hunger

Fullerton, California is teeming with survivors. Driving through, someone might mistake the quaintly lit downtown, packed with bars, fancy restaurants, and hair salons as somewhere free from poverty.

But survival isn’t a banner that many people are willing to raise high. As if to advertise, “Yeah, this damn economy has taken me down, too.” In fact, these very words wakened me from some kind of sleep today. As I stood near the intersection of Pomona and Wilshire Ave, a line of people snaked for almost 100 yards in front of a small building in a parking lot. All survivors, and all reminding me of the luxurious characteristics of my own life.

As I looked into the sea of almost 100 faces, I saw many things. I saw eyes longing for conversation, perhaps the only they’d get until next Sunday when more food is handed out by the local church. I saw other eyes invariably fixed on the ground, as if reluctant to connect with anyone around. I sensed guilt in the hearts of men who couldn’t afford groceries for their families. I saw mothers with children clinging affectionately to their thighs, and the silent, thankful expressions they displayed when a church volunteer offered them some extra morsel. After all, growing kids have to eat.

The heaviness of this group of people temporarily lifted as I heard people laughing and talking in line. I smiled. A man ahead of me made a raunchy comment about the woman in front of him. The heaviness returned. A guy my age stood nearby. His face was plastered with metal piercings, and his girlfriend, hair dyed bright green, stood by his side. His barely audible, mumbled responses let me know he wasn’t interested in a charity conversation. And I had to ask myself, was there some truth in his reaction to me?

The hard part is, how do I explain myself to someone who’s been dealt such an impossible deck of cards? How do I convince someone that serving them, talking with them, isn’t some moral fix I use to make myself feel good? That I actually care. That I'm able to love them, because although undeserving I've also been loved beyond anything I can imagine.

Sometimes it bothers me that I’m so far removed from their world. I’ve never been startled from my sleep by the rumbling of train wheels over the tracks, because it’s the only place where cops won’t heckle me. I’ve never spent a night shivering on cold pavement, with no promise of warmth or the next night being any different. I’ve never walked past a restaurant or store, lacking the means to buy something. I’m not naïve to the fact that life isn’t fair. And I’m not smiling at the fact that I’ve been given more than most.

Today a man lacked the strength to stand in line for his food. With a mangy dog tucked under one arm, his only earthly companion, and a bag in another, the old man started teetering, sweating, and complaining about stomach pain. You could see it in his eyes…he needed food so bad. But his body wouldn’t allow him to stand there, and with tears in his eyes he slowly hobbled out of line. I could tell this man had tasted life’s unfair nature. But the moment his eyes filled with tears, something stronger welled up in his demeanor, some determination that life on the streets had fiercly engrained into his being. He wasn’t going to let it defeat him. I offered to grab him some food. As he waited on a nearby bench I threw some things in a plastic bag and ran it back to him…oatmeal, soup, some bread.

As I handed him the bag and turned to leave he asked me, “Will you pray for me?” Of course I would. The man said he was HIV positive. At 73 years old, the symptoms were taking over.

So, what can someone like me do to make a difference? Someone who's never tasted life on the streets or counted down the days till the next welfare check arrives. I’ll tell you one thing, I can pray for this man. Not because I can help him, but because there’s a God who sees injustice and hates it. It’s a perfect, loving, just hatred. May days like today be a sober reminder of how much I’ve been given, and in turn how much I’m called to give.