Donna Partow

Since I work retail, my days are filled with cranky shoppers whose minds are dominated by discounts and half-hearted shopping decisions. The hopelessly overplayed Christmas carols soon lose all meaning. It’s easy to forget there is any reason for this season other than some sort of year-end “bonus birthday” for everyone. “What can I do for you?” turns into “What did you get me?” Most of us just want it all to be over already because our hearts, stomachs and paychecks just can’t take one more minute of the madness.

It’s easy to forget how much joy there is to be found in helping others. But God reminded me.

A friend and I pulled into a gas station in Long Beach after attending a comedy show. Almost immediately, we were approached by a homeless middle-aged man who wanted to wash our windows. At first I avoided his gaze. I just wasn’t in the mood to get involved. But my friend started talking to him, and we decided to buy him dinner.

We went to a nearby fast food joint, and after bringing it to him back at the gas station, asked if there was anything else he needed. He reluctantly admitted: a new pair of pants. So we drove across the street to Target and waited for him to bike over. I remember the looks people gave our little trio as we walked around Target together, addressing his needs as one by one, through stifled pride, he admitted what they were.

That night, we bought him a new pair of pants, socks and some tan work boots. Outside, we sat with him as he ate his dinner. I recalled a commitment I had made to God that I would never pass a homeless person without providing some morsel of food. But this was different. This wasn’t a religious exercise. We listened to this man. Not a homeless person. A human being.

He talked—and we listened– for over an hour about his life: past, present, and future. He was a tiny man, his dark skin wrinkled and his hands rough. He wore dirty dark blue carpenter jeans, a navy blue polo with a small white eagle icon outlined with gold thread and a faded black baseball cap. His hair was black and gray. His shoes were worn out and his eyes were distant.

I learned that he had a family. They live in another state. He has children. And grandchildren that he’s never met. One of his daughters is serving in the military. He talked about his wife. About the time they went on vacation to Hawaii and when they bought their first house. His family doesn’t know where he is now. He told us about how sometimes when he’s asleep, people steal from him. Sometimes people kick him for no reason.

God only knows the last time someone actually cared to hear anything he had to say. I remember thinking how maddening that must be. If the best you could hope for was someone handing you some food out of a car window and driving away. What if no one cared about your thoughts, dreams and longings? If physical food isn’t enough for me, why would I ever think it would be enough for someone else? We are living breathing human beings. We are not merely biological compilations; if we were, the heart would merely be another organ. I realized my commitment to handing out food fell far short of what God calls us to.

We prayed together with him that night, and made sure to give him the first hug he’s likely had in a very long time. We left him sitting on that bench enjoying every last french fry, new shoes on his feet and a new pair of pants hanging from a bag on his shoddy bicycle. I had watched as this “random homeless guy” became to us a true living breathing feeling hurting human soul, lonely for company but still resilient in spirit.

Meeting him was the catalyst for some much needed change in my own heart. Without knowing it, he blessed my life, even though I may never see again. He is still in my prayers. This Christmas Eve, he is still out there. His name is Leonard.

Tonight, as we prepare to celebrate the birth of a homeless child, let’s open our eyes to see and our ears to hear the heart and soul of every person we encounter. If we do, we’ll find that every Leonard has a story worth telling and a lesson to teach us that’s worth learning.

Blessed Christmas Season,
Leah Partow

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