Am I my brother's keeper?
It’s 9:15 pm on a mild night in October. I’m out on the sidewalk chatting with homeless folks, trying to get knit hats on the bare heads of people waiting for food and shelter.
The line is peaceful, gentle kidding, conversational, and orderly. Except one guy. Everyone is watching him, as he paces back and forth in the parking strip, disconnected from people and reality.
Just about everything about the guy is off. He looks like he gave himself a haircut in a dark room. His stream of consciousness jabber is barely recognizable as English. He is restlessly running his hands up under his shirt as he paces.
There were a few muttered comments in line. “Whack job.” The entire line of homeless people looked at him warily.
“Here’s someone I need to talk to,” I thought to myself.
I positioned myself in front of the pacer, so he had to stop. “I’m Rick,” I said, sticking out my hand.
Egad. His hand was huge, beefy, muscular. Somehow, in and through the stream-of-consciousness jabber, a conversation took place. He quieted down. The pacing slowed, stopped. The jabber morphed into stories, of working in Alaska, and living with a son, but not any more.
In fact, I’m told, no shelter in town will let him stay any longer.
The conversation ends abruptly. He wanders off into the uncertain night.
It may be easy for you to shrug. "What concern is it of mine?" Sometimes turning away from a problem is as brutal as bludgeoning a younger brother to death.
The ground itself will give testimony to our failure to care.