DAY ELEVEN
02.08.25 St. Josephine Bahkita
Yesterday was a busy day of appointments and connections so I was unable to make my usual visits in the neighborhood. My housemate, Easton, in discernment with the Archdiocese of Portland for the priesthood, walked in the door just as I was about to get ready to go. He and I have very different schedules and sometimes we go a week without seeing one another. He’s a delightful young man, thoughtful, prayerful, and earnest, so I took the invitation to simply sit at the dining room table with him sharing some life. Two hours later and lots of joy shared between the two of us, a trip out to the street never happened. So I went out this morning.
Walking east on Market, I encounter Roy sitting underneath a piece of thick clear plastic at the bus stop shelter at Hawthorne. He’s tucked squarely in the corner, head leaning toward his belly, like an old Eastern monk saying the Jesus Prayer. I know it’s him by the baby stroller with a blanket in it and the Razor scooter leaning on him. I crouch beside him and lay my hand on his head and let him know it’s me. “Oh man, it’s so cold out here, I’m just trying to stay warm, last night was so cold..” I ask him what he needs. “A very hot cup of coffee, lots of cream and lots of sugar.” Today I went out only with a backpack, a couple of Coronas hiding inside a pair of wool socks from my closet. There’s the Capitol City Grill at the hotel and a McDonald's kitty-corner to us. I head to Mickey D’s. As I start on my way, an elderly man pushing a walker with some goods stacked on it comes in the opposite direction. “What time is the bus supposed to be here? Are you getting on the bus?” I regret not knowing the bus schedule and tell him the figure under the plastic is my friend Roy; he’s good to hang out until the bus arrives.
At McDonald's, the gentleman at the register was very kind and took my order with the cream and sugar levels at a “ten.” I trust that will suffice and make my way back to Roy. He’s a sweet kid who pulls down the plastic at my arrival revealing an exhausted look. Sheepish, that’s how one might properly describe him whether he’s tired or not. He takes the coffee and I lay my hand on his exposed head again, he gingerly smiling at me. “Thank you, Todd.” His sensitivity is manifest in remembering; he’s remembered my name from the first time we ever met; today I commend him to the Mother of God and her protection.
The older gentleman sitting next to him is still anxious about the bus arriving. Noticing he’s got a Boston Celtics cap on, I engage him about the team. “I’m from Boston,” he says “and if you’re from Boston and don’t like the Celtics, then you’re not really from Boston.” I mention they might win it all again this year with the horses they’ve got and he concurs before returning to his present interest. “You sure you don’t know when the bus is coming?” It will come and when he gets on, I hope he can relax for the ride.
Allen’s at his usual spot, pacing up and down the I-5 off-ramp smiling at travelers before turning to me. He’s got an old white chair—with a few random bricks sitting in front of it—that he rests on in periods when he’s not pacing. He engages me: “Hey, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you; no cart today?” No sir, just doing my version of pacing among the neighbors. He’s animated this morning and opens a stream: “You know why I’m out here? Insurance. I’ve got this claim in probate and have to keep paying before it gets settled and they don’t even know that I have to beg money just to keep it going. I don’t have much and this claim goes on and on and on so I have to come out here to make ends meet.” I don’t fully understand the nuances of his situation, the bottom line being he’s got expenses which give him hope of receiving a settlement of some sort, at some future date.
He continues about the dynamics of the immediate neighborhood beneath the bridge. “I really feel sorry for those three over there, the two gentlemen fighting over the girl and she’s got schizophrenia so they don’t even know who they’re going to get from day to day and sometimes she gets violent and nasty, I pray for them, that’s all I can do, but it isn’t pretty.” HS’s cart is sitting a few meters away and I ask Allen if he’s around. “Oh Mike, he's a really good guy, disappeared a while ago, probably up at Fred Meyer having his morning constitutional.” Thank God they allow him to use the facilities. Allen rambles on for a while still, the sign he’s made from old mail prescription delivery packaging hanging around his neck. I deposit the wool socks on Mike’s cart for later.
In the crosswalk direction Fred Meyer, I get a small taste of the danger the homeless experience each day regarding drivers of motor vehicles. I was halfway through the westbound lane of Market when a Toyota Tundra came barreling out of the turn lane from the store. I felt sorry for the poor driver who slammed on her brakes mere feet from me—I could have touched the hood--as we looked at one another, she saw me a split second before running me down. I recall my prosthetic brother Matt (I also have a prosthesis, an aortic valve at the top of my heart) whose leg was ripped off in a collision with a vehicle. James and Amber also cross my mind, hit by cars while on foot. Before spending time on the streets, I never even pondered the dangerous aspect of being on foot in a modern, pedestrian-unfriendly bustle. A few weeks ago I saw a news item of a pedestrian being fatally struck by a city bus, presumably the most safety-conscious drivers there should be. Here’s the crux of the matter: I need to slow down when behind the wheel. God help us all to be aware of those on foot.
I stop at Fred Meyer to use the facilities and while there I get a text from Rosie. Rosie is my dear friend Melissa's neighbor, ninety-two years old. Since Mel is out of town on retreat, it falls to me to chauffer Rosie on her Saturday shopping outing, always an entertaining experience. We make our appointment for 1:30 in the afternoon and I continue walking. Roy’s request for coffee inspired me to grab a few more at the STARBUCKS here and share them. I get four grande coffees, load up the cardboard carrier with sugar packets, and roll out. I had noticed a single pale green tent behind the Days Inn and decided that would be my first stop.
Jeremiah answers when I call out to see if anyone’s home. As he unzips the entrance, he tries to rouse his lady before realizing she’s not there. I’ve never met him before and he stumbles out, surprised. “I would love a cup of coffee and can my girlfriend Jessica have one too? She’s probably at the Denny’s going to the bathroom. Lots of sugar please.” I can tell Jeremiah is blind and he has some minor cuts on his forehead and nose. “I can only see very little out the bottom corner of this eye,” he points to his right “but let me hold the cups.” I guessed right on the sugar packets. I empty eight of them in his cup before he confirms that the blend is right. I notice the left side of his mouth is slightly deformed and question in my mind what drugs perhaps his mother was using while he was in the womb. He tells the current situation: “I’ve been out here for about a year but this is Jessica’s first time being homeless and it’s taking her a while to get used to it. Last night the owner of the hotel—I think he owns this property—told us we had to be out or he was going to call the cops. We took our chances and will move down to under the freeway this morning.” After receiving permission, I used some alcohol wipes from the pack to treat the wounds on his face. They are relatively minor so I decided to leave them exposed to the air for healing. We mix a cup for Jessica and chat some more.
I often think about dual diagnosis situations on the street: drug addiction and mental illness and the havoc it creates for the souls wrestling in those arenas. Physical handicaps are generally better received by mainstream society, but many slip under the radar. Jeremiah’s presence out here exposes that reality.
Leaning against a compact car in the Fred Meyer parking lot is a hefty, rugged old fellow who takes the next cup of Joe. “Is it hot? That’s all I care about.” He’s got a big toothy grin as I hand over a few sugars and receive his thanks.
One more cup in hand, I cruise over to the Day’s Inn parking lot and rouse an elderly woman resting in her car, a 1990s Chrysler. The front bumper is partially ripped off and the windshield on the passenger side was shattered. There’s duct tape holding a rear fender on and multiple dents on the driver-side doors. On the passenger seat, a small dog barks wildly. I pity the elderly living in cars more than the vagrant youth who walk the streets: their lives are enclosed, and they lack the fresh air of walking. When this lady cracks her window the smell from inside her car is enough to make me gasp; she declines the last cup of coffee.
On the other side of the driveway entrance, there’s a white windowless van with a black tent unit for a roof. I knock on the passenger door and notice a young mother tending to a small boy who’s standing in the console. The mother is shocked so I hold up the coffee in truce and slowly make my way to the driver’s side door. She rolls down the window and I offer her the coffee which she timidly grasps. I’ve walked into something. The little boy is bare-chested wearing only multi-colored briefs, his blonde hair covering his eyes. After placing the rest of the sugar in the indentation in the dash of the speedometer, I get a better look at the mother and notice a fresh bleeding wound under her scalp. When I ask her name, she says Brianna and continues “I don’t really live out here, we have property and I drive Uber for a living, just catching our breath before the day starts…” It isn’t true, we both know it. When I asked if she’d let me attend to the wound on her scalp, she resisted, a fresh tear flowing from her eye. Later as I walked along, I regretted not giving her some peroxide and cotton balls to care for the wound herself. I hope she is safe tonight.
As I turn left toward the Bottle Drop, a Firetruck parks in the gap between the fish shop and the Mexican restaurant. My interest piqued, I slow and ask the men what their errand is. They’re having breakfast at the Mexican restaurant. Remembering the presence of their colleagues under the freeway two weeks ago to pick up John’s body, it strikes me: we herald these men as first responders. With the fentanyl crisis a full-blown blaze, they are often last responders, being called to a site where death has claimed another young soul. We need to pray for them all.
Desiree is sitting on the sidewalk out front of the Rent-A-Center, chatting with a man I’ve never seen. She’s the third point on the love triangle Allen pointed out under the freeway. As I walk past her and her visitor, it strikes me: she isn’t schizophrenic only, there’s a spirit of fornication afflicting her too. Look what’s happening: she’s thin and frail, teeth rotted out, smelling constantly of urine. In a word, she's foul. No one can control her, but multiple men out here are drawn to her. I noticed it when I walked past this morning, I too felt an odd attraction to her. I reminisce now on all of our encounters: her initial fear, the launching into stories about the lining of planets, her confused take on the music outside the Walgreens, her daze and waving me off as though she didn’t know me. I know her and I know that spirit; St Michael, surround this lady.
At Planned Parenthood, another lady was pacing. Tammy has spent her Saturdays for the last eleven years simply being present on the sidewalk at a time when there isn't any activity in the building. She's a contemplative person. She's at peace as she walks. We both share our concern and prayer for the folks who work there and she tells me about the movie, Unplanned. In it, the youngest manager ever at a Planned Parenthood location, Abby Johnson, has a conversion experience by being exposed to the details of the reality of the activity at her clinic. She leaves the work she's done for eight years and moves directly into pro-life activism. We're all in need of conversion, whether we walk the sidewalk in prayer or work within an abortion facility.
St Josephine Bahkita, whose feast day is today, was Sudanese. She endured abuse at the hands of multiple slave owners before choosing freedom in a religious community. There she didn't live an exemplary exterior life, carrying out tasks like cooking and cleaning, tasks ironically reserved for the poor and enslaved. However, the reason she did them with grace: she undertook them for a different kind of Master. We all desire freedom. We all want impactful work. May the Master of us all help us find it.
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