uncovering old writings and still thinking about Roger

I have my old writings hidden and locked away. The last few days, I suppose with it being Lent and all, a single post written years ago has been on my mind. This morning, I finally remembered the password to unlock all of my writings. Oh. My. Word. All I can say is so much has changed and yet so much is still very much the same and thank you Jesus from rescuing me. I am a mess now, but good grief...I was a super mess back then.

I found the post that has been on my mind. It received a lot of attention back when I wrote it, on October 20, 2009. Most of it good, and of course, some comments not so nice, but that is what happens when you put yourself out there. Happy to report, my skin is much thicker today. But nine years later I stand by what I did, said, and wrote. And in the last nine years, not one of them has gone by without my remembering and praying for Roger. Ever. God bless you sweet man wherever you are. Today's joys and sufferings and everything in between are being offered up for you.

ROGER

October 20, 2009

We struggle. Financially speaking, that is. And I have never kept that a secret. I share this stress because I fear that if I keep it locked up inside, I will literally explode. And while we always get by, I still feel it every month…that panic. The fear. It is suffocating.

After an extra difficult couple of weeks, and a bank account that was showing really mean words like “not sufficient”, Saturday morning rolled around. And while I wished I could hide under my covers all morning long, I had to get Belle to a 9am art class, and drag the other little ones along with me.

Belle takes two classes, giving me 4 hours to entertain Luke and Annie. I promised Happy Meals for lunch that day, so around 11 am we headed for the nearby drive thru. Not only was this particular McDonald’s not in the greatest of locations, but it was the longest, slowest drive thru line I had ever been on. And right on cue, a homeless man approached the line of cars.

I will admit it…when I am with my children and homeless people approach me, I get very nervous. I fear that perhaps this will be “the crazy one” that tries to attack me, or even worse, my children. My first year in LA, I had offered crackers out of my bag to a homeless beggar, only to have him throw them back in my face. So I am weary.

Had I not been at a drive thru, about to place my order, I would have rolled the window up. But I could not. And my window was down. And the man was now at my side. He mumbled something to me…something about being so skinny …and without even looking I told him, “Sorry, I have no cash on me”. And then I looked up.

I looked at him.

How often can you say that you really look at a homeless person?

Because I don’t usually look.

But this time, I did.

“I can’t give you money, but I can get you something to eat?

Would you like something to eat?”

He had no shirt on. He was filthy. He was very thin.

“Would you please?” he asked me.

“Yes. Yes, I will get you some food.”

The line took forever. And I feared the man was going to leave. He wandered from car to car, but never looked my way again. I thought for sure he would stay right at my side, waiting for the food I promised. I thought for sure he thought I was lying, and was going to keep his eye on me. But he didn’t. When I finally got our order…three Happy Meals for the kids, an iced coffee for me, and a Big Mac, large fries and large Coke for the man, I pulled up a bit, and saw out of my side mirror that he was leaving. I pulled up and over, rolled down the passenger window, and shouted,

“Sir! Excuse me sir!” He slowly turned to me, and I waved him to come over.

And this I will never forget. And this is the point where when I re tell the story I start to cry, and while I type at this moment, I am still crying.

He looked at me, then hung his head down, and in disbelief, he said, “You called me Sir. You called me sir.” And shaking his head, he said, “I am no Sir.”

I handed him his bag of food and drink, and told him, “I wish I had some money to give you, but to be honest, I am actually struggling, too. I know it doesn’t look like it, but we are struggling.”

And with a look of almost disgust he said, “I wasn’t asking for money.”

“I know”…and I looked right into his eyes and said, “I just wish I could do more for you.”

And with an expression on his face that I will never be able to erase from my mind, he said, with such shame…such anger, “I don’t want to ask anybody for anything. I don’t wanna have to ask people for things…like an idiot.”

And in that moment, my last couple of weeks flashed before me. The stress…the bills…the needing to call people and ask if they would not mind paying for their cakes in advance…the taking my own clothes out of my closet and selling them, just so that our checks would clear…and the way that being in that position of need made me feel…like an idiot.

He cradled his paper bag of food like a baby and said, “I don’t know what is in here, but I know I will enjoy it very much.”

The kids sat very quietly in the car, which is interesting considering that whenever I talk to another adult, they always interrupt. But they were silent. They were looking and listening.

Looking and listening. I wondered how long it had been that anybody really looked at this man…really looked, and listened.

“What’s your name?” I asked. I asked him his name because he had one. Regardless of his story, and how he ended up in this place, a woman gave birth to this man, and gave him a name. He was someones baby.

Again, shaking his head, and looking down, he replied, “Roger. My name is Roger. What is your name?”

I smiled at him, and said, “I’m Laura.”

“Bless your heart, Laura” said Roger. Unto which I replied, holding back my tears, “No Roger. Bless your heart.”

And as we drove away, safe in our mini van, with the kids happily eating their Happy Meals and the sun shining out of a perfect blue sky, Roger found a spot of grass in the parking lot and sat down to eat.

And silently, I cried.