Christ Provides

I saw her for the first time seated on a bench outside of Perkins Rowe.  

As I was picking up a book curbside, she was sitting there.  Mismatched clothes.  Backpack.  Bags at her feet.  I knew she had to be homeless, perhaps just passing through.

It was only a few days later when I spotted her again.  

She was walking on the sidewalk–not too far from where I had seen her the first time.  I could see her from a distance, carrying her backpack and those same few bags, probably holding all of her possessions.

I wondered where she was going, where she had been. 

Just days later, I saw her on that same bench.  

This time, my son was with me. I said, “Oh my, there she is. I keep seeing this woman around this area.  I think she is homeless. I can’t stop thinking about her. Maybe I should talk to her.”  

But, I didn’t stop.  I didn’t talk to her. I kept driving.

I could not stop thinking about her.

I have had many sleepless nights recently.  As I have lain awake at night, I have thought of her.  And of what her life must be like. 

Today, as I pulled into Sonic for my usual–large Diet Coke–there she was, ordering food at the window next to me.  With her backpack and bags. 

I was compelled to speak.

“Ma’am,” I said to her.  And she turned to me.

I explained that I had seen her several times–sitting on the bench, walking.  I told her I had been thinking about her.  She smiled and said nothing.

“Do you have a place to sleep?”

She smiled and said, “Christ provides.”

I nodded in agreement and asked her the question again.  She responded the same. 

“Christ provides.”

I tried a different question.  I could see she had ordered food.

“Are you able to pay for your food?”  She held up a gift card and said it again.

“Christ provides.”

I asked her if she was alone.

Again, “Christ provides.”

Perhaps she could see that I was wishing for more. She went on, “That will always be my answer. Christ provides.”  And she smiled.

“You have a beautiful smile,” I told her.

As the Sonic employee handed me my Diet Coke, I paid for my order and for hers.  

I put my car in reverse and as I began to pull away, I said to her, “I want you to know that I think of you.  That I am praying for you. I will think of your smile. And, I will remember that Christ provides.”  

She smiled and said, “I appreciate that.”  And I drove away.  

Even now, I am still thinking about her.  And her words. 

I can see her sitting peacefully on the bench.  Casually walking down the road.  And then standing next to me.  And how our paths led us both to Sonic on this random morning. 

I am hoping to see her again. I will certainly be looking for her.  The homeless woman with the big smile, all of her possessions at her feet, who reminded me of Christ’s love and provision.  

And really, that is all we need to know–the only answer to life’s questions that really matters. 

As she said, it should always be our answer. 

Christ provides.

He does indeed.  And that is enough.

For her.
For all of us.

Her Name Was

I pulled into Sonic, my usual morning stop before work.  As I reached to push the button to place my order, I saw her. Standing in front of my car. 

With one hand, she was holding an old worn blanket around her shoulders.  With the other, she was holding her pants to keep them from falling. I could barely see her toes and her flip flops peeking beneath the bagginess of her jeans.  Her shirt, like her pants, hung on her. In a soft voice, she said, “Ma’am, can you buy me some food?”

I looked at her.  I looked in her eyes.  A few years ago, maybe I would have politely told her no and gone about my day.  Or, maybe I wouldn’t have even seen her.  But not now.  Life has a way of teaching us; humbling us; making us better.

“What would you like?”  I said. She seemed surprised by my response.  There was no smile. Just surprise.

I placed the order, and she turned away to sit down at the bistro table while we waited.  I saw a tattered pink duffle bag next to her. She sat quietly until our eyes met again.

As I leaned out to talk to her, she got up and came to the front of my car.  And she began to talk.   

I learned she is alone–no husband or children.  I learned she is out of work, but is looking for a job.  I learned there was a time when she had friends, but that time is no more.  

 “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t have parents,” she replied.

“Are they deceased?”  I asked.

“No,” she said, “I had dummy parents.  They were not real parents.”  

Dummy parents.  With those words, the dirty and hungry stranger before me transformed into a wounded, broken person.  

It’s just a word.  But what heaviness it carries.  What sadness.  

Dummy–a model or replica of a human being; something designed to resemble and serve as a substitute for the real or usual thing; a counterfeit or sham.  

Heartbreaking. 

I found myself not knowing the right words to say; so I just said, “Oh, I am so sorry.”

She went on to talk about her mother.  She told me that her mother was always talking.  But, she said, “I could not hear her.” She shook her head as if exasperated, “I just could not hear her.”

I nodded at her and again repeated how sorry I was. 

As she talked, I listened.  I smiled at her. I watched her.  I thought about how different we are;  how the circumstances of our lives and the consequences of our life choices sent us in different directions.  And yet, I thought about how much we are the same. 

Our earthly parents are different, but we share the same Heavenly Father.  

And He calls us by name.  

Although she could not hear, and perhaps would not listen to her mother, she wanted to be heard that morning.  I heard her. I heard what she said, and I heard what she didn’t say. 

And I wanted to remember her.  Everyone has a story.

As they delivered the food, I told her I would pray for her.  I told her that I wish her all the best. She smiled and blew me a kiss. 

I asked her what her name was.  She did not ask me my name, and that was okay.  More than likely, she will never think of me again. 

I have looked for her during my daily Sonic visits. And the bistro tables remain empty.

But, I will remember her.   And I will call her by name.

Elizabeth.  Her name was Elizabeth.