The parable of the Good Samari... sorry, the Good *Homeless* Person

So I got my coffee, and cross the street at the crosswalk, and there's these three guys hanging out at The Dugout, which is long closed, but that population often hangs out there because nobody else is there.  As I walk by, one of them says, "How are you?"  I usually respond to the street population because nobody else does, and at least if they say something to you, you can respond, and let them know that they are not "non-persons."  They exist, and are worthy of a response.

So, as usual, I said terrible.  He didn't just laugh.  He didn't let it go.  He didn't pass it off.  He said, "Why terrible?" and I said, "I'm a grieving widower, and a depressive, and I've just been told that I have degenerative disc disease."  He left his friends, and he came over, and he he said "Oh," and he he asked about antidepressants, and I told him that they've taken me off the antidepressants because they don't work.

And he didn't let it go.  He followed me down the street.  I mean, you know, he was giving me more time than I was giving him.  I was just passing, and had somewhere to be (although it wasn't like being late would be a serious problem), and kept on walking, and he left his friends and followed me.  He said, "Can I give you a hug or a handshake or something?"

(I have fifty years of experience assessing this type of population, starting with taking care of burned out alcoholics in the hospital.  I know that this guy, as young as he is, has been on alcohol and/or drugs for long enough that his neural circuitry has suffered serious and considerable damage.  There are certain speech patterns that are definitive.  He's lost a lot of capabilities that he will never get back.  But, apparently, not the capacity for compassion.)

Can you really *not* respond to something like that?  So I stopped, and I went back to him, and got a hug, fairly tentative on his part.  And I *didn't* check my wallet immediately after we hugged (and I still do have it).  And he he went back to his friends, and as he was going he called back, "I love you, big dog!" even though he towered over me by at least head and shoulders (he may have been referring to girth, rather than height).  And he he didn't ask me for anything.  He gave me a hug.  He didn't give me anything but his time, but he didn't *have* anything else but his concern.

I have been to all twenty-one churches in town.  Each of the twenty-one churches in town have plenty of people who would, first of all, not have even talked to him, and secondly feel that  it was his own fault, he started to drink, he started to do drugs, whatever.  They wouldn't wonder what had started him on that path.  And in *none* of all twenty-one churches in town, has anyone, on first acquaintance, given me that much time and concern.  So there's a sermon in there somewhere.  There really is.