For years, I was angry at the homeless. Angry they wouldn't get a job, angry they would stare at me sitting in my car at the freeway exit, angry they wouldn't imply do something different to change their path in life. But that all changed one weekend in Boston.
It was a few years ago now, but my dad was suspected to be dying from cancer. We had heard he had been through chemo and was in a hospital. Throughout the years, many stories were told about liver cancer, adventures and brawls, but this time I knew it was different. It was a calling of a spiritual kind, one I had never experienced before. Driving to pick up my son from grandma's I could see my dad's face and I knew I needed to go to see him. Just a few weeks later, my brother and I were on a plane to Boston with only an address. My dad didn't know we were coming and if he did, he may have told us not to. He was sick.
Arriving in Boston, we went straight to the address in a pretty rough part of the city. As we drove into the neighbor, people stared and kept an eye on us. We approached the building without a code to get in and I peeked in the window. I called his name, with my brother behind me, worried about what would happen next. Finally, someone let us in and we found the "apartment," only to knock several times without an answer. I called "dad" again and again thinking it might take him a few minutes to get the door. After repeated knocks and no answer, a young boy comes down the stairs and tells us he called the ambulance the day before when the man we were looking for couldn't get up the steps of the building.
Now what? Find the nearest hospital. In downtown Boston, there were several but we knew of one he had been to before, so we headed over there only to find they were closed for the weekend under strict surveillance. No one was getting in. Eventually, we managed to get the security guard to hear our story. In a nutshell, "we came from California, we are here for our dad, and he might be sick."
By the next morning, we were in and sitting in a secluded room away from security and the red tape we passed through to get there. He was sick and weak and looked as if he were dying any day. He was gentle and honest about his life-where he had been, what he had done and where he was at that moment. He loved us and it was clear on his face. He had been places I never have imagined or would want to be. He made friends, he was lonely. He enjoyed the simple, yet had a hard life. He made choices that took him away from us, but here we were now. And in this moment, he was still my dad, frail and weak, and I loved him. He needed to know that, and he needed a second chance at life.
Homelessness is a disease. We could argue it is a man or woman's choice, and in many cases it may be, but there are two things I know: 1. In no way, is it my place to judge where people have been or the choices they have made; and 2. It is my responsibility to give so that others have the opportunity to be better. I have to trust that giving and loving is because that is what I am called to do, regardless of the response I get. We worry about them using our money for beer and drugs. We complain they will never get off the streets. We avoid making eye contact at the freeway exit. But in reality, none of that matters. What matters is you do what your heart leads you to do regardless of what the receiver chooses.
My dad lived on the streets and in month-stay motels for a few more years while in remission. We talked occasionally on the phone and I was planning to visit him again. He still drank beer, probably panhandled to get it, or maybe used his social security check, but either way, he was my dad. I used to be embarrassed by his life choices, but today, I understand that sometimes life takes a turn on you that you don't expect and you end up somewhere you wouldn't have chosen. We met again in a hospital in Vegas for the last time last Spring. I will never forget the way he looked at me, the way he always looked at me with love and sadness mixed together. He knew it was his time this was it.
Jumping on a plane to Boston with an ambiguous plan taught me more about the life of a homeless man and opened my heart to those that live life out in a way we don't always understand. But in those moments when I knew I needed to see him again, it was to tell him it was ok and he could have a do-over.
Each man and woman has a story. Whether or not, homelessness was a choice, it is lonely, dark and sometimes scary.
This year, our family has decided to be part of a bigger project of putting together bags filled with basic necessities for the homeless in Long Beach, a neighborhood only a few miles from where we live. A few years ago, I never would have considered helping the homeless because of my own dad, but today, because of a trip to Boston, I will give so that others have an opportunity to be better.
