Bleeding Heart

Twenty-four years old, pregnant, homeless, standing at the corner of Poinsett Highway and 291 with a flimsy cardboard sign that read "Homeless, Hungry, Please Help", I made eye contact with her while I waited at the light.  I didn't know she was twenty-four yet, but I did notice the little bump under the big baggy shirt she wore and I wondered how long it had been since her mother had seen her.  The car behind me waved her over and gave her some pocket change, which she accepted gratefully and stuffed into the big pocket of what appeared to be her boyfriend's shorts that she was wearing.

I had gone without lunch.  I hadn't eaten all day as a matter of fact, so I was on my way to Wendy's to grab dinner.  I picked up a burger and a big cup of water for her, then drove to the parking lot of the dry cleaner's to wave her over to my car.  I rolled down the window and gave her the food, then spent a minute talking to her.  Twenty-four.  The same age I was when I had my youngest daughter.  The same age my oldest daughter is now.  I noticed her decayed teeth, the sores on her skin.  I noticed she was underweight, especially for a pregnant woman.  She told me she was five months pregnant and had only seen a doctor a hand full of times.  She slept in a shed in someone's back yard last night, I suppose during thunderstorms and torrential rain.

I wanted to think of something to tell her, something that would help, but I realized in that moment that my knowledge of resources for people in her situation in my town are so limited.  I only knew of a soup kitchen to tell her about, and it is miles away from the corner where she stood.

I felt angry with myself for not knowing a number to call for her, a place to tell her that could help her out, give her care, help her get off the drugs that had landed her on that corner.  As I pulled away I was choked with tears at the thought of one of my children, one of my girls, who but for the grace of God could have been standing there holding that sign.  I could only pray that some kind stranger would come along and have the right words to say that would break the spell, free her from the bondage of poverty and addiction.  But there are no magic words.

Back at home I couldn't shake the sadness of her plight.  I shook myself, scolded myself, "Pick a cause, Rebecca! You can't be a bleeding heart for every single underdog."

I thought about the idea of God, and why, if he's loving and benevolent, he would allow one of his children to suffer, to pass on their suffering to their unborn children.  Why are there so many wounded adults walking around in the world, inflicting their own pain on their children, their loved ones?  I really don't get it.

But the reality is, struggle exists.  Hurts exist.  They are part of the human condition.  My moment of clarity came as I waited for my dog to make his daily lap around the yard, yipping and yapping at squirrels and other dogs.  I stood there alone, the afternoon breeze blowing my skirt around my ankles, and silently thanked God for that breeze.  I thanked him that there was a breeze blowing, not just in my yard, but on that hot, sun-baked street corner where that young girl was likely still standing, with a blank expression, her pale skin and weary eyes betraying her very human struggle to survive.  That's when it dawned on me, that maybe the struggle persists to give us opportunity.

Opportunity, not in the pursuit of selfish gain, but the chance to really know what love is.  The struggle goes on to remind us to love, to reach out to our fellow man, to be God's hands and feet.  We struggle so others can reach out to us, so we can know how to give and how to take.

Pick a cause, any cause.  Pick all of them.  It doesn't matter what your heart bleeds for, as long as it bleeds for something, for someone.