"We need to be kinder with one another, more gentle and forgiving. We need to be slower to anger and more prompt to help. We need to extend the hand of friendship and resist the hand of retribution. In short, we need to love one another with the pure love of Christ, with genuine charity and compassion and, if necessary, shared suffering, for that is the way God loves us" (Howard W. Hunter, "A More Excellent Way," Ensign, May 1992, 61).
It was brought to mind as our Home Teacher shared the following article from the Chicago Tribune during this month's visit. It is not a long read - but it gave us pause too reflect as we listened.
As we walked, a young woman, sitting on the sidewalk, with a small suitcase and what appeared to be rolled-up bedclothes by her side, asked in a frail voice if we could spare some change. While I try to avoid eye contact with street people, I looked down at her and gave a quick, apologetic smile.
Street people. I really don't like that designation. It too easily marginalizes fellow human beings who find themselves down on their luck — addled maybe with drug and alcohol addictions, mental illnesses or more. But since thousands upon thousands of us can walk past them every day, they are marginalized, so I suppose, the label applies. Besides, the name gives them some legitimacy, which gives a little peace of mind to the rest of us.
I generally do not give street people money beyond the few coins I may happen to find in my pocket. They'll only end up using it to buy drugs and alcohol, or so I've been told.
As we passed her, I heard a faint voice say the name of the small, suburban town where I live. My wife and I turned around.
There sat a young girl we knew. She had lived a few houses up the street from us. We had known her for years. It's no wonder I did not recognize her at first. She was emaciated, ashen complexion, eyelids bloated and red, open sores on her face.
We went back to talk to her. "I thought I recognized you," she said, smiling. Recognize? We had seen you at least a few times a week over the years. We'd had conversations on the sidewalk in front of our house. We remember when you were pregnant with your first child and when you dropped out of high school. When the ambulance and police took you away that night when you were screaming incoherently in the middle of the street. Then you had your second and your third children. Then you disappeared for a while. We would see your parents taking care of your kids. We'd say hello when we would see them outside, neighborly but not intrusive, so we didn't ask. We couldn't ask. Then you were back and had a fourth child. But now that I think about it, we haven't seen you around for a while.
"How are my children? Do you see my children?" We told her we did. In fact, our son and hers are in the same class. We listened as she told us how she's not allowed to see her children, how they did this to her, how they all did this to her.
Standing there talking with her, I couldn't help but notice the people passing meeting vile after vile looks. I recognized that look as one I would have given to someone talking with a street person, especially when I pulled out my wallet and gave her all the dollar bills I had. It wasn't that much, really, a 10 and some ones. I use my debit card more than anything else now, so I rarely carry cash.
She quickly hid the money and thanked us. We told her to take care of herself, stay warm, go inside when it gets cold. What more can you say that she already doesn't know or cares to?
"Tell my mom I said, 'Hi.' "We smiled and said we would, knowing we wouldn't because we are neighborly but not intrusive.
We continued our walk and along our way were met by no less than 10 other street people asking for loose change. I thought of each as daughters and sons and neighbors and rued the fact that I wouldn't be able to see past them so easily anymore amid the shoppers rushing home with their treasures.
Dean P. Johnson is a high school English teacher in Camden, N.J..
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