There are many people on the streets of Chicago begging for money. My seven years living in and close to the city has brought me in contact with hundreds of them. And it doesn’t stop when you move to the suburbs and drive around in your car to get places, as opposed to walking. Then the homeless claim street corners, or exit ramps off the expressway as their own. Usually with cardboard sign and cup in hand, so many of them walk up and down the rows of cars when the stoplight is red.
I have seen one particular woman at an exit ramp off the Kennedy for some time now. Usually, she is predictably standing there on Sunday mornings after church, along our commute route. Every week, predictably, the kids and I discuss what we can do to help her and come to the same conclusion: we don’t think giving money is in her best interest. We’d be happy to buy her lunch, bring her a warmer coat, or a cup of hot coffee to make the cold more bearable. Even a blanket or a pillow. The kids and I used to buy McDonald gift cards to give to beggars downtown, until one time we saw the recipient of one of these cards trade it with some else. He said he was hungry. Maybe he wasn’t. Then, it got us thinking, “What do these people truly need?”
I used to work with the homeless when I attended Marquette University. One of the highlights of my week was volunteering for “M.U.C.A.P.”, an acronym for Marquette University Community Action Program. We would feed folks from a truck, meeting their physical needs, but the best part of the experience for me was just sitting and talking with the people. I was surprised to learn how many of the homeless on the streets of Milwaukee were well educated, some with Ph.D.s and J.D.s. Some had left behind children and families. Some, but not all, succumbed to drugs or alcohol. We talked about the Bible. We talked about Jesus, the “Common Denominator”. We talked about how dangerous it was to live on the streets and where they were headed after our conversation was over. I was afraid of them. But then I started just talking with them and through the realization of our common humanity, my fears abated.
Flash forward to yesterday. I hadn’t even thought about the homeless woman I would probably see off the exit ramp until in the middle of Mass, at the Consecration, her image flashed into my head. It was clear to me that this time I would talk to her, like I did in the ‘ol days. Instead of pondering the course of action with my kids, and talking about how giving her money would probably just be wasted, I would roll down my window, talk to her, find out what she needed.
As we approached the turn-off for the exit ramp, my son called it. I did, too. She would be there, as she had been every other Sunday at that time. The light had just turned red – which was just what I hoped for. This time, I would speak to her, but not just through a one inch crack in the top of my window. I would roll it down and talk to her. As I started to do so, my children gasped, “No, Mommy! Can I go hide in the back?”
“Sure, I said, you can do whatever you want, but I just have to do this now.”
Window rolled down, I called her over, “Ma’am”, “What is it that you truly need?”
She spoke plainly, “Well, unfortunately, it’s the money I really need. You see what I do with the money is get a room for the night. Then I don’t have to stay at a shelter.”
“You know about the shelters?” I asked.
“Oh yeah. But I won’t even touch the ones downtown. They are totally unsafe”, she replied, “There’s a nice one in Oak Park I try to get to”.
“So, are you hungry?” I asked.
“No, someone dropped off breakfast for me this morning already”, she said with a grateful smile, “People are really quite generous.”
“So, you’ve got a plan to stay somewhere for the night, you aren’t hungry and you’re not in need of anything else but money?”
“That’s right.”
“Ok, then. I guess you’re alright.”
“Yes, thank you!”
At that point, the light turned green. There were cars behind me, and I had to go.
I did not give her money. But, I did do what I thought I was supposed to do.
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All this resulted in me turning to my husband and asking for my “emergency remedy”: dark chocolate and a large glass of milk. After a little conversation with him, I realized something: I am lacking true joy. With all that I have, I can’t believe I feel sad. It is predictable that at the end of all my pregnancies, I tend to get down. I struggled through the morning, got my kids to their catechism classes at church on time, made it to a beautiful Mass, and smiled at friends. My spirits lifted after Mass when I had completed the most important tasks of the day.
