Читать книгу Interrupted by God - Tracey Lind - Страница 12

It was early winter, not too cold but cold enough. Becky and Bill had come from Detroit. They had heard there was work in Paterson, and Becky had some family that might be able to help. Anyway, there was no reason to stay in Detroit.

Bill was an unemployed autoworker. He had been laid off and looking for work for over two years. He’d had a few odd jobs: packing cartons in a warehouse, night clerking at a convenience store, washing dishes in a diner. His unemployment had long since run out. He was hoping for an extension, but now it looked hopeless.

Becky once had a steady job in an office, and then at a department store. However, with the local economy suffering from so many plant closures, she couldn’t even find a full-time waitress job. Besides, she was now nine months pregnant. Recently, nobody had been willing to hire her.

Life had been hard for the past few years. First, the auto plant had closed. Then the house had sold with just enough profit to replace the transmission on their late model used car, pay some overdue bills, and make a deposit on an apartment—the deposit that the landlord kept after they got evicted for back rent. To make matters worse, their health insurance had expired months ago, and they didn’t know how they were going to pay for the baby about to be born. So they packed up the few belongings that hadn’t been sold or repossessed and headed for New Jersey.

They had been in Paterson for a few days, staying in a motel on Broadway, the one with the broken coke machine and the sign advertising weekly, daily, and hourly rates, the one across from the big church with the men’s shelter. They had received help from its food pantry, but without a kitchen, it had been hard to cook, and eating out had taken every last dime.

Now their money had run out, and they were running on empty. The hotel manager said that they had to go. “NO CREDIT—PAYMENT IN ADVANCE” read the sign behind the Plexiglas barrier at the registration desk. The manager’s wife whispered something to her husband about Becky’s state of pregnancy, but all she got was a scowl and a muttered, “I told you that we can’t keep doing this.”

Bill and Becky went down to the local welfare office. Having patiently waited in line for over two hours, they were met by a haggard and hurried social worker trying to get away for the holiday weekend. Politely but curtly, as if to avoid eye contact, she said without even looking up from her desk, “It’s going to take a few days for your paperwork to be processed. Come back early next week.”

“Where do we stay for now?” they asked. The caseworker opened her jam-packed file cabinet and pulled out a list of family shelters as well as the men’s shelter at the big church on Broadway. “What about a place for my wife to stay if we have to be separated?” asked Bill with a worried wrinkle on his brow. Still avoiding eye contact, the social worker shrugged her weary shoulders and replied, “Unfortunately, there are no shelters for women in this county. Our only one was closed a few months ago. Perhaps you can find something in the next county over.”

Becky and Bill looked at each other in the determined way couples do, knowing the unspoken thoughts of the other. No, they wouldn’t be separated—no matter what. Resolved that somehow things would work out, they left the welfare office and spent all day looking for a shelter that would take them both. They had no luck; the shelters were full.

They were sitting in a restaurant, drinking cups of coffee, staying warm, and wondering what to do next. They needed to find a place to go before dark. They walked out into the parking lot and saw a woman in her mid-twenties standing alone, leaning on a building across the street and staring at the passing traffic. Every now and then, she would run up to an approaching car, yell, “Hi there,” and lean into the window to talk with the driver. She seemed like she knew her way around, and she had a friendly smile.

Becky and Bill looked at each other and thought, “What do we have to lose?” They walked up to her and asked: “Do you know where we might stay for the night? We’re not from around here; we’ve run out of money; we’re waiting for welfare; the shelters are full; we’re expecting a baby; and we’ve got to find a place—just for tonight.” With expectant eyes, they pleaded, “Can you please help us?”

The woman looked at them for a few seconds, and then with a grin she said, “Sure, follow me.” Off they went, following this stranger, not knowing exactly where they were going, but knowing that they really had no options left. As they walked, the woman introduced herself, saying her name was Lisa. She barraged Becky and Bill with a constant stream of friendly questions, but interrupted their answers with a running commentary on the neighborhood.

Eventually, Lisa led them to a big, dilapidated house on Van Houten Street. Paint peeled from the broken shingles, garbage filled the overgrown yard, and several abandoned mailboxes hung on the front porch. The house was boarded up, but a piece of plywood had been preyed loose from one of the windows. Lisa and Bill helped Becky through the window and then climbed in behind her.

Once inside, as their eyes adjusted to the darkness of a building without windows, they could see many rooms and lots of stuff in various states of age, dirt, and decay: clothing, newspapers, mattresses, blankets, dishes, pots and pans, beer and wine bottles, along with some discarded syringes and empty crack vials. There was a hose running through the wall from a spigot outside the house next door. Somebody had even hot-wired electricity, thus allowing a few single light bulbs hanging from old ceiling fixtures and wall sconces to light up the interior maze of rooms.

As they looked around, Becky and Bill realized that other people were living in this supposedly abandoned house. Lisa introduced her new friends to the others and explained their situation. She showed them to a soiled mattress surrounded by clothes, pillows, blankets, and bags. “This is my space. You can stay here. Nobody will bother you. I’ll be back in a while.” And then she crawled out the window they had just crawled in.

Becky and Bill cautiously sat down on the mattress. They were exhausted, too tired to speak and lost in their own thoughts. Bill was reminiscing about days past, better days, and wondering if he would ever see them again. Why did the plant have to close? Why did they travel to New Jersey? Where was their family when they were most needed? And, why, Lord, did Becky have to get pregnant? Leaning his sore back against the dirty wall, Bill recalled the discussion, actually the argument they had about abortion so many months ago. Without the utterance of words, he wondered: “Did we make the right choice?” “Too late now,” he concluded.

Angry, frustrated, and scared, Bill’s thoughts turned to money. They didn’t have enough money for a hotel room, much less a hospital bed. “How will we handle this one?” he asked himself. Evading his own question, he thought, “At least we have a few more days before the baby is due.” Bill felt more alone than he had ever felt in his whole life. He just looked at Becky asleep on the mattress and sighed.

Meanwhile, Becky lay quietly on the stained mattress. She couldn’t sleep; she was too tired and too scared. Thinking to herself, lots of questions raced through her mind. “Where are we? Who are all these people in this house? Are we safe? Were we foolish to follow Lisa here?” She too remembered the argument in the early days of her pregnancy. “Were we stupid to have this baby?” Glancing over at Bill, she was thankful they were off the streets and relatively warm. “Fortunately, the baby isn’t due for a few days. We’ll figure things out.” Becky fell asleep.

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, Becky awoke to the breaking of her water—all over Lisa’s mattress. The contractions began coming fast and furious. Becky was frightened, and Bill didn’t know what to do. People in the house began to stir. Someone turned on a broken lamp and brought it over to their corner.

Shouldn’t they go to the hospital? This was the question on everybody’s mind. But nobody had enough money for a cab, and it was too late to walk. And if they called for an ambulance, they would risk losing their safe haven. “Could she have the baby here?” somebody asked.

Lisa had returned and was frantically running around trying to decide what to do. After all, they were her responsibility now. A middle-aged woman staying in the room upstairs came down. Her name was Pearl. Standing next to her was a sleepy young boy, about the age of five. Pearl looked at Becky and Bill and then at Lisa and declared with the wisdom and authority of age, “When I was growing up, babies were born at home. I guess she’ll have to do it here.” Taking charge, Pearl instructed Lisa to get some hot water and some towels. She told Bill to calm down and hold Becky’s hand.

The contractions started coming harder and faster. Becky was screaming and crying. Bill was shaking. A small group of people staying in the house began to form a circle around them. Lisa waved them away, back into the shadows.

After an hour and a half, Becky pushed hard, and a baby was born. Pearl took the baby, cut the umbilical cord with a kitchen knife, and placed the baby on Becky’s breast whispering, “Here’s your angel child. He’s a boy.”

As the group stood quietly around the mattress, each with his or her own thoughts, Pearl’s child crept up to Becky and her infant. He leaned over them, kissed the baby on the cheek, and whispered in his ear, “I hope you find a place to live.”

Becky gazed at Bill smiling with tears in his eyes. She then looked up at Pearl and her child, Lisa, and all the people standing in the sacred circle. Quietly she asked, “What shall we name this baby?” Lisa smiled and said, “How about Jesu? And on that cold, winter night, in an abandoned house, in a poor city neighborhood, a child was born, a son was given, and his name was Jesús.

Becky and Bill are fictional characters. And yet, I meet them almost every day in my ministry. They come to our churches for food, shelter, clothing, and money and sometimes for prayer and counsel.

Lisa, on the other hand, was a real person. In December 1991, Lisa and her companion, Ivan, were homeless. Actually, they were living in an abandoned storage trailer in the parking lot of a factory across the street from my church. They both had been on the streets for some time, in and out of the shelter and jail systems, and they had become my friends. I had been trying to convince them to get off the streets and into permanent housing. I feared they wouldn’t survive the winter months. Each time we talked about it, they laughed and told me not to worry.

On Christmas Eve, I asked Lisa if she would like to be the angel in my Christmas message. In her excited manner, she was delighted. In appreciation, I gave Lisa and Ivan money to have a shower, a meal, a new set of clothes, and a bed for the night in the hotel across the street from the church. I then invited them to attend Christmas Eve services and hear the story.

As I rose to the pulpit that night, I saw Lisa and Ivan sitting in a pew in the middle of the nave. Both of them were freshly showered and wearing relatively clean clothes. When I first mentioned Lisa’s name in the sermon, her eyes lit up, and by the end of the story, she was grinning from ear to ear.

The next day, Lisa and Ivan were arrested for trespassing. Because of bench warrants, they were locked up in the county jail and had a warm place to sleep for the next several months. Maybe God was watching out for them. Both Lisa and Ivan have since died and are now real angels in heaven. I know they still love each other.

A Baptism to Remember | CLEVELAND, OHIO, 2001