"Why should it exhaust the soil?"

DAY TWENTY-TWO

03.23.25 Third Lenten Sunday

And he told them this parable: “There once was a person who had a fig tree planted in his orchard, and when he came in search of fruit on it but found none, he said to the gardener, ‘for three years now I have come in search of fruit on this fig but have found none. So cut it down. Why should it exhaust the soil?’ He said to him in reply, ‘Sir, leave it for this year also, and I shall cultivate the ground around it and fertilize it; it may bear fruit in the future. If not, you can cut it down.”

There was a bit of a mist in the air when I headed out today shortly after noon. My prayer: Lord, make my heart like yours, enable it to be able to bear the suffering you are placing upon it.

Walking east on Market Street, I hung a left at the Dairy Queen at Lansing and spotted two men with backpacks standing on the sidewalk of the Wheeler Dealer. One was shorter and balding, the other tall with a full head of dark black hair. They were beginning to disperse when I arrived and asked if they needed anything.

Jesse, the shorter of the two turned to me revealing a right eye swollen shut, a half-inch cut in the skin in the upper eyelid. I asked him “Who did this to you, and when did it happen?” “Some coward; got me last night.” The bulge was in bad shape, a bit of goo crusted where the two eyelids converged. I pulled the men aside on the sidewalk and invited them to take any food items which would be used and Jesse let me work on his eye.

I got out a bottle of peroxide, asked him to raise his nose a bit, and poured plenty over the wound. It foamed up around the wound and by the time it stopped, there was a two-foot puddle of peroxide at our feet. I dabbed the wound with some cotton balls and was getting ready to apply the bandage when he asked me if I had any ointment. Yes, I had forgotten about the triple antibiotic ointment in my pack. I pulled it out, applied a generous blob, and covered it with a bandage. He took multiple extra bandages in case he needed to re-apply a covering later.

Getting jumped happens a lot on the streets and I often see facial wounds leftover from the attack. It’s hard to know what truly happened: engaging one party from the event, I only receive one side of the story, and cannot be sure I’m getting objective information. That’s beyond my scope. I was glad to be able to assist Jesse in getting a measure of patchwork done on his wound.

Walking down the sidewalk fifty feet, I ran into Angela, a woman I’d never met before today. Her entire face was covered in fresh bruising, her right eye bloodshot from the beating she took. When I stopped her and asked if I could help, she broke down in tears.

“It’s my son, Israel. He’s fourteen and just got saved a couple of months ago down at one of the churches and I thought he was going in the right direction. He started seeing visions and hearing voices and I thought it was from God, but there’s more at play. I didn’t understand. I had to call the cops two nights ago and they came and took him to a psychiatric facility up in Oregon City. They were very understanding and what I know now is that they’ll keep him there until he gets some kind of stable.”

“My mom's down in Mexico on vacation; she lives in Seattle. She’s the one who helps me and I lean on her a lot, she is so good, but cannot help from Mexico and when we talk, she feels helpless.” Being a mother is something I’ll never understand. The depth of pain and concern on Angela’s face and the actual bruising from hanging in there with her child broke my heart. She continued to share. “About five years ago, I left my husband and we’d been together since we were nineteen. I should have never done that. He was complaining all the time about work and providing for our family and I got fed up with it. I wish I’d had a bigger ability to be with him in his frustration. Life has been so hard. So hard since then.”

At this point, I asked her if it would be okay for me to place my hand on her head. She nodded and lowered her face while I prayed Psalm 50 over her life. She wept and wept, certain phrases touching her more than others as they opened something inviting release in her. When I stopped, she asked, “What church are you from?” I told her I’m a Catholic and she continued, “I was baptized Catholic. My parents baptized both my sister and me at the same time, bought us the bleached white dresses, and had the whole family come for the celebration. I don’t know what’s happened.”

That seal of the Trinity on this woman’s heart is eternal and I told her to hang onto that, to continue to hold the hand of the Lord and trust His Goodness. Jesus is her Eternal Spouse and someday will make sense of this incredible suffering she’s walking through at the moment. Right now there’s nothing but back-to-front confusion and she’s going to have to walk by faith.

I don’t share my telephone number with people from the streets, want to keep a solid boundary. But in this instance, I gave mine to Angela and told her to contact me when it's time to visit her son. I’d like to pray for her and if needed, give her a ride to see him. Mother of God, be with this mother and her immediate needs.

Angela went into the Wheeler Dealer outlet and I walked along further. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a familiar blue and white umbrella tucked behind some shrubs north of the bus shelter at Hawthorne. The last time I saw it was under the I-5 a few Sundays ago when the skies were pouring down rain; Lizzy was napping beneath it. Today she was sheltering from the sun, her friends Tommy and John sitting nearby.

“Hey Todd, it’s been a couple of weeks. How are you?” she asked. I answered in a few words and listened to their stories. John is a man I’ve seen out here multiple times and he has the most gentle, dark eyes. He wears a beard and baseball cap and the usual exhaustion of being on the streets, but he’s always thoughtful and gracious. Tommy and his girlfriend recently moved to this part of town due to the violence of activity downtown. “Much quieter over here,” he said.

Our visit today was brief, Lizzy reining in the men. “Hey, there are more people than us who need these things, be aware of the others, and only take what you’ll use.” When I mentioned I had donuts (little boxed donuts, single bite size) they searched for them and Lizzy gave further commentary, “All you have to say is the D word and people come a flocking. Love seeing you out here every couple of weeks. We really appreciate it.”

I asked them if they’d seen Ryan and Lizzy filled me in. “Last I heard was from Tesla, she was anxious as all get out since he’d been taken to jail. But the jail is probably the best place for him with that infection. At least they’ll be able to detox him and get him the right treatment.” It was somewhat of a relief to know he’s getting professional medical care, albeit due to incarceration.

Lizzy gave me a big hug before I departed, with the two gentlemen expressing their thanks too. John said to me, “It really means something to us that you’re doing this.” I guess honesty is the best medicine so I told him, “This is my favorite appointment of the week. Truly.” I was still carrying Angela with me and got out of there before the tears started running down my face.

I crossed over Lancaster at McDonald's hoping I’d find Michael panhandling on the south off-ramp of I-5. He was on the other side of the road so I passed by the new fencing and walked out into the field where Roy and Eddie had their most recent dwelling. They’d built it up with pallets for walls and found greenery from the nearby shrubs to hide it. It looked like a military hide-out. When I got there, the pallets were leaning against each other and the camp disbanded. Garbage was strewn about, a remnant of the life recently lived there.

On the sidewalk to the north of the Fred Meyer parking lot, I met Colton for the first time. He was shoving a cart with considerable speed in the bike lane so I invited him up on the sidewalk for a talk. “How long have you been out here?” I asked him. “Two years. I’m not from here, though, I’m from Washington.” I shared with him I grew up near Spokane and he told me about being a kid further north still, in Okanogan.

“I played basketball, football, baseball up there in high school. That seems like a lifetime ago, now.” He was tall and very skinny, his tight pants riding halfway down his rump. He had scabs all over his hands and arms, a few on his face in greater concentration than I’ve seen in others out here. When I asked him if he wanted anything to eat, he went straight for the fruit and tore into a banana with zeal. I asked about his family.

“They don’t care, how could they? What do you even care?” He looked at me with confusion. I bet his mother cares. His dad too. So I asked him what keeps him doing what he’s doing. “Chrystal.” Meth. Most of the addicts out here are hooked on fentanyl but he’s on Meth. My heart broke for this kid who was so sincere, so distrusting. I told him I come out a few times each weekend if he ever wanted to talk about anything. I had shared my name with him earlier and he teared up while thanking me.

I simply stood there and watched as he raced on toward the Bottle Drop. He ripped off the covering of a Mandarin orange and tossed the peels on the street while he crossed.

I had two Coronas in the backpack so I followed Colton’s steps north across Market and took a left expecting Michael to be where I’d seen him on the trip east. As I walked the sidewalk, I passed a young man working at Power Ford picking up trash along the inside of their fence. Dangling from his neck was a miraculous medal, our Lady’s signature on his heart.

Further still I saw a middle-aged man sleeping, mouth open, on a concrete slab above the sidewalk, also in front of the dealership fence. To his left was a teeming shopping cart full of Modelo beer bottles, two cases in the box, the rest floating free. When I didn’t find Michael under the overpass, I returned to this man and stood by him praying. He slept on as I did until something stirred him. He woke up abruptly; I apologized for startling him and told him my errand of blessing him while he slept.

“No, no. No problem at all. I need to get up anyway and move down the road. I guess that concrete slab was just too attractive to pass by. Gosh, how long have I been sleeping?” I was in no position to answer that so I sat down next to him and we shared for the better part of an hour.

“I’ve got a place down at the Arches shelter. A room, laundry facilities, a television if I want to watch any. I could stay there all day but needed to get out and since it’s so nice I laid down for a nap. What’re you doing out here?” I told him I was walking the neighborhood and visiting with the neighbors, praying. He offered, “I pray all day long. It’s probably the only thing that keeps me halfway sane, the world is getting weirder by the day and I’ve never seen it so bad.”

He was wearing a nice pair of blue tennis shoes, a brown Carhart jacket, and a very fine sense of himself. When I asked him why he's been homeless, he didn't hesitate. “I’ve been on meth for forty years. It’s the one thing with an unreasonable grip on me and something I’ve never been able to shake. In just the last three weeks I’ve been in detox twice for four days each. They clean you up and allow you to go through all the jitters, but for me, it never sticks. I don’t know, maybe it’s the one thing keeping me humble since I can’t figure it out.”

Our conversation moved in the direction of the homeless and the housed. He continued, “The one thing I’m noticing everywhere I go is people don’t see each other anymore, and the fabric of connection which was there when I was a kid no longer exists. These people driving by, they don’t see us. They don’t see me. I’m not blaming them or saying it should be different, but we need to see each other anymore. Everybody’s got their head down and working in their little world. Sometimes I just want people to look up and see again.”

“That’s how I keep sane out here, I try to see people, to help them, be kind to them no matter what I’ve got going on. None of my stuff matters anyway. I’ve got this addiction that drags on me. I might as well find ways to lift somebody else since I’m not going to be raised anytime soon.”

I asked him about his prayer. “Every morning I just ask Him to give me what he’s going to give me and then give me the idea that it’s the best for me. Today I also asked for some financial provisions. Do you see those bottles in that cart? I found them all sitting on the sidewalk at the hotel, I don’t drink.” He was the Modelo of the moment, a man whose faith I’d like to emulate. Just sitting on the sidewalk in the sun with the idea that it’s the best.

He was a beautiful soul and I’m glad he woke up and I was able to meet him. Before he had, I was looking at the bridge of his nose, his hoodie covering his forehead and eyes. I kept wondering if I recognized his face. I will next time I see him. We both were talked out so I got up to leave.

“Hey, do you know Micah?” he asked. I was confused since I thought he was referring to another homeless man. He laughed at me. “No, Micah the Prophet. You might like what he has to say. Chapter 6, verse 8.” I hope to receive a portion of humility like Devon's.

I made my way between the Mexican restaurant and the fish market, noticing the usual smells and surroundings. Coming in the opposite direction was an elderly bearded man in an electric wheelchair with a bright red hat on. I assumed it was a MAGA baseball cap, but it was rather for a furniture shop, Presley’s. His dog, a thick black and white pitbull was pulling him forward as he tried to avoid the speedbumps. Seeing me, he shouted out, “Hey, wanna pray?” I said sure and secured my spot in a parking space while he made his way to me.

“The name’s Dennis, and this here sweetheart is Sundance. She’s a real lover.” Indeed, he was correct. She was a thick muscular dog but without an ounce of malice in her. She sidled up to me and leaned onto my leg while Dennis broke into prayer. When he finished calling on the Lord, he invited me to do the same. So there we were: a couple of guys in the parking lot, calling on God to bless Northeast Salem. It’s a weird dynamic, being out here. It’s both seemingly Godless and spiritually rich. I finished my prayer and Dennis took off in the direction of the fish shop.

Roy, I keep running into Roy. As I turned the corner onto Wolverine, he came from the south and just stared at me. He’s been standoffish the last few times I've seen him. The last time I saw him was about a week ago when I was taking Missouri Ryan to Jack-in-the-Box for something to eat. (I don’t think I managed to share that day's happenings in these notes.) On that occasion, Roy’s hands were completely yellow." The first thought that came to my mind was, “Is he producing, mixing, dealing drugs?” He’s so sheepish and always tired. I wonder what he’s up to. Today he didn’t speak with me much. He was trying to find a friend of his.

I asked him where he moved to. “We moved into the lot by the I-5 at Sunnyview. You know just on this side of the freeway.” I’d seen it earlier when driving by. Many tents had taken up residence there, an indication they’d be moved out soon. I wished him luck finding his friend and told him I’d drop some provisions by his new place since it’s on my way home.

After being with Roy, I walked to the Planned Parenthood for my usual rest at the entrance sidewalk. For months there’s been a white Oldsmobile SUV parked on the west side of the building with inhabitants I’ve never met. Today the vehicle had moved to the south side of the building and I met Terry, the man who owns it. The vehicle usually standing alone and sealed up, now there was a loaded shopping cart at the back bumper and some debris in front.

I greeted him and asked if he needed anything. “Money. I need money.” When I told him didn’t have any to give out, he reluctantly took a bottle of water. As he was doing so, the window of the back passenger door rolled down, exposing Trish, one of the regulars I see out here. You might remember Trish: I’ve mentioned her a few times. She’s usually walking the streets either by herself or with a pack, often under the influence.

“Hey there,” she began. “You’re out today again. This is my husband Terry, going on fourteen years in a couple of weeks. I’ll take some goodies, yes, potato chips.” As she stepped out of the vehicle, I got a different look inside. The back seats were down, their living room, bedroom, and kitchen all rolled into one.

It was completely dark, the windows covered with blankets. Trish had been bundled up next to the door since their belongings took up the majority of the space. The poor living in vehicles are in my opinion in worse shape than those living in nature and tent coverings. I say this because those in cars can hold onto the last threads of their belongings in a grasping way which continues to shackle them. The vehicle I was looking into was stacked with things you and I would consider garbage, but these things hold out some kind of protective layer for the inhabitants.

It might be similar to the phenomenon of hoarding. What one sees on the street, both in vehicles or camps, is lots of garbage. There’s a clinging to it and a hiding behind it which isn’t perhaps for the homeless to change, but to bring those of us who are housed to ponder our patterns. We’re in the middle of Lent. Are there items I’m holding right now that the Lord wants me to let go of so Easter can come and be truly experienced? Is there something perhaps, not that I’m holding, but that’s holding me? What are the garbage patterns in my space? These are questions that Terry’s belongings drew out of me.

After sharing a bit with Trish, I walked back over to the entryway of PP and sat down. Terry called out to me, “What’s your name again?” “Todd,” I told him. “No, no it isn’t,” he yelled. “You’re name’s Richard, you dick!” He was frustrated that I hadn’t given him any money, had been kind to his lady, perhaps. I sat across the street from their dwelling for quite some time pondering hindrances to grace.

“Why should it exhaust the soil?” That’s the question of the person in today’s gospel regarding the fig tree they’d planted which isn’t bearing any fruit. There’s suffering and then there’s bewildering suffering which to the untrained eye looks like it will go on forever and be useless. I met a lot of this kind of pain today and see it in my heart day after day. Does that mean it’s time to give up the work and abandon that which has already been utterly abandoned? I don’t think so. The gardener in the parable has a different perspective, one might say an eternal one. “Leave it for this year also, and I shall cultivate the ground around it and fertilize it; it may bear fruit in the future.”

Most of the time we’re dealing with a limited perspective which often sees a lack of production and futility. We want results and we want them yesterday. That’s the nature of modern American living. What if the Lord is asking for Love, an unreasonable love that sees potential, grace, and mercy? Would that kind of love change our perspective and open up new avenues of compassion?