I have thought how to address my year of being homeless. I suppose I could refer to it as "The Lost Weekend", but that has already been used. In my case, I will use a word which is the title of a book that I was working on, and may start back again. That word is "Redeemed".
I have known many people to go through their version of Hell. I would not say that being homeless is Hell, because in many respects it isn't. It is like being in jail with no walls. It is like being free with no freedom. It is very humbling. I do not wish anyone to go through it, but maybe some should to not be judging of others. I would like those prejudiced souls to do it for a week. I think lives would be changed.
After my brush with death, and God speaking to me to stay alive, I was still looking for a job. My brother told me about a part-time position at a local homeless shelter. Upon talking with them about their opening, the man there told me that I didn't need that job, but rather I needed to stay there. He recognized the fragile state that I was in emotionally and spiritually. So, I said okay. After I left that shelter, I walked the two blocks to my old church. It was noon.
I had grown up in First Baptist. My parents joined that church, when I was 5, and we had moved from New Orleans to Columbia. I had been baptized in that church, when I was 10. I had been involved in creating the Singles Ministry in that church. I had sung in the choir, and had presented a bunch of dramatic works there. I had participated in mission trips to several places. But in 1991, I moved my membership to St. Andrews Baptist after some hard feelings toward some people at First. About two years prior to my being homeless, a childhood friend from church had died. I went to her funeral, which was the first time in about 15 years that I had set foot in that church, and I had the unusual feeling that I had come home. Now, I was there again. This time looking for some pastoral counseling with all I had been through in the last 24 hours.
When I showed up looking for help, the secretary told me that all of the ministers were at lunch, but there was a guy there, who was studying to be a minister, and maybe I could talk to him. I thought why not, so Alan showed up.
Alan took me to a room, and I broke down crying. I had never cried so much before. After all, I had been taught that crying showed weakness. But, I cried nevertheless. Tears streamed down my face. I had nothing. Alan told me that I had something. Jesus. It was like a light went off in my head. I had grown up in a Christian home. I had gone to a Christian college. I had graduated from a Christian seminary. I had written Christian plays. And, I realized as I cried that I was not alone. I found people who cared. Caring souls are very important to me, which is why I have tried my level best to be more caring now. We are all in this world together. Alan was a great friend to me that day, as God put him in my path. The secretary could have easily said there were no ministers and to come back later. But, she cared. I can't explain how special that was.
Since that day, I have become much more involved with the church. These loving people accepted me for who I was. They have nurtured me and guided me in ways that I could never imagine a church to do. With them, being homeless was at least bearable. I talk more about that experience next time.
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