But there’s a good deal more to Mike than that – and it took me a long while to get to the point where I was open enough to find out.
I’ve known him for years. He gets a Social Security check and he has come to the Center to pick it up from me. He’s done it for as long as I can recall. He didn’t talk to anyone much, if any. People gave him wide birth because he smelled so bad. He lived in motels mostly. He’d been taken to the hospital for multiple physical issues – couldn’t walk; couldn’t function hardly at all. I visited him in the hospital; he’d been cleaned up, and we had a decent conversation about what was going to happen next for him. But he checked himself out to go get his check cashed, and that was that.
Once I took his check out to him because he was about to be kicked out and he had no money to hire a cab to come get it. He met me out front and asked me if I could take him to a place where he could get it cashed. I couldn’t – simply could not bring myself to let him in my car. I drove away leaving him shuffling down the street. I can’t get that scene out of my mind…or my sense of failure – as a staff member at the Urban Ministry Center… as a Christian…as a human being. There had been plenty of other compassionate things I’ve been able to do for others, but not this time. I tried to go the second mile-wanted to - but simply couldn’t. I’d hit a brick wall.
Then a couple of weeks back he showed up for Room In The Inn (one of the Center’s housing programs)– he’d either lost his wallet or had it stolen. No money, no ID, nowhere to go, no mental clarity. I was the only one he knew there. “I need help,” he said. He knew he couldn’t manage on his own any more, even with his generous Social Security retirement check, because he couldn’t remember much, couldn’t walk hardly at all any more. He knew he couldn’t control his bodily functions. He wasn’t asking; that’s not his way. But this time I could say yes.
He was surprised and grateful for my assistance - said so in a quiet, courteous, gentle voice - looked me in the eye. It was almost as if I’d been given another chance to turn toward him instead of turning away. We got him into the shower, washed his clothes, and provided some adult diapers. We got him into Room In The Inn, and called adult protective services - a social worker came to the Center to interview him. There are options for assisted living for him that are being explored.
We’ve talked a bit. He’s friendly, though a man of few words. He’s 70. Turns out he’d been a West Virginia coal miner for nearly 30 years. Came down to Charlotte a number of years ago and worked odd jobs. You get the sense that things went sour in West Virginia, and he’d been a drinker, though he’d stopped drinking three months ago. No family – “a couple of kids in West Virginia, but no, hadn’t heard from them in years.” No friends here. A self-sufficient loner who’d come to the end of his rope - and was smart enough to know it.
I’ve learned something about dignity from Mike. And something about accepting my own limitations and need for help beyond what I can give myself. And about being forgiven and serendipitously offered another chance by God. I wonder how many times I’ll have to re-learn that lesson…
Maybe not so many times. After all, I have Mike, who has been Christ for me.
