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Tonight I saw a homeless lady struggling into a gas station where I watched, peeping behind my pump, somehow believing that hiding myself would be excuse enough for doing something. I got in my car with my vest pocket padded with a wad of cash, turned on the heat and some music, made myself comfortable and drove off. It didn’t take long before I was haunted by the image of that poor woman struggling to walk, and I felt terrible. I sat in my car in the parking lot of my apartment and regretted my missed opportunity, wishing I could go back and extend a hand of compassion. Instead, not knowing exactly what I could do for the woman held me back from doing anything.
What it would be like to be homeless? Dependent on everyone for everything. No place to go home to at night. No escape from reality with a vacation. No recollection of the last movie enjoyed. Yet, what must be worst is the emotional desolation. A wasted personality because no one hears your jokes. Repressed memories because no one cares. No one to listen to fears, hopes, and regrets. No hugs. No words of encouragement. Nothing but survival…and even that seems numb and hopeless.
My heart breaks, but not so much for the lady as it does for myself and others who refuse to ascribe worth to the person who is clothed in filthy rags and instead see only the condition: homeless, good for nothing, a nuisance to society. Even as I sit here writing, I think to myself, does that lady even know that she is loved?
I don’t understand a lot of things. And I probably will never find the perfect rhyme to most of them. One thing in particular that is hard to wrap my mind around is why I am as privileged as I am. Not intending to sound boastful, I consider all that my life entails and conclude: it is so unfair. Why me, God? Why do I have opportunities at my finger tips? Why do I have more than enough?
Silence. But the silence inspires me.
Lord, I don’t know what you have for my life. But you have given me vision, and I resolve to pursuit what I do know. I know this much- that after I am gone, I will be remembered for a generation…two at the most. People will no longer be able to get to know me…all that will be left are pictures and stories, and even then, those will eventually disappear. My pride stings a little bit when I think that as the world was functioning before I got here, it will continue on after I leave. Surely, purpose must be found in something else. Something that can be discovered and known from generation to generation. Something that will never expire, accumulate dust, or depreciate in value. Something else. Someone else.
I yearn to love others and introduce them to the one who has so richly blessed me. May my legacy, Jesus, be found in yours, for that is a legacy that lasts forever.
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