There are 38,000 homeless people in the city of NY.  In a nation of such abundance and privilege, this shouldn’t be the case.  And so there’s this thing that NYCUP does called Feed 500.  The concept is “simple.”  Offer someone who looks in need of food or conversation a bagged lunch.  If he or she is willing, sit down with them, learn their names and hear their stories.  Not just hear them, really listen. 

A few months ago I participated in Feed 500, speaking to and feeding a few people in that shaded area of trees and benches near Penn Station.  But yesterday was different.  When given the option of going out again to different neighborhoods with bagged lunches or helping out with the BBQ in a Washington Heights park, I felt compelled to stay in the neighborhood, to meet more of the people that will hopefully be served at the Hope Resource Fair this Sunday.  And so began a day of seeing the city more through Jesus’ gracious eyes, and less through my jaded selfish ones. 

Jose was enjoying the shade of the trees and the breeze off the Hudson River when I approached him while the charcoal was still being warmed up by the grill.  He was a slender older man with glasses, looking peaceful and serene upon closer examination.  And so after being greeted with a heart-warming smile, we began a conversation, me, in my broken Spanish, and Jose, speaking slower than usual I’m sure, so that I could understand the main ideas of his sentences.  Jose has lived in the Heights for almost 11 years.  He lives alone while his wife and three grown children are back in D.R.  I could sense the weight of loneliness as he talked about missing his family, who he hasn’t seen in two years.  Yet despite this apparent weight, his thankfulness for the opportunities here in America and his trust in Dios (as he pointed upward to the sky) was refreshing.  I am blessed to have met Jose and to have shared a few pages of our stories with one another.  I hope to see him again.

Alvaro was lying on the park bench ever since we got to the park, with a black umbrella opened above him to shield the sun.  The next time I saw, and had the opportunity to speak with him, he was resting on the park bench near the sprinklers.  We talked about both having been students at Hunter (both English majors) and how his time at a conflict-resolution program in Garrison, NY showed him real community.  We talked about his two teenage sons in Jersey and how he wishes he could see them more than he does now.  We talked with Luis, an artist whose work I hope to visit at the Dominican Civic Cultural Center.  And I was blessed to have prayed over Alvaro, his worries and future. 

Jose.  Mercado.  Alvaro.  Luis.  Cody.  Anthony.  Fred.  Domino.  These are the names of people that on most days, while walking around my city, I would have passed in my usual rush, or maybe glanced back at if I wasn’t that much in a rush, and if I was leisurely walking, (although I’m not sure how often I do that even when I have the time to do so) maybe offered a granola bar, but that on this past sweltering hot Saturday, I talked with them, listened as best I could, and realized that interactions like these shouldn’t be out of the ordinary, special volunteering kind of days.  What if this was the “norm”?  Or as J. Walton might say, “What would it look like for people to help people, for us to truly see those on the street as our neighbors, worthy of our undivided attention, worthy of our love and compassion, rather than a drop of change or pitied glances?”  I don’t know…maybe there wouldn’t be 38,000 homeless people in our city.  Maybe we’d know their names.