The Panhandler

Another story for Faithwriters. The topic was "Discern".

A slight drizzle was falling as Jim hurried down the street next to the wharf, pulling his ball cap low over his face and hunching his shoulders to ward off the drops. He had worked late and was tired. In this area of downtown Seattle there were usually a fair number of people walking along the harbor and watching the sunset; but now, in the rain, only a few scattered people were out to look at the water. “Hey, spare some change?”

Jim turned to see a man on a bench next to him. He was young – probably in his teens – but prematurely aged. His face was thin and his cheek bones jutted out sharply. Dark strands of wet hair slicked down across his forehead and stood out starkly against his extremely pale face. His eyes were dark and menacing, gazing at Jim with a wild, hungry light. His clothes were dirty and ragged, hanging loosely on his bony frame.

Jim shook his head and hurried on. The teen stood up and stepped after him. “Come on, man. You can spare a little change for a hungry man.”

“No.” Jim said, speeding up.

The youth stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Why not?” His voice was flat, hardly making a question.

Jim shrugged. “I don’t have to tell you.”

The teen stopped, “No. You don’t. But I know why not, and you’re wrong.”

Jim shrugged and pushed past him to continue on his way. Behind him, the boy’s shoulders sagged dejectedly and he collapsed back on the bench.

Jim reached the corner and got on a warm, dry bus. He rode the bus to a warm, dry house. The boy remained on the corner, staring with angry eyes at the stream of cars going past, each with its wipers sliding back and forth, back and forth. At last he got up and sauntered away into the damp darkness.

Washed in Rain

This was another one that I wrote up for faithwriters.com. The topic was "The Sense of Touch". Sorry if it's a little overly brutal.

Dawn glimmers over the edge of city of Caracas and shines into my eyes. I squint into it, then look away as it grows too bright. A light rain is falling and I’m sopping wet. I run my fingers through my black hair and shake my head, sending drops spinning in every direction. I sit up and shiver in the slight wind. Bianca is sleeping beside me, under the skimpy protection of a stone archway. I pull the blanket up around her shoulders. The streets were empty and quiet. Too quiet. I stand and walk the length of the block, looking for the cause of the silence. My heart beats faster and I run back to where Bianca is. It begins to rain harder and she stirs. “Tiago?” She calls.

“I’m here.” I answer.

She rubs her eyes and opens them. Beautiful black eyes framed with long lashes – beautiful, but sightless. She lifts her head and listens. “Rain.” She sniffs and smiles, “It’s so pretty, Tiago, so clean smelling.” Poor child, she doesn’t really know what pretty is. “Rain is God’s way of washing away all the bad in the city.”

“Yeah.” I mumble, glancing up the street again.

Bianca pushes her hair away from her face, then stops and cocks her head to listen. I think she’s hearing the rain, but now her face grows puzzled. “There’s shouting.”

I look out, but see nothing. Listen, but hear nothing above the drumming rain. Suddenly a jeep roars onto the street and squeals to a stop. Soldiers pile out, unslinging their guns as they hit the ground. From up the street, rapid gunfire rips the quiet to shreds. The communist revolution has come to Caracas. I look down in concern as Bianca jerks sharply, but it is only in surprise at the sudden blast of noise. “What’s that?”

“Fighting.” I answer, trying to move farther back n the archway. “The communists have reached the city.” With all her seven years, Bianca knows nothing of the danger behind the explosions. The sound means no more than hammering to her.

She lifts her head and sniffs the air. “It’s bitter.” It takes me a moment to realize that she is speaking of the smell of the gunpowder.

As I grow more nervous, she slowly relaxes. Suddenly a bullet tears through my shoulder and I barely manage to keep from screaming. I clench my fists and grit my teeth, I gasp with the pain. Don’t scare her. Don’t scare her. Blood quickly soaks into my shirt and runs down my arm. Bianca looks up at the sound of my labored breathing. “Tiago? Are you ok?”

“I’ll be ok.”

She nods, oblivious to my pain, and reaches out to feel the rain running off roof. The battle rages around us, but she sees none of it, it’s nothing but noise and strange smells. Shouting? She hears it all the time on the street. Her hand follows the line of drips from the roof a slight smile lighting her face. Her hand comes under my elbow and my blood flows onto her hand. She starts and pulls back in surprise at the sudden warmth. She puts her stained hand to her face and sniffs it curiously. “Blood?” She guesses.

“I’m – shot.” My voice holds pain and Bianca picks the tone out immediately.

“You hurt your arm on something?” She asks. “Don’t worry. Just hold it under the rain. The rain will wash it all clean.”

Ah, child, if only rain could scrub out the stain of battle. The battle continues around us, but Bianca smiles and puts her hand back under the rain drops, feeling the splashing water with delight.

Ulma-aeyo

“Ulma-aeyo? (How much is this?)” I ask, holding up a carrot.

“Ee Chun.” The old woman answers.

That is more expensive than the other venders’ prices, so I lay it back down and straighten up. This is Garak Market: a vast sprawling open air food market with vender after vender selling everything from apples to squid to barley to spinach. Each seller sits with their wares spread on the ground before them and hawks them loudly as trucks rumble by and the buyers straggle from one awning to the next. I take in the scene for an instant, but in my mind’s eye I am no longer in Seoul. The buildings grow poorer, the street turns to dirt, the chatter around me blurs into Spanish. In front of me I see a ragged boy with tousled, dark hair looking longingly at the fruit spread out on the sidewalk. “¿Tienes hambre? (Are you hungry?)” I ask him.

“Sí, Señorita.” He answers.

In my imagination, I turn to the vender and buy him something to eat. He smiles and thanks me for his new wealth. “Odiae-gayo?” The venders around me call the greeting in Korean, trying to get my attention. Once again the street is paved and the venders are oriental. The child has vanished.

“Martha, come on, let’s go.” Mommy tugs on my sleeve and we move on. “What were you thinking about?” She asks as we make our way past the grain section to the green veggies.

What was I thinking about? How can I explain that? “Nothing.” I answer.

I’ve always had a vivid imagination, maybe too vivid. I can really create a scene so real that I almost live in a different world sometimes. I feel as if I’ve really walked the streets of Chicago, wandered in the slums of India, lived in Morocco, visited Brazil, and (most recently) been to Colombia when in reality, I’ve only imagined it. Why these certain places? Street children. Los niños de las calles. Since I was a little girl of five or six I’ve dreamed of working with street kids. The country I’m thinking of has changed, the age of the children has shifted over the years, but the focus remains the same. For years I’ve imagined the city streets, thought up plans for starting farms for them to live on, organized feeding programs in my mind, and talked to imaginary children. “I’m going to start an orphanage” I remember telling people when I was five. “It’ll be nice orphanage with lots of games. I’ll teach them to read and all about the Bible.”

Now that I am almost ready to go out on my own, the dream has grown stronger than ever. The children of the street are calling to me. But here I am in Korea. Do I wish Korea had street kids? No of course not. But I know that somewhere there are orphans running the streets and they need someone to come and help them. How I wish I were there! Now, I bide my time and create dream scenes as I walk the streets of Seoul, but someday the dreams will be real. Someday I’ll get my hands into the work that God has raised me up for and called me to.

This Past Year

This past year has been the “Year of Kids” in my life. I spent a lot of hours at the local Boy’s and Girl’s club, settling arguments and trying to keep kids from killing each other with wild antics. I loved the kids. I enjoyed getting to know them and taking care of them.

But, this morning I got to thinking of how much time I spent hugging and rocking kids because their lives were coming apart. Here is a list of the situations I heard from all different kids (not all at the Boy’s and Girl’s club):

Her father lived in Jonesboro – or was it Jackson? – and she hasn’t seen him since she was two.

She didn’t really know her mother and now she was going to live with her for the first time since she was a baby.

His parents are both on drugs so he’s moved several states away to live his aunt – the only one in the family that would take him.

Her mother is on drugs.

She didn’t have a good relationship with her dad. Now she’s a teen and she’s going to spend the summer with him for the first time since she was in third grade.

His mother doesn’t work – but mom says he’s too much trouble to keep at home.

Their stepmom neglects them.

Her mother only feeds her one meal a day – if that.

His mother’s boyfriend just moved in and suddenly he has a new brother his own age whom he never knew before now.

She is the one raising her little sister when they stay with her mom.

She trying to run away because she wanted to get away from her foster home and go to her real mom.

His stepfather was arrested last night for drug dealing.

Her father shot her mother right in front of her.

He lives with his grandmother. His sisters (each with a different last name) are farmed out to other relatives in Texas.

Her father was just diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.

His father is in prison.

Her father has a restraining order against him to keep him away from her.

She just tried this morning to call her father who she hasn’t seen in months. He told her never to call him again.

His stepfather died a month ago in a car wreck.

She stays with friends because her mother is an alcoholic.

I don’t know how many times I’ve held and rocked a child who can’t understand why her Dad isn’t home. It’s been more times than I’ve kissed a boo-boo this year. Why does our country not put any value on fatherhood? How can they not realize what it’s doing to their children? Just last Wednesday, I took a girl out of the Bible class because she kept crying. “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

“I want my dad. I haven’t seen him in weeks and my mom said I couldn’t call him. I love my dad, why can’t I see him?”

What do I say? I never was in her place. How can I tell her it’s going to be ok? They would be empty words. So I sit down in a rocking chair and rock her, crying with her. What do I say when her world is falling to pieces? I point her to Jesus. He knows. He can hold her together. That’s all I can give her – but it’s the best there is.

Grass Stains

Kaleb rolled over and stared at the sunlight shimmering through the green leaves of the hedge he was sleeping in. What time was it? Traffic rolled by just inches away from him, shaking the leaves around him. He reached up and brushed a leaf out of his shaggy brown hair and began to struggle out from between the tangled twigs, finally emerging into blinding daylight. A passing pedestrian stared at the strange figure in ragged clothes covered in grass stains, but Kaleb paid him no mind. Now, breakfast. Where should he look for it? He felt in his pocket and pulled out all the money he had. Fifty cents. Enough for a Coke or some Ramen noodles not both. He set off walking fast to the nearest store. It was a routine by now, panhandling, stealing, going hungry half the days – and he had just passed his sixteenth birthday.

At the store, a boy in a dirty sweatshirt and ragged jeans was crouched by the door smoking a cigarette. He stood up as Kaleb came near, “Hey.”

Kaleb nodded, “What’s up?”

“Found some newbies down at the park this morning.” He jerked his head in the direction of the city park. “They slept under a picnic table. Two boys, thirteen and eleven years old.”

Kaleb ran a hand over his face wearily, “Alright, give me a moment. I was just about to pick up breakfast.” He went into the store bought the noodles, then stopped at a Macdonalds on the way to the park for a Styrofoam cup of hot water. He sat on a curb in the parking lot to eat the noodles, sharing them with the other boy – it wasn’t even close to enough to fill the aching hole where his stomach should have been.

The park was nothing more than a group of trees with a couple tables set between them. On one of the tables, two boys were hunched sleepily, watching the traffic pass with bleary eyes. An older boy was leaning against the tree, his eyes bloodshot from Marijuana. Kaleb greeted him, “Hey Sam. You got the details?”

Sam straightened, “Yeah, ran away from their home two days ago and hitched a ride here. Their dad is hammering them at night, so they say they ain’t going home. They’ve been reported missing to the police.”

The three older teens held a quiet conference a few yards from the kids, trying to decide what to do. If they helped the boys, they could be turned in for harboring a fugitive? It was a thin line that they walked every day and especially every time another runaway turned up in their turf. Kaleb walked over to the table, “Hey listen up, kiddos. I been on the streets since I was thirteen; it ain’t a picnic. Is there any home at all you can go to? A grandma, aunt, uncle, sister, brother – anything?”

The younger boy remained staring straight ahead without acknowledging Kaleb’s presence, but the older one shook his head no. Kaleb sighed, “Surely you can think of something. Listen, you may think this life is some kind of adventure, but I swear I ain’t here for the fun of it. I wish I had a house to go to, but I don’t. Is there anywhere, ANYwhere you can go?”

Both boys were silent. Kaleb put a foot up on the bench and leaned forward, his elbow resting on his knee. “Look, you hungry?” Both boys nodded. “Then get used to it. You’ll be that way all the time. Look at my shoes, tied together with string. Look at my clothes, ripped and cover with green stains from sleeping in the hedges. Is that how you want to look? Talk to me, what you planning?”

The older brother hesitated and looked at his brother, then answered finally. “My grandmother lives about an hour south of here.”

Kaleb sighed in relief, “You have her number?”

The boy nodded, “But, I never talked to her before. Could you call her?”

Kaleb raised an eyebrow, “Me?”

The older teens behind him snickered. “Come on you scared to talk to the kid’s grandma?” Sam called.

Kaleb scowled, “Alright! I’ll call her. Someone cough the change for the phone.”

A moment later, he was holding a scrap of paper and tramping to a nearby shop that had a pay phone.