and saw the first glimpse of skyscrapers and city life, the beauty of such a  historic place took my breath away. I bubbled with excitement about visiting the memorials and museums, seeing the sites and exploring the long, crowded streets.

I’d forgotten, in that moment, that I was here for a reason. I wanted to serve.
 
The following evening, after exhausting ourselves on a march from one museum to the next, Weatherspoon asked for volunteers to interview homeless men and women. Thinking, “Journalism is my thing,” I jumped at the opportunity and climbed into the car. We met up with two other vans, one hauling food and the other clothing, and set out to help the homeless. I was still laughing with the other young women as we pulled up to our first stop. I turned around, glancing at the crowd headed toward the van. As we opened the doors to climb out, we were met with over 50 men and women, hungry and homeless.

There were black men and white men, and women too. They wore ripped, oversized sweatshirts, but several also stood in suits. There were frowns, but smiles and laughter as well. In a moment I realized: These people are just like me.

As I sat down to talk, one man told me of his  graduate studies at Oxford. Another told me about how a company had convinced him to move to the city and then had taken away his money. Others spoke of their families, of their pasts, of the economy. But what really pulled at my heartstrings was story after story of an average person, running into a time of need when no one was there to pull them back out.

I remember one man in particular. As he approached the van, I pulled him aside for a quick interview. He told me his name was Jay, “Just a simple J-A-Y.” As I asked the first question, his reaction wasn’t what I’d expected. He talked about good times with friends. He spoke of his past and the joys he had found in the people he met on the street. And he stood, having little to call his own, and offered ideas for helping others.

I was shocked.

I stood humbled, knowing that in an instant, this man had wiped away my every assumption about the homeless and had replaced it with love and compassion for people who had fallen into misfortune. I’d taken the classes at Franklin and I’d attended the lectures about homelessness, but nothing could have prepared me for the humbling experience that would alter my views forever.

Something changed in me that night, and as I walked back to the van, I was filled with gratitude for the week ahead.

Tuesday, we attended “street church,” led by a local pastor in the center park. As I walked in to join the group, beside me stood a man dressed in what was clearly his Sunday-best, a pair of jeans and tennis shoes with a jacket pulled over his t-shirt, lugging a black trash bag behind him.

But it wasn’t his attire that surprised me – I’d seen plenty of the style going around – it was his intense faith. He dropped his possessions at his feet, raised up his hands and sang, “We shall overcome someday. Oh, deep in my heart I do believe we shall overcome someday.”

The chorus echoed in my ears as I stood in the middle of the group, tears in my eyes and a smile on my face. I knew that faith had pulled these people through tough times, and that, in some small way, our group was making a difference in the lives of these people.

Here, in the solitude of a small Washington park, hundreds of men and women had found a home. Nestled in the rusty grooves of the park benches, there was a community of faithful individuals who had needs just like my own, but a faith that far outstretched anything I could have ever imagined.