I never signed up for this

I had an encounter tonight that has changed me, possibly forever. I didn't want the encounter, I'm famously resistant to change, and I'm simultaneously shaken up and profoundly grateful for the experience. 

A community I'm part of works with a larger community to help homeless and underserved neighbors do their laundry. I'm not directly involved, but several of my friends are. This afternoon, I got a request to pitch in because some regular participants couldn't make it, and someone needed a ride to the coin laundry. Internally, I resisted and felt kind of pissy about it -- I had things to do tonight, errands to run, my own life needed some attention. But I told my friend I'd somehow make it work. When I agreed to help, I had no idea why. 

Teri and her son Jake live in a small apartment in the old section of town -- and not the charming part. The coin laundry is six miles from their home.  Why so far, you wonder? It's because the far-away coin laundry is where a bunch of genuinely good people show up to give them soap and quarters for this most basic task. Let that sink in for a minute, please, my friends: THESE PEOPLE CANNOT AFFORD SOAP AND QUARTERS FOR A COIN LAUNDRY, and they don't have the transportation to get there.

Did I know all this stuff before? Of course I "knew." I don't live under a rock. Was I well aware of real poverty in my community, down the street, right here in "my" part of the world? As of 5 o'clock tonight, I would have snarkily assured you I was painfully aware that need is decidedly not a distant, other-continent thing; that it's right here in town, that I and "my kind" are among the luckiest of the lucky. I've been spewing edited versions of Matthew 26:11 my whole life. I honestly thought I knew about need.

Then need itself got into my car, and I realized I knew nothing. Tammy hobbled out on crutches; Jake, I'd guess in his 20s, has speech and other issues that present some pretty severe handicaps. Between the two of them, they had one sad trash bag full of laundry. Off we went, Jake chattering the whole time and Tammy hardly saying a word. The few times she did speak, she seemed soft and defeated. 

The coin laundry was crowded and buzzing with activity; I walked in with them and said howdy to my friends, then told everybody I'd be back in an hour, after a few errands. I got as far as Target to pick up dog food when Tammy called. Her voice shaking, she said "How are we going to get home? I'm scared!" I reminded her that I said I'd be back to take them home, but her voice broke and I said to hell with the errands. On a visceral level I didn't even know I had, I couldn't leave this frightened, tiny, injured woman alone in a skeezy part of downtown Huntington Beach, even though I knew my friends would let her come to no harm. Sooooooo . . . I went zooming back to the coin laundry, went in and said I was back, and she gave me a huge hug. 

On the ride back, I learned Tammy's husband had died in 2019; Jake mentioned it over and over. Tammy remained quiet, even as he begged her to reassure him that she missed his dad also. Finally, he said "I know you miss him too, Ma. It's hard for you to talk about it." When she asked if we could "please, possibly, if it's not too much trouble" stop at a fast-food place, I swerved into the nearest McDonald's and felt a sickening blend of "why the hell are people eating this sh*t," coupled with "yeah, you'd be eating that sh*t too if your life were that brutal." Four Big Macs, three double-doubles, two large fries and two sweet teas later, we were on our way. When we got to their apartment, I helped them get their stuff -- and Tammy's crutches -- out of the car and sent them on their way. 

Watching those two silhouetted figures make their slow way toward the front door, she with her head down in her hooded Mickey and Minnie sweatshirt and he in his "hot blue" sweat outfit, broke me. I'm still shaking and crying. I still don't know what to do with this, but I know God showed up tonight. And I know I'll be back the next time I'm needed.