As we drove down the block, my son fixated on the clump of miscellaneous clothing items heaped up against the tall oak tree at the edge of the park. I noticed two feet jetting out from underneath it.
“He’s a homeless man, Cody,” I said furrowing my brow. “So sad, isn’t it?” I pushed on the gas as we passed by.
Why was that man homeless? And why was he sleeping underneath a pile of clothes in the middle of the park? Those were the next obvious questions—ones that I couldn’t answer as easily as the first.
Turning west, we saw much of the same. To the left was a woman snoozing on a park bench with a large, overstuffed bag at her side, most likely full of every belonging she owned. To the right was a man waving his hands over his ears, talking frantically to himself.
My kids asked, “Is he alright?”
Whether or not he was on drugs or just suffering from mental illness, I couldn’t tell. But what I did know was that he had nowhere else to go. Like the others, he was homeless.
I explained to my kids that at least a few of these people would stay the night at the local shelter. They’d get a sack lunch, and a place to warm up before heading back out into the city to find shelter under a tree or in an alley. That’s what homelessness was.
Spying a slide and monkey bars on the west side of the park, my four-year-old begged, “Can we go play?”
“Oh, no. That’s a not a park we play in,” I replied. She was puzzled. A four-year-old wouldn’t understand why playing in the park wasn’t a good idea. It’s a park, isn’t it? But despite a new jogging trail and other recent renovations, it was still a hangout for our city’s indigent population. Not a park where young children can just play.
The park was one block away from the homeless shelter. That’s where we were headed. We had spent the morning tying fleece blankets at a nearby drug treatment center as a service project. The women at the treatment center had helped tie a couple of blankets and it was my job to deliver them to the shelter. I glanced over at the red and green fleece sitting in a bag in the passenger seat. Thanks to the women in my class, they had fringed and perfectly knotted the edges of two fleece blankets. It only took them about 20 minutes.
A few blankets? I thought to myself spying at the strangers in the park. In the big scheme of things, a couple of blankets seemed so insignificant. I pushed on my breaks as the van slowly turned the corner. A leaf danced across my windshield, a tell-tale sign that winter was on its way. My bones chilled as I counted the number of bodies lying on the ground in the park. Homeless individuals with nowhere to go.
“How can you not have a home?” my son asked again and again.
My explanations seemed futile. Losing a job, mental illness, and addiction were some of the answers I quickly gave him. Even his older sister piped in a time or two to educate her brother about the possibilities of why someone ends up homeless, lying under some overpass, sleeping in a flimsy cardboard box, or sleeping under a tree in a city park. His curiosity curbed for the moment.
Just then a man carrying a green duffle bag strapped to his back, appeared on the corner across the street from where we were. Sydney piped up, “Look, that man is limping. Let’s give him one of the blankets, Mom. Can we?”
I wasn’t expecting that.
“Well, I guess we can,” I said becoming suddenly aware of what I had just committed to. Give a blanket to a homeless person in person? I had never done that before. Always, I had delivered the blankets to the shelter. But I had never just gone to the park, gotten out of my car, and handed some homeless person a blanket. And why not? Because that park intimidated me.
“You’re going to lose him, Mom!” said my daughter as I came to a stop at the red light.
My heart pounded in my chest. The shelter was just a block away and dropping off blankets there seemed so much easier, and to be honest, safer.
“Mom, hurry!” my son begged as the man stepped out into the crowded crosswalk. He seemed so unsure of himself. Alone in a sea of suits, cell-phones, and BlackBerrys. His pack was heavy on his back. He limped hunched over, staring mostly at the ground. Hearing the voices of my children begging me to give him one of our blankets, I knew I couldn’t just drive past him. I had to give him one. So, at their coaxing, I turned on my blinker, changed lanes, and made a quick u-turn heading back towards the man. He had stopped to pull a rumpled newspaper out of a garbage can near the curb. I slowly approached the curb, put the van in park, and rolled down the passenger side window.
“Sir?” I said looking out across from the driver’s seat. “Sir,” I called again. “Would you like a hamburger?” I held up the Burger King double cheeseburger that my four-year-old didn’t eat. He didn’t respond. I didn’t know if he was ignoring me on purpose or if he couldn’t hear me, so I tried again.
“Sir, we have a burger and blanket for you.”
I then motioned for my daughter to hand him the blanket from her side of the car. He glanced up at me. It took him a moment to figure out what we were doing. But he finally reached out and took the burger and the blanket from my daughter. He placed the burger in his right coat pocket and tucked the blanket under his left arm.
“It’s gonna get cold so we hope this blanket helps,” I said with a cheery grin.
A toothless smile appeared on the man’s face.
“Merry Christmas!” he said.
“Merry Christmas.” We said back. We watched him fold up the newspaper and look around. I wondered what he was thinking. I checked my rear view mirror, pulled out into the street, and headed for the freeway. I decided to save the other blanket for another day. A day when we found another stranger to give it to.
For about a block, I watched the man in my rear view mirror until his image faded into the crowd.
“You did a good thing, kids,” I said. We were all quiet. In my mind I was thinking if only we could have done more.
Twenty-five minutes later, we arrived home. Pulling into the driveway of my three-story house, I was reminded of abundance. We live an abundant life. We have a house. We have food in our pantry. We have clothes in our closets. We have electricity, running water, and feather-down comforters on soft mattresses. We have friends and family members with whom we associate every day of the week, who would help us if ever we were in need. Even on Sunday, we attend meetings at a cozy church building and we’re surrounded by kind and generous people who smile at us, who are there for us. We have abundance.
I secretly wished and prayed that that man we gave the blanket to could feel for just one second what I felt. That he could know what abundance is.
Later that night, I was reading in Emily Freeman’s book, “The Promise of Enough.” On page 67, I read: “Our ability to remember gratitude for even the smallest blessing has a direct influence on our ability to live the abundant life. Perhaps we could echo the prayer of George Herbert who said, ‘Thou that hast giv’n so much to me, give me one thing more, a grateful heart.’”
It hit me. As I pondered on this quote and how it related to the experience my children and I had had giving a homeless man a blanket earlier in the day, I was reminded of something—the man’s smile. It was a grateful smile. Today, that man had indeed lived the abundant life. Not because we had given him a blanket and sandwich. But because he was grateful. He had humbly showed gratitude for a small, and meager offering from a mom and three kids in a mini-van. Abundance. On this day, the man with the army-green duffle bag had abundance.
So, tonight, as I think of that man lying in some alley chilled by snowflakes falling from the night sky, I picture him wrapped up in a red and green plaid, hand-tied fleece blanket and I feel very blessed for all I have been given. Gratitude blesses us with abundance. It turns what we have into enough and more. Thank you, homeless stranger. Thank you for teaching me about the power of gratitude and the true meaning of abundance. May God watch over you and keep you safe from harm.
