The Man

A wrinkly old homeless man sits on the edge of my street. He sits in the same place, in the same position, with the same little paper-cup torn around the edges and the same smile. Unlike the other homeless people, he doesn't beg, doesn't stretch out his hands and cry, "please, mademoiselle, please!" as he sees you approaching from afar. He simply nods and replies, "Eh, bonjour" when I greet him with, "Bonjour, Monsieur!"

And yet, what irony it is, that he might be the only homeless person that I have seen and have neglected to give food or money to. How easy it is to respond to outright humiliation than to humility, to begging than to patience, to loud cries and gesture than to a peaceful nod.

Today, on my way to the local market to stock up on the week's groceries, we exchanged greetings ("Bonjour, Monsieur!" "Eh, bonjour"); I walked on, and he stayed in the same place. But on my way back, I accidentally ignored him as I was hauling 2 kilos of fresh strawberries and a multicoloured array of plastic bags past his eyes.

For lunch, I made a chicken-and-sweetcorn sandwich and a tossed salad. As I was crunching on my salad and staring at the sandwich, God challenged me: "Go out and give that man your sandwich." I knew that my sense of hunger was only a tip-of-the-tongue taste of what the homeless man feels daily. I was filled with the desire to ask the man what he wanted to eat, to invite him to dinner with me at a cosy restaurant, and love on him. I wanted to ask him what brought him here, where he was before, how he feels to be sitting on his behind all day. I wanted to tell him that I admired him for crouching on the ground for so long, waiting patiently. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry for not helping him sooner. I wanted to help him find a job. I wanted to tell him to order anything on the menu and as much as he wanted, even though I have overdrafted this month.

But, I didn't. I finished my salad and ate the sandwich; I am writing about what I was thinking of doing but never did.

On Mondays, I don't have class. It's a day where I have all the time in the world to talk to homeless people, homeless people who don't exist in the serenity of Wellesley. But, I'm not doing that today. Why? Frankly, because I'm afraid. My French isn't good enough either. I know that I'll just forget everything I want to say and just tell him to follow Jesus. I want to be a good witness. I want to be an instrument of peace. But, why this fear? Why this discouragement, all of a sudden?

I am so used to passing homeless people, greeting them at most with a smile and a look in the eyes. But, rarely have I stopped to talk to them. And yet, of all the times that God has said "I AM WITH YOU" in the Bible, hasn't it been most of all at times like these, when we struggle with fear, when we are stepping into the unknown, when we are grasping for his hand in the dark, when natural disasters like a volcanic eruption on an island we rarely think about causes the entire world to stop?

God, let me be an instrument of your peace. Grant me your courage and your wisdom as I step out as the bearer of your image and try to love just a little bit like the way you love me.

Enough

...complaining, sadness, despondency of heavy heart, desire for what is not mine, greed, laziness, méchanceté, deceit.

I will rejoice. I will be glad. I am content. Today's a sunny day even if it rains.

Par Hasard

You don't need to learn about human trafficking to know the depravity of human nature.

***

In my solitude, I have lost the ability to make friends. They have forgotten me.

But self-pity devours the soul.

So I will sit still and wait. I will watch the same birds diving up and down the same piece of azure, in and out of the same cotton ball of gray, until the cage door opens and I believe that I can fly.

***

What do you do during your last seven weeks in a city to which you'll never return, a country in which you'll never reside, a culture you never understood, people who were never close enough to be called friends?

***

Are you afraid of loneliness? 

***

Childhood friends are dating. Current friends are marrying. Honeymoon at sunset. Happy Anniversary. Congratulations.

I still don't know what he looks like or smells like, if he snores when he sleeps, slurps when he eats, and taps the steering wheel to every beat on the radio. 

Is my hair not yet long enough for him to rescue me from the tower? Have I not yet slept long enough for him to gallop to my side and kiss me awake? Must I eat the poisonous apple and die before he can give me life? 

Indeed, I am neither Rapunzel nor Sleeping Beauty nor Snow White. But will mine be a fairy tale or a tragedy, a dream or reality?

***

My sense of entitlement must be revolting.