Living Out Loud

Aimee recommended I read Under the Overpass by Michael Yankoski. Although I finished the book in one setting, the book is not finished with me. It lodges in that rare category, Life-Changing. Yankoski pulled back the sleeping bags to reveal street people as I've never known or imagined them. Ouch. Whenever I’ve seen card-carrying street people, my impulse has always been to shout, "Get a job!" I rarely allow myself to consider the circumstances that thrust them into their current condition. Just a harsh, “This is America, for crying out loud. Clean yourself up and go interview.”

A couple of years ago, Yankoski temporarily joined the ranks of America’s 3.1 million homeless. He and his friend, Sam, invested about six months living on the streets. This book chronicles their experiences in half a dozen American cities. Theirs was a lifestyle by choice with a predetermined end. Mike’s journey began as he struggled with the paradox of Christians speaking about their faith, yet often living as though they had none. He cites Jesus’ exhortation to feed and clothe the hungry and naked. While on the streets, less than half a dozen people offered tangible help to Sam and him. Vocal Christians who recognized their obvious needs sometimes sympathized, and then offered an easy, costless, “I’ll pray for you” as they and their comfort walked away.

Never did Mike and Sam endorse the addictions that have driven many of America’s homeless to the streets. However, they demonstrated sincere care and concern for addicts. Without fail, he and Sam used their surplus panhandling income to buy food to share with their street friends. Several times people allowed them into their sphere, physically and emotionally. The two shared honest friendship as well as empathy and hope. Mike and Sam’s lives evidenced the most dramatic, permanent changes. That’s what I want for myself too.

How do I get there? A few years ago when Marci and I returned from Bolivia, our affluence crippled us for a long time. I thought and had hoped it would be permanent. We couldn’t bear to look in the pantry. We didn’t want to go to the grocery store. The thought of buying and receiving Christmas gifts appalled us. Just opening our closets punched us in the gut. Our Bolivian friends had nothing, yet they had everything. We already had too much and hungered for more. How does one convert nothingness into somethingness?

I won’t say I now have a burning desire to quit my job and live by the river, but I am challenging myself to live out loud. A smile is a portable thing to share. Why have I always averted my eyes to avoid even perfunctory contact with the homeless? How shall I now live in their presence? I’ve never been hungry enough to eat questionable discards. I shower daily. I can afford soap, deodorant, and toothpaste. My home isn’t made of cardboard. I’m not at the mercy of a provider. Yet, that statement isn’t entirely true. All the provisions I enjoy have come from God’s generous hand, directly or indirectly. He has enabled our family to earn a decent living. I have and the homeless have not. Does that fact embarrass me? Does the realization increase my responsibility to be a point person for them?

Rarely do I have opportunity to mingle with street people, but somehow I want to change that, I think. I really think I do. If I plan better, I could carve time to visit with those I see under park tables and trees. Cody and Michaela pioneered the sack lunch distribution. Since they’re no longer here, I can grab hold of the torch and stuff brown bags. I could also volunteer more often in soup kitchens. Yankoski says outsiders provide a positive outlook that is lacking among those who are wounded by negativism and despair. A fresh influx of volunteers is also a healing balm to those who daily man shelters and soup kitchens.

Yankoski insists, and I agree, that street people learn to have low self-esteem because of their condition. They know they smell. They know their clothes are ratty. They know they look like haggard dregs. I could help a little in this department too. It would be easy to keep supplies in the car to hand out for divine appointments. Here’s my initial Care Package Inventory: eye contact, smile, engaging conversation, time, authenticity, gum, lotion, soap, shampoo, deodorant, washcloth, toothbrush, toothpaste, granola bars, and packets of nuts, jerky, and dried fruit, bottled water, McDonald’s gift certificates, gloves, stocking caps, socks, T-shirts, sweatshirts, and blankets.

I want to be purposeful. For a long time, I searched for ways to define myself. Pastor Goodman used to say, “A man wrapped up in himself makes a small and miserable package.” True. Living beyond myself is one more stick of kindling for the fires that refine, and I’ll gladly swap defining for refining any day. It’s easy to live for the temporal. I want to nurture a mindset in which the eternal always trumps. After all, Jesus lived under the overpass.