I don’t usually respond this way to homeless people, maybe my re-location has truly moved me into a new spiritual season after-all.   Every traffic light, every stop sign, every convenience store, every gas station, every park, every parking spot would be an opportunity for accosting my pockets from the 4,000 and climbing homeless who reside in Savannah.  Sometimes I gave in, but boy did it cause me to cuss.  I was in an oppressed city where crime peppered the streets just as much as beggars and I had to dodge both daily.  Living among a “poverty mindset” that nobody addressed really dimmed my spirit.  Even the wealthiest of people still feared losing what they had and made church a proving ground for networking business.  I felt like the schools I worked in, the restaurant I served in, the mindset of the people, all ran on sleepy-time and under the influence of drinking.  Standards of ethic were seldom set because a “favored person” could get away with slacking while others became scapegoats.  And that’s how I saw the homeless there, taking what little money I was making to scrape by after working endless hours at places where I definitely wasn’t favored.  Why should I be responsible for another person who won’t appreciate what I do?  But I’m not in Savannah anymore.

So I moved to Atlanta because people who believed in me offered to help defray the costs of my living by sponsoring me so I could volunteer with a ministry and change careers.  I went downtown today on borrowed money to see a doctor for my eyes.  I felt peace pumping through my veins after my consult and looked down to see the gas was empty.  As I pulled into the gas station I saw a skinny woman sifting through the trash and eating something.  When she looked up, she smiled but scurried off.  I got out and said, “Wait, are you hungry?” She stopped and pointed to herself, uncertain I was addressing her.  I offered to buy her something hot to eat, she nodded in acceptance but stood far off and waited for me.  I asked her to come near and tell me her name.  God, I almost wept furiously when I looked into her eyes and heard the word, “ensued”.  She was so precious.  She was so embarrassed and couldn’t keep eye contact with me.  I knew from ministering in strip clubs and on the streets of the red-light district, that she had been violated and suffering greatly in the aftermath.  Her experiences in life had her hungering for something far greater than food alone.

When I touched her I felt her sorrow and shame as compassion welled up inside of me that could not be tempered. I wanted to whisk her off the streets and protect her.  She told me her name was Octavia and I placed her name throughout every sentence I prayed over her.  Daddy prompted me to declare a washing over her body and mind, a spiritual release over the succession of grief that had grown throughout her life.  My heart kept breaking as my spiritual eyes saw the worth and majesty of my God illuminating her.  I wanted her to be delivered.  I wanted her to be healed, to take her emotional pain, to wrap her in a warm blanket, to make her life better, to give her shelter and wash her feet.  I was being changed right in front of her as I looked into her eyes as tears were coming out of mine.  I saw her, I saw her for who she really was, a child of God, so loved, and deserving of freedom.

I heard the scripture, “Do not bless someone and tell them to be on their way without doing something tangible to show them God”.  I walked with her into the store and the manager on site got nervous, obviously she wasn’t allowed to solicit.  I smiled at him to cover her presence because I wanted her to enjoy the choices, to walk down each aisle like a kid and get her favorite things.

I had to use a gift card that my Father gave me, believing he too would be blessed for sowing into both her and I.  Her total came to $14.40 which had me pause again.  Daddy God knows that 44 is a number marked for redemption from my hardships in Savannah.  He had my utmost attention.  Forty four was a promise to me He would always open doors of opportunity should I walk through them.  After I bought her food she asked me if I had any pants?  I almost crumbled under my heartache because the first thing I noticed was her summer dress under an over-sized coat.  When you hear the term, “walk of shame”, it carries suggested meaning that anyone grabbing for a “cover-up” understands.  Trusting that her attire wasn’t her own and a reminder of the difficulties that ensued from both spiritual and natural poverty, I searched my car furiously for something I could give her. I had nothing.

We were both disappointed so I covered her with a promise of return.  “Listen,” I said,  “I have to come back next week, I’ll bring clothes, will I find you here?”  She quietly admitted that this was her block and I pulled her close to me.  I tried in that moment to embrace her the way a loving mother would.  People were stopped at the gas pumps watching, staring.  I believed she was supposed to be honored and valued as God’s most important person there. My embrace was symbolic; I was thanking her for opening my eyes to a great big world of opportunity that I was blind to meeting before.