You’ve never had friends like these

I have a friend. Last week it was Eddie (my column). This week her name is … Well, she has lots of names.

There’s Lashandra. Lashandra comes to my door and its déjà vu every time. “My grandbabies are starving. I need some food.” Every single time that’s “exactly” what she says, word for word. Scratch that. When Lashandra comes to my door, Lashandra “always” has food in her hand. And Lashandra always has food “in” her mouth. So it’s more like this: “My mumm mum mum grand mum mm mum babies … food.” 

Lashandra tells me she lives down the hill – that could be 500 yards to a half mile west of me. Well, I’ve been down that hill a thousand times and I’ve never seen Lashandra. I’m pretty sure she’s homeless. (Did I mention she shows up at my mother-in-law’s house, three miles away, with the same plea?) Anyway, I kind of like when Lashandra comea over. I hate to waste food, so it’s a good time to clear out the fridge. (That’s just between us, haha. She thinks I’m just the most-generous man alive.)

Then there’s Monica. “Mr. Don. Mr. Don.” That’s Monica when I pass her by in my truck off south Davis Drive. And then of course there’s the knock at the door a short time later and “Mr. Don. Mr. Don.” Monica is unique in that Monica has stories. I mean Monica has stories! Monica could be a great novelist if she ever chose to write her stories. They’re epic stories. Always epic stories of tragedy. Epic “true” stories of tragedy that involve Monica. Well, she says they’re true. Poor Monica. If you were to look “tragedy” up in the dictionary, according to Monica, her picture would be there to illustrate.

I’m kidding, of course. You probably figured. Monica’s stories, I quickly came to understand (there are many Monica’s out there – I’m betting you came across one or two), are always a means to an end: To get money. No sweat. “Here you go.” (I don’t have the heart to tell her I would have given her the money without the story. But then again, I like her imagination in telling tales.) 

Of course tragedy is all of their middle names. Tragedy, whether it was bad decisions or the twists and turns of a broken world, or whatever, tragedy is ultimately at the heart of their story. People miss that by a mile, but I regress … Tragedy was what landed Michele behind my house one day. 

There I was. Walking out on my back porch with coffee – light cream – and donut (don’t judge). And then the dogs started barking. And barking. They’re always barking at something, but this time they seemed to have something very specific in view. I walked to the back of my fence, and there she was, about 30 feet away, lying on the cold ground – a 40-degree morning – covered in one thin blanket. She was squeezed up into a nook where two walls meet at the church behind my house.

Michele. I introduced myself. Gave her some coffee. A healthy snack. (Just kidding. I gave her a donut.) Gave her a blanket and a backpack to put her stuff in and gave her some money. Which I had to literally beg her to take. (“This one’s different,” I thought to myself.)

She disappeared that day and reappeared about once a month. (She said the church had given her permission to stay there but get this: They came back later and said they didn’t want her to be there on Sunday’s. I mean, got to keep up impressions, right?)

Anyway. Michele’s story. She and her husband came here from Pennsylvania. They lived in a house off Bruce Street … Until he started beating her. She left and went to stay in an apartment complex. I know it well as it’s less than an hour from my house. Little bitty, dinky, apartments from the look of them, but get this (here he goes again): One day the apartment owner decided he would renovate the apartments – the low-rent apartments – make them bigger, you know, for a more financially-capable clientele. In turn he evicted all of the tenants. Put them out on the streets. “Oh well. Have a nice life.” That was Monica’s story as well. Today, she sleeps in a field somewhere – so she says. Michele has since found someone who will let her sleep in a tent in their backyard. (Hallelujah! The tent was given to her by the city of Warner Robins. I would thank you, but you have yet to even move a grain of sand to meet the needs.)

Something else on Michele. She says she still visits her old house – nobody has ever rented it/bought it – to visit her “cats” (she says they number about a dozen). She speaks proudly when she says: “They used to follow me in line down the sidewalk (think Pied Piper). People would say they’ve never seen anything like it.” 

Even more. Tragically, she has schizophrenia. She believes someone is always following her. “If you were to follow me, you’d see it. They follow me everywhere.” She repeats it every time I talk to her, which has become few and far between these days.

Anyway, these are my friends. Some of them. I’ve got plenty more, some not so good, as you can imagine. Some I have to be on my guard with. 

So, at this point I know what you’re thinking: How did I get so lucky? Well, truth be told. Luck didn’t have a whole lot to do with it. (God.) You see, at some point – best I can figure – word got out that I was a pastor. Hence when homeless folks went through our neighborhood knocking on doors, folks were all too nice to say: “Well, why don’t you go down there (up there) to where the pastor lives.” 

I don’t mind. The way I figure it we have two choices.

One, Proverbs 28:7 – “Those who give to the poor will have all they need, but those who close their eyes to them receive many curses.” 21:13 – “He who shuts his ear to the cry of the poor will also cry himself and not be answered.”

Or, two, Proverbs 19:17 – “Kindness to the poor is a loan to the Lord, and He will repay the lender.”  22:9 – “He who has a generous eye will be blessed, for he gives of his bread to the poor.”

I’m telling you about my friends so you’ll know there’s more to them than meets the eye. That you don’t have to be afraid of them. Avoid them. Judge them and a whole host of other ways we treat those who aren’t like us.

That you’ll choose option two. To love them. To help them. To invest in them! To have a friend. His name is … Her name is …