DAY EIGHTEEN
03.02.25 Eighth Sunday Ordinary Time
“No disciple is superior to the teacher; but when fully trained, every disciple will be like his teacher. Why do you notice the splinter in your brother’s eye, but do not perceive the wooden beam in your own? How can you say to your brother, ‘Brother, let me remove that splinter in your eye,’ when you do not even notice the wooden beam in your own eye? You hypocrite! Remove the wooden beam from your own eye first; then you will see clearly to remove the splinter in your brother’s eye.”
Today was warm and sunny and I ran into Braden across from Denny’s. He was coming west through the landscaping patch between the restaurant and the Fred Meyer gas station. I flagged him down and as he approached asked him “Brother, do you live out here?” He nodded in assent and as he got closer I knew him from the two times I’d met him behind the 7-Eleven. “Braden!” I called out to him. “You remembered my name? What?” He and I spoke for a while and he took the jacket I had in the cart which I'd picked up last time I was out.
He’s getting further and further into street life, evident in the aging on his face. One of the interesting aspects of walking the streets weekly is the shifting nature of life out here. I generally have a very good memory and can place a face with a name. Due to the drug situation, a face can change drastically in the space of half an hour. This past week on Wednesday, one of the young men I shared coffee with at Fred Meyer’s was momentarily sober and lucent. Three hours later, seeing him in a parking lot with some of the same friends, he was unrecognizable due to the fentanyl trip he was enduring.
Braden doesn’t strike me as a drug addict, but then again, I’ve only seen him sober. As we’re talking a young lady crosses the street to avoid us and he calls out to her: “Hey, you need any food? Water?” She responded, “I need some cigarettes more than anything!” I called her over since I’d stopped at the tobacco shop on my way out. While Braden offered her some food, I gave her a pack of cigarettes which she promptly split with him. No way to outdo these folks in generosity since they understand the widow’s mite. They have nothing and give it away whenever they get it. Amazing.
Today I met a different Ryan than the one I've written about the last couple of weeks. This Ryan’s the one who explains the staph infection in his legs as leftovers from the horse tranquilizers in his fentanyl. He was sitting in the alleyway between the Bottle Drop and the Rent-A-Center. He carries a haggard look of exhaustion and minces no words. “Hey, man, it’s getting worse, I don’t even want to look at it anymore because whenever I pull up my pant leg I have to smell it.” At least this week he’s able to put some shoes on his feet to hold the swelling in somewhat.
“Did you hear all the stuff Donald Trump is doing? He’s trying to get rid of all these Mexicans and by the end of it I bet he’s going to invade Mexico and when he does it's going to be a disaster for any of us on the streets. He’s going to send troops in there and kill Mexicans and they’re going to retaliate out here by killing us. He doesn’t know what it’s going to do to the people on the streets. He’s trying to get rid of the fentanyl, but he’s going to get rid of us in the process.” This was an angle I hadn’t pondered before and I asked him where he got his news. “I get the news from the news, just like anybody else. I listen to these guys out here and put two and two together.”
While I give him some groceries, he shows me a small flashing triangle, a light designed to go on the back of a bicycle seat. “Look at this. It’s got three different settings: where you can put it on bright yellow, bright red, or flashing. Pretty cool, isn’t it? It’s all I’ve got to sell so I can get some money.” His intention isn’t veiled in the least as he continues, “I need to get my fix.”
From my vantage point, his fixes are contributing to a sense of brokenness which only perpetuates with the next round. I ask him if I can take a look at his leg. “You don’t want to look at it, I can barely lift the pantleg off it, it hurts so bad. But I guess, if you want to see it, you're a brave man.” He pulled his pant leg up revealing a black circle on his left shin/calf area two inches in diameter and a quarter inch deep. It doesn’t look like it’s oozing, but he’s right about the smell.
“Ryan,” I ask him, “You need to let me work on it. If you don’t get it cleaned up soon you might lose your leg. Please let me clean it up and wrap it so it has a chance to heal.” He wasn’t having it. “There’s no way in hell you’re touching it right now since I’m stone-cold sober. It’s going to take a lot of drugs to put me in a position where I’d let you touch it. I have an infection just like it on the other leg, not as big but just as painful. No way you’re touching either of them today.”
I take it a bit further by telling him it might kill him if he doesn’t get medical treatment. Tears begin to form in his eyes. “I know it’s a real possibility, what you say. I’m not denying that. But you don’t have any idea what the pain is like. You can ask all you want, it isn't going anywhere, not until I’m drugged up.”
What he will allow is for me to pray over it. I carry with me a rosary from Medjugorje which a friend gave me many years ago, with wooden beads on a thin rope. I simply hold it over the bigger wound on his left leg and ask the Lord to address this wound as He wishes. I cannot heal anything, so terribly wounded myself and in need of similar intervention at His hand. The scene for the next five minutes is such: Ryan leaning against a brick wall, eyes closed; I’m crouched over his legs looking to the heavens for help. Traffic continues around us: a black SUV pulls up to the Bottle Drop; two young men on bicycles pass in front of us with bags of cans over their backs.
I sit back down next to him and reiterate my commitment to him. “The offer stands. I’ll be out here next week with the same stuff in my backpack and I’ll have everything needed to clean and wrap that leg if you’re up for it.” He winces. “You’re going to have to find me when I’m high, that’s all I’m saying. Nobody is touching it unless I’ve got some of the fetty in me.”
I don’t know if the Lord cleansed his leg of any toxins or changed the course of his wound. Whether He did or not isn’t my business. What did happen out there today was a meeting of hearts, both in need of companionship along the way to Him. Ryan is a tough kid and I don’t know much of his story outside of his immediate pain. As I got up to leave, he thanked me “Hey, I don’t get it. I don’t know why you even care. But I guess it matters.” I love this kid.
Turning the corner after meeting with Ryan, I ran into Mark for the third time in a week. Since he and I shared quite a bit on Friday, it seems providential that I’m meeting him again. He’s got on a bright pink beanie and the slip-on flip-flops he had left after his things were stolen recently. We talked a bit and he took some food, placing it in his relatively empty shopping cart.
I asked him if he’d allow me to take him to ROSS, Dress for Less, and pick out some shoes. His look was quizzical but he didn’t respond readily. “You think I’m nuts, don’t you?” I asked him. “No, that’s not it,” he said. “That look wasn’t my ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ look, it’s more like exhausted gratitude. If you’re serious, yes, I will allow you to buy me some shoes. I’m trying to allow your kindness.”
We started north past Bi-Mart and talked along the way. He inquired again about the inspiration I had to come out and be with the neighbors. “It sort of came about organically, where I was out at the Planned Parenthood last fall for the 40 Days for Life campaign and I decided to take a walk after a Friday hour of prayer. I saw a need and feel invited to meet it in the limited way I can.” As I shared with him, I was feeling flippant and ended with “Whatever!”
Mark stopped his cart and got angry. “No. Don’t say to me, ‘Whatever.’ That’s not right for what you’re doing out here. It makes a difference, it makes a big difference.” I was truly convicted and sorry for having made light of what occurs in the encounters with my neighbors. Mark is small in stature, but like I said the other day, he carries a simplicity and grace which pointed out my own wound.
We got to the doors of the store and wedged our carts in a corner before going in. As we walked the aisles, he mentioned to me, “This feels weird, I don’t know, like a Hitchcock film or something. All this abundance and nowhere to go.” We made our way to the shoe section and he started looking at different options. I joked with him if he were trying to color-coordinate with his hot-pink beanie and he laughed. “No, I’m trying to find the cheapest pair.” He needed the best pair for him and I made sure he went about it with that in mind.
The store was very busy, bustling with families and young people out shopping. At the end of our aisle, the cutest little Mexican girl appeared with a belt in hand which she had folded in two. I’d guess she was three years old. She took the belt and variously scrunched the ends together before pulling them apart to make a snapping sound. I smiled and laughed with her which encouraged her activity. She snapped it multiple times before disappearing around the corner.
I told Mark I needed to get off my feet and sat at one of the shoe-fitting stations at the end of the aisle. The little girl appeared again at my right, this time carrying a light pink dumbbell with a worn price tag on it. She lifted it above her head and then down to the ground again before handing it to me as we laughed together. I did a few curls and handed it back to her again. Her smile was beautiful and I asked her “Como te llama?” “Cielo.” Heaven. That was this little person’s name and she carried it with her.
We played a little while longer while her parents shopped nearby, calling out to her now and again while she stood at my knee. Her dad came around the aisle and smiled at her while shopping. Her parents then headed to the other side of the store, Cielo and I waving and smiling at each other as she went with them.
I vacated my seat for Mark who’d picked out two pairs to try on. He vetted them slowly and chose well, I think. We went to the registers and paid, leaving with a much-needed pair of shoes. When we got back to the carts, we sat down for a while and talked. He wanted to know more about why I’m out here. Much like people on the streets, trust isn’t my strong suit, but this man seems to pull it out of me. “I’ve been through some stuff in my life, considerable abandonment pain. I’ve gone the counseling route, the medication route, and spent all kinds of money on trying to ease the pain I experience daily. This, coming out here, seems to be the only thing that touches the pain properly. I don’t get it. It’s mysterious, but being with you guys is the only thing that makes sense at the moment. It’s blessing me more than it is you, believe that.”
Tears forming in his eyes, he felt connected enough to ask for something. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds and these shoes are going to be a big help, but what I need most is a sleeping bag. Would you mind buying me one at BIG-5, I’ll do whatever I can to get the money and pay you back. I will.”
I’ve had a very nice polar sleeping bag hanging in one of my closets ever since I bought my house and told him as much. “I have one at home I can give to you. I bought it in early 2020 when I was planning on hiking the Camino in Spain which never panned out due to Covid. I think it will work and it bundles up tightly after each use so it won’t be cumbersome for you.”
He asked if I still had plans to hike the Camino. "I don't think so. These hiking boots I'm wearing were purchased for the same trip and I feel like I'm on my Camino every weekend now." We made plans to meet in an hour after I walked home, got the bag, and drove back to him.
I found him in the Mexican meat shop, sitting at a table with his back facing me. I put the sleeping bag on the table and sat down opposite him. He smiled at me and shook his head. “You don’t even know what kind of a difference you’re making. You don’t even know.” I didn’t stay long but looked him in the eye while receiving his sentiments. I suspect he’s right.
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