There he was, again, walking down the street. Crazy-looking. Dirty. And talking to himself. As I drove past Corey* I wondered where he was going. Then I wondered where he was sleeping. Or if he was getting enough food to survive.
Corey has struggled with sobriety for many years. He’s been to all the local detox and treatment centers many times, but his alcoholism, mental illness, and distrust of anyone who tries to help have kept him on the streets. He’ll accept a ride, and maybe a drive-through meal, but he is far more comfortable living outdoors and fending for himself than he is in any kind of structured environment.
Rules are hard when you’re an alcoholic, and Corey’s experience with those who have tried to help him has seemingly only made matters worse. Their professional help has mainly consisted of counseling and medication, but the side-effects of his meds have been too much for him, and he refuses to stay compliant. He’s been in and out of homeless shelters, and has mainly relied on churches and soup kitchens. Every time he’s talked to me, he’s said that he could get some help from a treatment center—but only one that’s far away from the ones he knows.
Some weeks later, I saw him at a support meeting, and after it was over, I spotted him in the parking lot as I prepared to leave.
“Hi Corey. How are you doing, my friend?” I asked him.
“Oh, not so good,” he answered, looking at his shoes. “You know… it’s hard out there.”
Not knowing what to say next, I just nodded. My heart went out to this man, as I wondered what I could do for him. Honestly, I was running out of ideas. I’d given him many rides, listened to him on the phone for hours (back when he had one), and bought him a few meals. What else could I do?
I knew he wasn’t hungry for the moment. I’d seen him sitting in a corner of the room with the church pastor and a large bag of fast-food sandwiches. He’d devoured at least three of them, and had several left over. After he’d eaten, he had joined us, but then he’d passed out and fallen off his chair—twice—until someone said they were going to call an ambulance. That caused him to get up off the floor very quickly, insisting he was alright—which apparently was true.
Suddenly, my mind went back to the parable of the Good Samaritan. The Jews stayed away from their “unclean” neighbors because contact with them meant endless washing rituals and isolation to make themselves “pure” again. But they had missed the point, because God’s instructions were designed to keep them from adopting the pagan spiritual practices of their neighbors—not to treat them with contempt.
In Old Testament times, God had commanded them to “love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18). And because His people had lost track of that commandment, Jesus had come to show them that their neighbor was not just one who shared their beliefs. Our neighbor is everyone who needs help—everyone who has been bruised and wounded by Satan.
My heart was stirred that night. And although I wanted to go home, relax on my couch, and maybe watch a little TV, something even stronger compelled me to help any way I could.
“Corey, is there something I can do to help you right now?” I asked.
He looked up at me, no doubt trying to decide how much he dared to ask.
“I’ve got some food,” he said, “but what I really need is a ride to the hospital. I’m not feeling well.”
I smiled and nodded. “I can do that,” I said and we headed for the car.
I had to remind him to strap on his seatbelt, and as we drove I asked him where he was staying.
“Oh you know, here and there,” he said. “I don’t have anywhere in particular, because none of the homeless shelters will take me anymore. I need to get out of state where they don’t know me.”
A short ride later, we were at the Emergency Room entrance, but Corey wasn’t in a hurry to get out. The car idled as I wondered what I could say to give him any comfort. Someone walked by, and he looked out the window at them. Then he looked down at his hands again.
“I hate going in there,” he said, “because they won’t help me unless I agree to take my clothes off and get into one of their gowns.
“Life has stripped me of everything,” he continued. “It’s even stripped me of my self-respect. And then they insist on stripping me of my clothes…” his voice trailed off, and a few seconds later, I saw him wipe away a tear.
Finally, he looked up and stuck out his hand. “Thank you for the ride. And thank you for listening to me. It means a lot,” he said as he smiled weakly.
I watched Corey walk into the Emergency Entrance and wondered what was in store for his life. I wondered if I had done enough.
Oh Lord, I prayed, Let me see Your children through Your eyes. Change my heart. Give me compassion. And show me what I can do for them.
Corey is still around, and I make a point of speaking to him every time I see him. But just yesterday, his name came up in a conversation, and my friend said, “I asked him if anyone had given him a hug lately, and he said no. So I gave him one.”
That set me back on my heels, and I’m still thinking about it. My brother Corey is sick in spirit, and he needs me—just as I’ve needed a brother’s love. As he swims against the stream, he faces the full force of the current pushing against him. He needs my help, my words of encouragement, and my time. He needs the experience of one who was once just as helpless as he is, caught up in alcoholism, hopeless and alone. As an alcoholic, I am uniquely qualified to help him find a solution. I want to tell Corey about the love and tenderness that God has for each of us—especially those of us who are perhaps His sickest children. I want to tell him that we are never alone, and that God has a plan for him.
As I do this, I will be in the companionship of angels, since they stand by all those who are engaged in ministering to those who suffer.
I hope I see Corey soon. I really want to give him a hug.
*A pseudonym.
