***********************************************

June 2008

That's Life

Sam is a good man with a heart of gold. Sometimes his kindness is misunderstood by those around him as a weakness. I met Sam one morning when I opened my door to find him standing there. He was looking up reading the words on the piece of granite I’ve placed over the entrance to my home.

 

He said, ”'Kindness House'. What does the sign mean?” I invited Sam into my living room and offered him a cup of coffee.

 

I said, “Kindness House is the name that was given to our home by a person who came to our door and commented: ’I was told by a friend I could come to Kindness House when I need help for my family.’ We had wanted to name our house and the name Kindness House really fit. So I had the plaque engraved with the name.”

 

Sam had come to my house that morning to get some help for himself, because he was living on the edge of poverty. But he also wanted to talk about how to help the people he was meeting on the street. He’d been trying to help people, but they were often hurting him in return with their cynicism, ridicule and fear. Sam was getting tired of helping ungrateful people.

 

Sam has a sweet, simple spirit and he is by nature, helpful. He just wants to do whatever he can to help people through hard times. He said, “I’ve been through all this myself and I know how hard it can be for people on the street, or one pay check away from the street, and I want to help.” Sam and I spent some time sharing our stories. He ended our conversation with, “Can I come back again so we can talk? You’ve helped me a lot. Now I can help them like you have helped me.”

Sam and I talk about once a month. He tells me where he is with his discoveries of how to help, the nature of people in need of help, and mostly how he is navigating through the hard times of ridicule and criticism by those who have no desire to help. Sam has a growing street family. He is now supporting people with more than financial assistance. Sam is spreading the news among the poor that help is on the way from more people – he tells them and to not give up.

***********************************************

May 2008

The Right Place at the Right Time

I pulled my truck over to the side of the road because a young blond woman of about 24 years was holding out a bright red painted thumb nail indicating that she would like a ride. Lots of cars and trucks were passing her by.  I was the one who chose to stop to assist this person.  After determining where she wanted to go, I turned the truck around and we were on our way.   Within a few moments, it was clear to me where the conversation was headed. The young woman was a prostitute and she naturally assumed I would be her next trick.   Madeline was sharing the cost of a two - bed room at what I call the "Sleazy- 8 Motel" off First St. in San Jose. This way she was able to send a bit of her meager income home to her family in the east. The motel tolerated their presence because neither she nor the other girl complained about not getting clean towels, or sheets.    Madeline was not at all ashamed or embarrassed about the profession she had chosen; nor was she shy about telling the story that led her to this point in her life.     She told me she was the last of fifteen children. Her father was a Pennsylvania coalminer, and her mother cared for children of the miners. Her mom worked in the preschool on company grounds. When Madeline was a baby her mom carried her around tied in with a scarf wrapped around her shoulder, and under her arm like a papoose - only in front, so she could nurse her as she cared for the other children. On the weekends Madeline’s father was a fundamentalist preacher and her four oldest brothers acted as ushers greeting the folks into the services. She remembered how  one time her dad started preaching real loud from the pulpit, and how a few of the men in the congregation took exception to what he was saying an told him to meet them outside after the services. Her brothers would hear nothing of it and dragged them out front by themselves and gave them “what for”.   She described herself as a small child, but very pretty. When she was six years old some men from the congregation got drunk and took her around behind the church to “have their way with her”. Her dad never forgave her for taunting the men into doing what they did.   She said he: "Blames me to this day." She went on, “I just got sick and tired of being around these good old boys and being treated the way I was being treated, so I left, and I never looked back.” *She was fourteen when she left home. She survived by selling her body.   She said she has never gotten into drugs. “Too expensive,” she says. “Besides I could never keep up with what I do if I got high all the time.” *That day I paid Madeline’s half of the rent so she could have a day off. 

***********************************************

April 2008

"A Day In The Park"

It was such a beautiful day I decided to grab my guitar then get into my Toyota SR5 and drive to St. James Park. I like it immensely when people sit around enjoying the afternoon. My favorite place in the park is a set of eight benches arranged into three hundred sixty degree seating. The fountain in the center is large, and the water shoots high into the air. On a windy day the water gets everyone down wind as wet as if they were in a Florida thunder storm. The seats accommodated almost forty people who chat and laugh until their next bus arrives to take them away to their next destination. 

A man with a suitcase with wheels and a handle draws a seat directly across from me then looks suspiciously in all directions before he is seated. The zipper is broken, and dirty clothing is falling all over the ground around his feet, but he pays little attention. He is too busy keeping an eye on me and my guitar.

I played several songs as the gently babbling water softly flowed from the fountain. The sparkling of the reflected sun light from the movement of the surface of the water made me smile at its beauty, and close my eyes due to the brightness. All the time these things were going on I was aware of the sound of softly flowing water from the fountain.

The man with the broken luggage kept eyeing me, and tapping his feet to the beat of the music which I was following to the sound of the water. A man and woman came to sit next to the man, but with an intimidating side glance he was able to keep the two people at arms distance, and at the same time look as though he was completely disinterested in anything going on around him. 

In the middle of one of my songs the man got up from his seat and crossed the distance separating him and me. I shortened my song and quit in mid-chorus in the hope the man would smile, nod and move on. 

Without smiling he just stood in front of me and asked why I had stopped playing. "Because," I said, "I have been playing for a little while now, and my fingers are getting tired. Do you play an instrument?" I asked. At which point the man asked if he could play my instrument. Of course, I almost always say sorry I never let anyone play my instrument, but he seemed trust worthy, and I let him take it, and tune it to his satisfaction.

I had not noticed before the length of the finger nails on his right hand, and the short cropped nails on the left hand. With one unrelated glissando the man was off and playing my guitar as though playing guitar was all he did in his free time.

The man's playing was remarkable, and the selection of music was beautiful. I did not recognize the songs he had selected, but it didn't matter to me or to anyone listening. After playing for about fifteen minutes I asked for my guitar back, and asked another question about whether he had his own guitar.

The conversation opened up and we shared our lives during that beautiful early day in the park in San Jose. 

"You have a guitar?" I asked -or" Do you play steel string at all?" With less than a second's hesitation the man introduced himself, and then some." My name is Dozer. The last place I played was in Sausalito just north of the Golden Gate Bridge. I don't live anywhere in particular and the only things I own are in this suitcase. My guitar was smashed when I left it leaning against the cab on the way to a gig last week, so I guess you could say I'm stuck."

I gave him my name, and my word that I would go home and pick up a guitar an old street friend gave to me some years ago. I mentioned to him I hoped I would find someone like him (Dozer) to give it to someday.

I returned form my home with the guitar to loud praises to our Father in heaven, and with a very big teary eyed hug. "I'll never forget what you did for me today, man! - Never!"

Within ten minutes of that moment Dozer and I parted company. Me to go home and see my beloved, and Dozer to go his way a bit less lonely, and a lot more hopeful.

***********************************************

March 2008

"We All Need Each Other"

 

Ten years ago, after a series of dreams and an extended period of discernment, I left my comfortable home and most of my belongings and became homeless for fifty three days. During that time, I had lots of amazing experiences. But the most long-lasting result of those days on the road was the conviction that we need each other. There is no way I could have survived as a homeless person if I had not met people along the way who helped me when I was in dire need.

 

These days, that experience comes back loudly and clearly.  Our local creeks are swelling with the rains and the homeless people who have chosen to live near the waters edge are being washed out of their encampments.  A few days ago, I visited an area where I knew people would be in trouble. There is a railroad trestle and an overpass on the outside of town where the creek flows. I arrived to find four people huddled on the steep hillside under the trestle where they had tied their sleeping bags to shelter them from the rain. They sat on the mud attempting to get a small tarp to cover their huddled bodies. The rain and mud flowed around and under them.

 

When I approached them, I asked what I could do to help. One man, who introduced himself as Malcolm, spoke for the group. He yelled over the sound of the pounding rain and said: “We need more tarps to cover us.”

 

Everything they had was wet and muddy.

 

Fortunately, I had come with a truck load of tarps and new blankets that were encased in plastic. “Sit tight“I said,” I’ll be right back with all I have.”

 

I returned with tarps and rain ponchos. I also had blankets in plastic bags that they could open later.

 

I continued walking on the trestle throwing plastic wrapped blankets to other people further down the bank of the creek. (I had to throw them from the top of the hill, because these days with my prosthetic foot I can’t get down and back up a slippery, muddy hillside.)

 

I visit this area of the creek each year and rarely meet anyone I know. This is a very transient population. So when one of the men down the side of the hill called out and asked why I was doing this I was not surprised. But I didn’t need to explain myself, because Malcolm, the man from the first group, came up beside me and yelled down to the man, “He don’t need to explain himself to do something nice, does he?”

 

By the time I had given everything away there were some pretty happy people. They   invited me to come back that night for a bar-b-que being held under the overpass.  Unfortunately, I had to decline.

 

That day by the creek and every day that I am out with the poor of our area, I see the need for each of us to see people, to reach out to people and to help those people who come into our view.

***********************************************

Christmas 2007

This year Truck of Love gave gift cards to many people – cards to help them with extra special food for Christmas and gifts for their families. One set of gift cards went to Linda N. and her three children. She received $100 in Target cards and $60 in Safeway cards.  Linda has been in need of Christmas help for about the past fifteen years and Truck of Love has helped her each year.  She is a very grateful mother.  So I was not surprised to receive a note from her.  But I was surprised by what she wrote.

She wrote: “I talked to all three of my kids to ask them if they wanted to play Santa this year like Truck of Love does.  My family and I wanted to share some of what you have been giving us so freely over the past fifteen years just to see what kind of fuss was involved in going out and doing what you do.  We didn’t do very much, but as a family something almost magic happened.

Norma lives in the apartment just beneath us and was alone this Christmas.  She had never heard of such a program as yours so the kids figured her and her kids to be the perfect candidate.

Norma was born in Mexico to a poor family with eleven kids.  She’s separated from her husband, and speaks English better than I do Spanish, so she is all alone with her kids.  It didn’t take much to get the tears flowing with her, when me and my kids showed up on her door step with some turkey and some refried beans.  My kids picked out a cheap truck for the little boy, and a doll for the little girl, and some cheap perfume for the mom.  No one told me about that part with the hugs – oh my God!  The hugs and the tears after the deed was done.  My oldest daughter had to leave because she got so emotional.

Even though we couldn’t afford much (they used part of the gift cards Truck of Love had given to their family) it turned out we didn’t need much to cause the kind of joy created by the kindness we showed these little kids and their mother Norma.

Thanks for helping us get the great feeling of love and closeness we felt from doing this. We’re going to do it every year from now on.  Now I’m starting to feel a little sorry for the people who don’t do what we did for Norma this year.

Thanks for all the years, Linda N.”

***********************************************

October 2007

The Past Came to Visit”   I was in downtown San Jose, standing in a crowd of marchers who were demonstrating to raise awareness of the homeless problem in the city.  My attention was diverted by lots of noise emanating from some marchers I knew who reside in a local homeless shelter.  All the children were having great fun yelling my name at the top of their lungs.  They were making so much noise that I was distracted from a gentle tugging on my shirt sleeve.  I turned and looked down to see an old friend mine sitting in a wheel chair.   ”Charlie!”  I said.” How are you?  I’ve missed you!!  Where have you been?”   Charlie said nothing for a long moment.  He looked glad to see me and very happy that I remembered his name.  I could see Charlie was having a hard time speaking.  His eyes had welled with tears, and his mouth was agape.  So I reached down and gave him a hug.   I had met Charlie about five years before.  At that time, he’d been sitting in, what looked like, the same wheel chair holding a card board sign in his hand. I had stopped at a red light and was about to make a left turn at the intersection of Old Oakland Rd. and East Bay Shore Rd.  I spoke to him through my open window, asking him his name, and whether he was hungry or thirsty.

 

"My name is Charlie, and yes I am hungry and thirsty.”  

I pulled my truck over across the street and parked in the Burger King parking lot.  After buying some food I walked back to him and sat down to listen to his story.  A veteran, he was living by a local creek.  He subsidized his pension by panhandling for money. 

As I stood in the crowd of demonstrators, Charlie rambled on: “Pete, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.  Until today I had no idea how to find you.  I forgot where you worked, and no one knew who I was talking about when I told them I wanted to get a hold of a good looking blond guy named Pete who helps people.  I had no idea where to start looking for you, and then-miracle of miracles, I looked up and there you were.  I was in shock.  God must have known how much I needed to say 'thank you' to you, and I’m sorry for cutting out on you like I did!”

 

Charlie wanted to catch up on everything I had done since we had seen each other, so I gave him a brief over view of what had been going on with Truck of Love, and with the people we knew in common.  Edgar, Stan, and Momma Faye, seemed to be at the top of Charlie’s list of the people he needed to know about.

 

“Everyone is doing pretty well Charlie,”  I said. “Now it’s your turn to fill me in on what happened the day you left.”

 

He continued with: “You remember when you and I and Momma Faye were beginning to help the people living down by the creek about four years ago? Do you remember all the work you put into helping those people, and how they just seemed to give you the brush off?  Do you remember how you had talked to everyone about sharing what you brought and how no one needs to steel from each other?  Do you remember all that?  Do you remember how you told me that I was just the guy to help these people living down there by the creek, and that I was honest, and hard working, and that I was a loving person?  Do you remember?”

 

I really didn’t remember all that.  I just smiled and nodded.

 

Charlie went on: “When we first met, I was hiding from everyone.  I was hiding from the law.  I was hiding from people I had known when my life was ok.  And besides that, I had a lump in my belly the size of a grapefruit, and I thought I was dying.  I felt so sorry for myself, especially since it was me I was trying to run from.  Then I even ran away from you.  For that, I want to say I’m sorry!”

 

“You used to pray with me.  I hadn’t prayed in thirty years!  You kept telling me how Jesus loves us and wants only what is the best for us.”

 

“Yes, I do remember saying that,” I said.

 

”Well,” Charlie continued, “ I just got out of jail this morning and am finally finished with all that jail time I’ve been avoiding for the past fifteen years.  Ya’ see, Pete, I’m not scared anymore!  I want to see what God has in store for me.  I’ve made my apologies, and I’ve given up on blaming everyone else for the stuff I’m responsible for.

 

"I want you to know you gave me the shove I needed to see what I had to do, and that what I do is up to me now.  You prayed with me every time you left our little compound down by the creek, and every time you saw me you gave me a big smile.  You reminded me there really is something to look forward to out here. 

"I couldn’t see the good coming from my life until one afternoon you gave me a bible.  You said that I asked for the bible.  Did I really ask you for a bible?  But you- you son of a gun-I don’t remember asking for any bible.  

"That time you gave me the bible, I was beginning to feel like it might be the time to turn my life around, but then I left.  I just left – dropped out of sight.  

"I put it together a few weeks after I saw you last, and decided to turn myself in.  It wasn’t so bad to just get it over with and clean the slate.  I started doing some praying for myself while I was in the pen.  I realized prayer had changed something inside me.  I had thought about you a lot, and realized the things I was angry about: my health, and the hand I thought God had dealt me.  

"Anyway, when I got out of jail, I went back to the Vet’s Hospital, and they gave me a completely different diagnosis about the lump in my abdomen. The doctors gave me some meds that brought the swelling down on the tumor.  After I found out the cancer I had was not going to kill me, I saw hope I didn’t remember having before.”

Charlie rolled off into the crowd.  He had my card with my phone number.  I had his promise that he was “gonna call me soon.”