Ross

The other day, I was scrambling to find somebody to come work because one of the guys on my crew is having his schedule changed. I looked through all the applications, and nobody who'd applied wanted to work the day shift. So, I did the next best thing. I went to find the most approachable homeless man I could find. 

And, my search led me to a man named Ross. Ross has a thick red beard and sleeps in a tent behind a local business. Him and another man share the tent, and they're both looking for work. 

Although Ross never showed up to work, I got to hang out in his living room, which consisted of a lean-to, a couple lawn chairs, a tent, and some cooking materials. I was afraid he wouldn't show up, but there's always a plan B. 

As he and his buddies drank their beers, I couldn't help but silently thank God for removing my obsession for alcohol before it ever got to the point of homelessness. As the conversation ensued, I had this moment of complete gratitude. Although I felt sorry for the guy, I also realized that I was looking into the eyes of a man who most likely shared the same problems as I once had. So maybe, there is a future of sharing the solution of recovery with Ross if there's not a job in line. 

It's amazing how just beyond the corners, just behind a couple of trees, and just outside of everyday affairs, there can be homeless people camped in the shadows of people minding their daily affairs. 

It reminds me of how when my wife and I were walking along one of the local creeks, and under each overpass was a homeless living room. Out of sight, out of mind. 

I wanted to bad for Ross to show up to work on Monday, but I knew the chances were slim to none. It's a rare occasion that I meet someone on the streets who's ready to go to work in a couple days, much less assimilate to a culture they've been ousted from for years. It takes a ton of training and relearning very simple things that I normally take for granted. 

While I can jump in the car every time I need something from the store, the homeless have a whole series of steps that have to happen in order to get what they need. They have to get the money. Then they have to hide their stuff because they can't carry it. Then they have to walk, most of the time for miles. Then, they have to carry whatever it is they purchased from the store back home. 

What takes me five minutes will take a homeless person hours. 

I can't imagine what it must be like to figure out life on the streets, much less how to hustle for the things I need. 

I complain about so many things that Ross doesn't even experience, like the Internet being too slow. Really? 

Last week, the hot water went out so we couldn't take hot showers. So, we moved in with my parents for a few days until the boiler was replaced at the apartments. Taking cold showers is unimaginable to me. I hate them. I'd rather not shower than have to take a cold one. 

But for Ross to bathe, he'll either have to find a public restroom to scrub down, find a water hose, or a shelter (which would be at least twenty miles away), or just skip the shower altogether. 

 I think we need to check in on Ross every once in awhile. While he screwed up his chances of coming to work with me, we can still be his friend. He may not have anybody besides his roommate. Maybe we can take him to the concert we're going to next weekend. Maybe I can stop sweating the small stuff, realizing there's people like Ross right in my own backyard who are barely making it. 

I can't imagine standing on the median for eight hours either, trying to gather enough dollar bills and coins to get some food. I did that for a school project once, and it was so humiliating that I had to quit after a couple hours. Having to look people in the eyes while hoping for a couple of dollars was one of the most awkward and undignifying things I've ever done. 

But me? I just reach into my back pocket or slide into the ATM to fetch a twenty. 

Everything I need is right at my fingertips. Have I worked for it? Yes, but at the same time I'm conditioned for ungratitude. Since everything's so easy to get, I've let myself turn into a complainer. If things aren't perfectly accessible or perfectly smooth, I'll start whining. It turns out there's a bunch of people like me all crammed together in one place called Facebook. If you want to see the highest percentage of whiners all grouped together, just scroll through the homepage on Facebook. It's pretty ridiculous, but I'm one of them. 

Right now, I have more clothes than I've ever had, more shoes than I'll ever wear, and more stuff than I'll ever have room for. I think it's time to downsize. Maybe Ross needs some. 

When my wife and I encountered Ross in his airy living room, he laughed alot. He laughed more than I had all day. I'm sure the alcohol had a part to play, but he seemed happy. He seemed like he was genuinely enjoying himself in that moment of conversation. Of course, alcohol used to make me happy too. The moments without it were dark and gray and depressing. 

I wanna find out Ross's story - where he comes from, where his family is, what he likes to do. There's something about interacting with the homeless that just puts things in perspective for me. I don't know what it is, but there's something sacred about it. It's not so much that I want to necessarily give as much as I want to receive. The God I've come to believe in reveals itself through the down-and-outs, the folks who are barely making it. Because in those interactions and conversations, I find reality. I see people wearing reality on their sleeves, and they're exposed with nothing to hide. They don't have any closets or basements to hide stuff away in. They're just there, naked and exposed, unshaven, unfiltered, and real. They say whatever's on their mind and don't apologize for it. 

In a way, it's God's picture to me of what authenticity looks like with skin on. It's bitter, messy, rough around the edges, but it's real. I need doses of reality. I need to be reminded constantly that all this stuff that I think I need is just an illusion. It's all fake. It holds no value. What matters is what I do when it's all stripped away. What matters is how I function when I have nothing to depend on except the graciousness of others.

I hope that Ross gets off the street one day. I hope he gets to have some of the things he wants. I hope he gets to rebuild his life from the ground up. But, I hope he never forgets what it was like. I hope he never becomes like me, taking everything for granted and becoming conditioned into a lifestyle of ingratitude, complaining about slow internet.