van

We were eating our breakfast yesterday when Van approached us. Actually, it was more like this:

We're outside a library, under a picnic shelter eating our tortillas and peanut butter. The library opens in a few minutes, at 9:30, and we'll go in then. The picnic area's a bit run down and, this doesn't look like the safest of small south Georgia towns, it's kind of run-down, and I'm a bit nervous. You could chalk it up to being a minority; I have been for three days now, and I was used to it in Africa but not here; now I know how African-Americans feel. Ever since Albany white people are few and far between.

A black guy over at the next table calls out to us: "Hey y'all got a phone?" Sorry, I tell him, we don't; we don't own one. He apologizes for disturbing us and I tell him not to worry about it. "He didn't have a southern accent," I remark as he goes away.

A few minutes later he's back, walking toward us. "Do you mind if I ask you a question... is it okay, can I come?" Come up to the table, he means. Of course. He wants to know if we know anybody who can help him; he's stranded, someone robbed him, he has a disabled nine-year-old son at home. We don't know the area, although there was that church we slept at last night; the pastor came out in the morning as we left (we had no idea he'd spotted us) with a Bible and an offer of food from their food pantry, which we declined, & had a friendly chat about what we're doing. We could go back there, I say; but he says he's through with churches, and I know what he means. The brush-off can hurt bad.

It takes us awhile to get the story straight. His name is Van, he frames houses, he lives in Florida with his wife and son; he took the bus to North Carolina because someone up there offered him work for awhile, but "awhile" turned into only a week, and when he took the bus back down, he walked out of the bus station in Atlanta and was beat up and robbed by four guys "young enough to be my sons". Greyhound refused him another ticket, but a friendly trucker gave him a ride to Albany; that was the end of his luck. He had walked out of Albany just like we had, I think. He was surprised to hear what we were doing, and in agreement with us that we all need God's provision; we felt on the same level, in the same boat. I asked him if he was hungry, offered some of our breakfast; "No, y'all need that, I'm fine," he said.

We did have some money, though. I slipped a note to Paul under the picnic table, suggesting the purchase of a new bus ticket. He didn't speak up about it though, and I kept my counsel, knowing he usually has a good reason I haven't thought of. (I'm the impulsive one.) (He did have a good reason: the bus ticket was, I think, more expensive than Van thought.) Van had a phone number of someone who'd said they could help him, but it was long-distance. I said he could use my phone card; he started to refuse that too, saying we needed it as bad as he did, and I slapped the table. "Van," I said, "God may have brought us together so we could contribute what we can to helping you. So let us. God's been taking very good care of us, and it's only right if we can pass some of that on to you."

We went on talking, or mostly listening; we weren't sure what to do, and he seemed to need to talk. He kept apologizing for going on and on at us, he was feeling strange, he couldn't stop talking. "You're stressed," I said, "and you got a right to be." We sat, and listened, until finally we came to a sense of what to do: go into the library, ask to use the phone; call the number he had, then make further plans.

The library wouldn't let us use the phone, just the phonebook; they said there were payphones down the street. Somehow (I got confused) we let Van go off to look for the payphones without my phonecard, but with a promise to return and tell us what was going on. We waited; Paul looked up charitable groups in the phonebook, I looked up bus ticket prices online. We felt like we were back at the shelter in Champaign doing our emergency work. I was trying to figure out how he got quoted such a low price for the ticket when he came into the computer room, radiant. "I've found a guy who'll give me a ride to the station and buy my ticket!" "Wha'?" I said. "Wow." and he grabbed my hand and kissed me on the cheek and was out the door with a "God bless you! Take care of each other, OK?" "Yes sir," I said, and he was gone.

It wasn't enough for me though. Wha'? Where'd he find this? I found Paul and he had the whole story: Van had borrowed someone's cell phone, but only gotten an answering machine. Then the man had let Van call his wife, and after listening to this conversation held on his phone, must have decided that Van was legit. (Honestly, Van was the most obviously legit guy I ever met. I try to give the benefit of the doubt, but sometimes you're sure. No spin doctor makes up, "My wife is a hypochondriac, but I love her.") He offered to give him a ride to the station and buy his ticket.

And there it was. We hadn't helped him at all.

We hadn't, and yet he was grateful. I felt real love when he kissed my cheek. And I thought of something I've thought about--and wished for the chance to practice--recently: a passage by Simone Weil that Paul quoted on his blog. Weil says that those who are suffering need nothing more than to be given someone's full attention--but that this is often the hardest thing to give. If you read the passage, you'll see that Weil is talking about a purer, more absolute quality of attention than ours was; I mean please, we were just listening while we racked our brains for a sensible plan and I kicked Paul under the table to remind him I'd suggested a bus ticket! (You can see why I was wishing for some practice!) But I'm thankful for the opportunity to meet somebody who's been beat up, turned away, mistrusted, and stared at, and to use his name, look at him as a human being, listen to his feelings. Even if I could give no more help than that, I was glad of the chance.