God regularly uses others--especially my wife-- to show me what true generosity is and how far I have to go to attain that essential virtue. Yesterday at the corner bus stop by our church I ran into a disabled man I've known for years. Paul lives in a downtown hotel and gets by on the SSI check that goes mostly to pay his hotel bill. We made small talk as he waited for the bus and when he said he was on his way to the ATM to withdraw some money I joked with him, "get me a stack of money while you're there." He called me this morning and apologized for not realizing yesterday that I must have been dropping a big hint that I was broke and needed money. "Allen," he said, if you need a few bucks, well, I don't have much--but I could give you a little if you need it." I then had to explain that I had been joking around and really didn't need any money. I thanked him and blessed him for being so kind and thoughtful. As we said goodbye I was reminded once aaginjust how far I have yet to go...

Will Molly make it home to Arkansas in time for Thanksgiving? She looks to be about 17 to 20. Still with a good deal of innocence about her. She came by the church about a month ago for a bus pass in order to look for work. At that time she was optimistic and hopeful. However, after finding no work, becoming tired of life on the streets--and with the holidays approaching--she is anxious to go HOME. I directed her to Traveler's Aid Society. Perhaps she will make it home in time for Thanksgiving with her family. I hope so. Please pray for her.

Sam's Storage Crisis

Sam's call this morning is like many that come to the Ladle office on a daily basis. Sam has a crisis. Sam is desperate. He's about to lose his storage unit. The thing is, storage places don't just put your stuff on the curb when you're seriously behind in your rent, they lock you out. Then, after a certain period, they auction off the contents of your unit to someone who buys it all, sight unseen. Sam pleads with me, "I only need $288 and I'll pay you back, I swear." I have to tell Sam we do not do loans. "But all my mom's paintings are in there. She was really good--even taught art for years. I just can't lose them; I've got to keep them for my son."

Sam has a 7-year old son he sees on weekends ever since his girlfriend kicked him out a year ago. Sam has had run-ins with the law ever since adolescence. He tells me about how his mom always used to get him a lawyer to get him off the hook when he was a teenager. She is no longer around to do that, but Sam keeps going to court for a variety of things like ignored traffic tickets.

In fact, Sam tells me he's just this morning realized he missed a court date which was for earlier this week. It just slipped his mind. He no longer even has the car he got the tickets in because it was towed to impound three months ago when he was caught driving without a license or insurance. That's when he first called me--to ask for a loan to get his car out of the tow yard. It was going to cost over a thousand dollars Losing his car was a double whammy because he'd been sleeping in it since being kicked out of his girlfriend's house. Now he is sleeping in the back yard of some guy he knows in Golden Hill.

Sam is feeling like his whole life is falling apart, and I can't really argue with him on that point. Things really are a mess and, since losing his car have only gotten worse. Sam feels sorry for himself and like the world has turned against him. I give him a tough-love pep talk telling him to quit playing the victim, straighten out the legal problems he's brought on himself and then set about rebuilding his life. I tell him I believe that, if his mom's paintings are really as important to him as he says, he can hustle up the money by day labor or begging--"flying a sign" which he has done before--or borrowing from friends and family. The only thing Ladle Fellowship will offer at this point is to store the paintings for a month or two if he can recover them. We'll also let him do court-ordered community service here. We'll pray for him. We'll encourage him. That's about it.

Will he be successful? I don't know. I hope so. I' too would like for Sam Jr. to see the paintings his grandma did.

Alice and the Hundred-Dollar Bill

Before I tell you about how Alice came to be in possession of a hundred dollar bill and how she lost it and how it was recovered and what she did with it then, I need first to tell you a little about her. Alice is in her early-seventies and has been homeless most of her adult life. As near as I can tell, Alice has no problem being homeless and I think actually prefers the homeless “lifestyle.” Even though she does not come to our soup kitchen and does not receive any food or clothes from our Ladle ministry, Alice nonetheless has developed a strangely enduring and unusual connection with our church. This connection goes three pastors back—back nearly four decades to the friendship which developed between her, Rev. Paul Pulliam and his wife, Ruth.

One day, back in the late 70’s, Alice simply showed up one Sunday and from that day on began attending First Presbyterian Church regularly. She kept mostly to herself and would leave right after the benediction. Before long, Alice began frequenting the reception area outside the church office on weekdays and chatting with the secretary, delivery people and anyone else who happened by. Over time, Alice’s weekday visits became more frequent and were lasting longer. Eventually, she was spending most of every day on the couch in the reception area and, like some modern-day Bartleby, no one seemed willing or capable of dislodging her. At some point the church administrator let her know she would no longer be allowed to spend her days in the church. It seems Alice took great offence at this new policy and so, like a jilted parishioner, found a new church to go to—a Lutheran church.

Alice wrote to Reverend Pulliam—and his wife—to let them both know she would no longer be attending services at First Presbyterian Church--and why. Pastor Pulliam and Ruth each replied with letters sent to her P.O. box encouraging her to understand why it was just not possible for her to spend her days at the church and expressing their—and God’s--love and concern for her. She wrote back, dropping the letters off at the church office. This began a correspondence which has continued—off and on—until this very day. The Pulliams would give her stationery and other writing supplies.

Often Alice’s letters are accompanied by gift packages which she has carefully assembled from small items she buys at the thrift store. Invariably these gift packs come elaborately nested in scrap paper, greeting card portions, napkins and plastic bags. On many of the paper surfaces, Alice writes out scripture verses, quotations or lines from poems. The verses and quotations she chooses often relate to some nearby holiday or other event. Somewhere on her wrapped gifts, Alice always puts her full name followed by, “homeless senior.” In the ten years I have been director of Ladle Fellowship, I have received perhaps eight or more of her special gifts. At first I had no idea who she was. Eventually I came to learn of her continuing relationship with Pastor Pulliam and Ruth.

You are now ready to hear about the hundred-dollar bill. In recent months a man from our church, Scotty, began to meet with Alice at the Starbucks downtown for morning coffee once a week. Over coffee and snacks Alice has been slowly opening up to Scotty. She is very intelligent and insightful—even philosophical about life. Last week, a very well-dressed businessman took note of Alice—had he perhaps spoken to her in the past or seen her on the street?—walked right up to her and handed her a hundred-dollar bill. Alice, surprised, said, “What is this for?” and the businessman replied, “It is for whatever you might happen to need right now.” Alice thanked him as he said, “God bless you” and walked away. Alice tucked the bill in her sleeve and continued her conversation with Scotty. As Alice returned Scotty’s hug, the bill fell from her sleeve to the sidewalk. Just then a street person in his 30’s bends down quickly, pockets it and walks swiftly up the street. Once Alice discovered what had happened and told Scotty, he took off after the man. Scotty—a 250-plus pound ex-Marine who is the spitting image of the Santa-- caught up to him a few blocks later and, between huffs and puffs, “exhorted” him about stealing from poor elderly women. The guy mumbled some kind of lame justification and then reluctantly fished the bill out of his pocket and laid it in Scotty’s upturned palm. Scotty returned it to Alice, reminded her to be careful, said a second goodbye and set off to work.

The next time they met, Alice handed Scotty an envelope containing the hundred-dollar bill saying, “here, give this to the church, I don’t really need it.” Scotty was dumbfounded. “What do you mean, you don’t need it? Look, get yourself a motel room for a night or two or buy something you need—Alice, this money is for you to use.” “No, Scotty, I don’t really need anything. And, besides, there are probably people who need it more than I do. No, I want you to give it to the church for the Ladle program—I’ll be fine” Reluctantly, Scotty agreed to do as she said. He knew she was a strong--and strong-willed--person and had made up her mind. She hadn’t even used any of it since he had given it back to her. Knowing Scotty as I do, I am certain he teared up at this point.

That was last Thursday. On Sunday morning I saw Alice sitting just outside at the corner of the church building. She had just delivered little gift packages for Scotty and me. Mine contained a colorful little cardboard box in which I found: a card holder in the form of an apple, a new little poured candle in a class holder shaped in the outline of a cat’s head, a pocket pack of Nice ‘n Soft tissues, a 3’ x 5” spiral-bound memo book on which Alice had written my name. Inside the wire spiral was inserted a new pencil with a stars-and-stripes pattern to it—probably in anticipation of Flag Day. The memo book was wrapped in red chiffon ribbon bow. Also in my gift pack, wrapped in a clear plastic pouch, was one of those cardboard coffee cup sleeves. This one was from It’s A Grind Coffee House (Alice seems to like these cardboard sleeves because she’s included one in each of the last several presents she’s given me). Also in the plastic pouch: a foil-wrapped tea bag (Numi brand, Velvet Garden White Rose—certified organic, “With every sip, a new dream awakens”); a scrap of Easter-colored wrapping paper which it looks like Alice has cut in the shape of an egg and on it written, “To (Personal) Allen Randall, FPC Ladle Fellowship, From Alice Margaret Simmons, Homeless Senior.” Also included, on a sheet taken from the memo book, was a long hand-written note of condolence upon the recent death of my mother. On a small piece of thin folded cardboard, like a miniature greeting card, I find little stickers: “Faith, “Promise,” “rejoice,” and another, with the dove symbol. On the outside of it Alice has written out—and referenced—Hebrews 3:4, “…Every house is builded by some man; but he that built all things is God.” Inside I find, written out in her neat hand, the text of Revelation 22:12-14 which begins, “Behold I come quickly…”

I aspire to someday be as generous and caring a person as is my dear friend, Alice Margaret Simmons.

Three Different Deaths

What is the average lifespan of a typical homeless person? I wonder. I will have to search for the answer to this question. From my experience, admittedly quite limited to our little downtown neighborhood, I'd guess it would be in the neighborhood of 58 to 62 years. But I'm not writing today about mortality rates but to mark the deaths, within a week's span, of three homeless people who were Ladle regulars: Ron, Susan and Kyle. Here, first, is a little something about Ron.

Ron was a large Hispanic man in his early 50s. About 6 months prior to his death, Ron began spending his days at the side of our church, usually in the company of a drinking buddy or two. Upon my first encounter with him he told me he'd just gotten out of the hospital and was homeless. He said he had cancer, but was vague about where it was, what treatment he was getting and any prognosis he might have been given. When I told him our building was used as an elementary school during the week, and that we'd had a problem with men hanging out at this spot and drinking, he assured me that he had been "clean and sober" for a couple of years. He said he was homeless due to his poor health and some unexplained problem with one of his legs. He said he just needed to rest here for a couple of minutes and then would be going. A few days later I found him, again at the side of the church, but this time he was so drunk--or high, or both-- that he could not stand when I asked him to leave. A buddy--also drunk, but a bit more functional--helped him up and they staggered down the sidewalk as if contestants in an extremely slow three-legged race.

This was just the first in a series of similar weekly interactions with Ron. Sometimes however he'd surprise me by being completely sober. At those times he looked so different it was difficult to imagine this was the same man who, just the week before, was passed out on the church steps and unresponsive. A couple of times he was so far gone we had to call the paramedics. Other homeless people who know Ron told me he used to be a heroin user and seller. Ron, it turns out, was on a steeply and rapidly declining pathway. He seemed to know this but did not seem to care. The ultimate and sad confirmation of this came in the form of a telephone call I received from my counterpart at First Lutheran Church, just a few blocks from here. "Allen, I have some sad news," Jim began. "Ron died three days ago." "What happened," I asked. "They're not sure. Either he fell down and hit his head and then had a stroke, or he had the stroke first, then fell down and hit his head. In any case he died from the combination of the two. And he's not the only one to die recently," Jim continued. "I got word that Susan--you knew her from Ladle didn't you?--was found dead in the doorway of the 'C' Street Inn the day after Ron died."

Yet again my soul groaned in grief for our so tragically fallen world and the ugly and terrible toll it visits upon the lives of the homeless--especially those enslaved to drugs, alcohol and mental confusion. Even as I laid the receiver back in its cradle, I was already questioning whether I could have/should have done something more or different to have helped either Ron or Susan avoid their sadly premature deaths. The bland and monotone thought, "no, there was nothing" relieved neither that dark little shadow of tentative guilt that now niggled my mind, nor did it counterbalance the lead-like weight of my sadness over the seeming inevitability and pitiful ending of these two lives.

Susan had been coming to our Sunday afternoon meal for about as long as I can remember. I never knew her very well. She was usually quiet and kept to herself and her little circle of street/drinking/drug-using friends. Susan was somewhere in her forties I suppose, but as you might imagine the hard conditions of street life can put apparent age on a person--sometimes an additional ten to twenty years worth. In the last year of her life the one thing that stood out if you were to see Susan would be that her feet were terribly swollen and marred with open sores. I think this may have been one of the symptoms of liver failure. It pained me to see her struggling just to walk up or down the ramp to our dining room. When I would express sympathy and ask what if there was anything we could do she'd give me a sweet partial smile and say, "No, I'll make it. It's the cancer. I'll be O.K. thanks." I've come to find that alcoholics with failing livers often cite "cancer" as the explanation for their physical symptoms. Susan however did not live long enough to die from alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. She died of a drug overdose--probable heroin. Jim at First Lutheran told me her body had been found on a recent morning in the doorway of the C-Street Inn. Several street people who knew her came to me to confirm this and to tell me that the people she had been shooting up with had, when she'd overdosed, just taken her down and dumped her on the sidewalk. This was told to me in a tone as if they thought perhaps I should pursue this angle and tell the authorities about it. I didn't think there was any point to doing that, nor did I believe the authorities would be interested, or could even do anything if they were.

A week after Jim had told me about Ron and Susan, I got another call from him. This time it was Kyle. Though his death was not unexpected, the news of it brought me a heaviness as if someone had casually handed me a shoebox full of bricks. Kyle first came to my attention one Sunday morning when, after the church service a helpful church lady whispered to me, "The young man over there--the one in the dirty green T-shirt just walking away from the doughnut table--I think he must be drunk or something." I thanked her for bringing this to my attention and began to weave my way through the tightly packed fellowship hall toward the young man. He certainly did appear to be drunk. In one hand he was awkwardly holding onto a glazed doughnut so tightly as to be partially squishing it. In his other hand was a cup of coffee which was sloshing over the rim and onto his hand as well as onto the carpet.

I greeted him as I tend to greet street people inside the church who appear to be drunk. "Are you feeling all right?" I said, "You look kind of unsteady--is anything the matter?" "Nope" Kyle said, cocking his head and meeting my eyes, "I just need a place to sit." "Follow me" I said "there's a chair right over there"m I said, stalling for enough time to assess his slurred speech and very unsteady walk. His movements were, on the surface, somewhat similar to the stumbling of one under the influence except that Kyle's motions were more jerky and stiff. Even as I was making this observation and we had about reached the chair in the little foyer, one of Kyle's buddies came over to me quickly and said, "hey, it's O.K--he's not loaded, he's got Huntington's. "Yup" kyle affirmed. I spoke to him for a few minutes, but his speech was so slow and choppy it took him a long time to compose a whole sentence. And though I strained to listen, I could not make out half his words.

One of the friends watching out for him was a homeless man who was later to join the church. I doubt any member in our churches history had more tattoos--or more colorful. We are a Navy town, so I'm sure some of the men in the church have tattoos under their sleeves from their days in the service during WWII--ut not like Robert's. His were clearly biker tattoos and climbed clear up his neck.

To be continued...

Donna Decides to Go Home

Donna, a woman in her early thirties, came to California from West Virginia after the death of her young daughter. I do not know the circumstances, but there was some indication that the death of her daughter had been sudden and tragic. It seems Donna's way to cope with the grief was by going to a new place--one as far away from home as she could go. She wound up in San Diego in early 2008. Donna had hoped to find work and get settled, but this didn't work out and before long she was out on the street. After enduring homelessness, and like the prodigal son, Donna "came to herself" and decided to go home and reestablish a relationship with her father.

Donna had come to our church from time to time after she had become homeless. We had helped her with little things like making copies of her resume, bus tokes to look for work and similar things. On her most recent visit to our church she came with Traveler's Aid Society paperwork and was seeking a contribution toward bus fare in order to get back home to West Virginia. We talked a while about her home, her upbringing and her relationship with her father. He had recently has a great deal of trouble with his shoulder and could do little to care for himself. Both her parents were committed Christians. Her father a devout Methodist and her mother, no longer living, had belonged to the local Salvation Army church. Donna expressed a deep and strong faith in God.

As she was in the middle of trying her very best to convince me of how important it was for her to go home and care for her father, I wrote a pledge for the money needed on her form and handed it back to her. Donna stopped mid-sentence, looked at it and tears began to roll down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and whispered,"Thank you God." It was as if a very big burden had been lifted and she was now certain of going home soon. With many tearful thank-yous, Donna left for the Traveler's Aid Society office where she would turn in her paper and be issued a bus ticket to West Virginia.

This was a simple ten-minute exchange of need and supply--the sort of thing we do at our church on an almost daily basis. Yet it felt as if this were a real and significant turning point in Donna's life. It seemed almost a holy moment as this young woman turned her heart back to her father, her home and her God.

Jenny Finds a Purse Full of Cash and…

Last week, as I finished inspecting the street in front of our church building, Jenny, a homeless woman I know, came running up to me very agitated, flailing her arms shouting, Allen Allen you’ve got to do something a woman lost her purse and Douglas has it and won’t let it go and you need to call the lady who lost it I’ve heard of her she is a big attorney and she has to get her purse back its got all her ID in it and a phone and money and Allen you’ve got to do something you know Douglas, he'll take everything!…

Jenny is a homeless woman who forty-something. I don’t know much about her past except that she had a more-or-less normal life until a terrible auto accident about ten years ago. Jenny suffered permanent brain damage and, as a result of other injuries, walks with a severe limp. She also has a pronounced scar from a tracheotomy. Jenny is rather child-like in many ways, perhaps as a result of the brain damage she suffered. She does not use drugs or alcohol, but she is the constant companion of a guy, Douglas, who is an alcoholic and a petty thief. Douglas is kind of a “street rat,” most often intoxicated to some degree, very loud-mouthed and usually can be found begging (Called “flying a sign” by street people) at the Fourth Avenue off-ramp.

I looked across the street and there sat Douglas with a cardboard sign and a large purple purse at his side. I walked over to him, picked up the purse and said, Thank you Douglas for guarding this purse--that was very good of you. I’m going to go over to the church and see if I can’t contact the owner. Thanks again for being such a good and honest citizen Douglas. I think Douglas was shocked into silence by my little speech and how quickly his fortunes had changed. However, as I walked back across the street Douglas found his voice and shouted, “I want a reward!”
Back over at the church I thanked Jenny and told her that, if there were any reward, it would all go to her.

While looking through the purse for the owner’s contact information, we noticed that every pocked and section of it contained little wads of cash—here fifty, there eighty and so on--several hundred in total, at least. After a number of phone calls we confirmed the owner’s address—not far from the church—and made arrangements to deliver it to here there. Later, on the phone, she expressed great relief at getting her purse back in perfect condition with nothing missing. I let her know that her thanks really belong to Jenny, the homeless woman who rescued her purse and was so intent on getting it back to its rightful owner. The woman asked me if I thought one-hundred dollars would be an appropriate reward. I said I thought it was just right. A couple of days later the woman made good on her pledge, stopping off at the church office to drop off the cash for Jenny. She also wrote out a chuck to ladle Fellowship for twenty-five dollars.
This Sunday I expect to see Jenny and give her the reward money. With it, Jenny might be able to get out of our current rainy conditions and into a hotel room for a few days.

All’s well that ends well!

Kelly, From Some Time Back: Her Success Story

Although a very new Christian, Kelly was having quite a difficult time when she first came to Ladle Fellowship. She was homeless, depressed, confused, estranged from her daughter and feeling under satanic attack. Yet she kept coming back to Ladle discipleship class for direction, fellowship, prayer and encouragement. She attended Sunday services as well. She had her heart set on going to City College and turning her life around. After a couple of months she announced that she had found an apartment in El Cajon and so might not be coming to class. A few months later Kelly returned on a Sunday morning for a visit. She was beaming and anxious to share all the good things God has been doing in her life these past few months. Not only had the art classes at City College been going well, but the Lord had opened up several avenues for selling her art work. She has gotten several commissions and is actually making money with her art. I said I’d like to see her art sometime and she said, “I’ve got a small portfolio right here on my camera.” She then proceeded to show me photos of a mural she’d done in an Italian restaurant as well as a number of paintings—some landscapes and some portraits—all very very good! Not only was her art career taking off, her atheist daughter had come to the Lord and they’d been reconciled. They had shared Thanksgiving together for the first time in years. Kelly’s life has really turned around and she is joyfully praising God for His help and blessings.

Note:
I ran across this story in an archived email. When I come across--or remember--stories from the past, like this one, I'll post them for some to read for the first time and others to remember the people in the story. --Allen