So, if you’ve kept up, you know stories are the name of the game. The thing is, to give each name a blog? It would take forever.
The biggest problem with continuing the stories isn’t one I’d like to admit, but it’s the truth: I’m scared. I’m hurt. I’m heartbroken. I’m vulnerable and exposed in a way I don’t like.
Since I actually typed out those words, I’ll probably continue writing their stories, in one form or another. It isn’t just about one person and his or her struggle, it’s about giving him a NAME; giving her a FACE. It’s about doing everything, within my power (although I hate that caveat), to make sure these folks know I love them, just as they are.
I could spend hours and countless pages talking about Mary, the social worker who used to work with the homeless and now lives among them.
There’s man named Red (no, another one). He’s lived on the streets for about 50 years. Who knows where he came from or why, or what his birth name is? He has red hair, so like our other Red, he’s known as Red. He’s in the hospital now, so I’m sure he’d appreciate your prayers.
There’s Eric, JC, Nancy, Gaskell, Donny, Sandy, James, Rose, Steve, Bear, Briana, Olivia, Angel, Rodney, Byron and tons of others whose names I’ve forgotten.
I try so hard to remember names. Most people don’t even acknowledge these wonderful people exist. The LEAST I can do is remember their names.
The next time you’re at the street corner and you’re thinking, “I bet this beggar just wants money for his next fix, drink, cigarette [or whatever,]” I want you to add one more thought, “I should love him anyway… even if he really IS going to spend it on crack… I should love him anyway… if that doesn’t ever change… I should love him anyway. If every stereotype is true… I should love him anyway. He has a name.”