The men and women you meet during Advent

A while ago, I drove into Center City Philadelphia for one of my occasional encounters with those who are homeless. Working with homeless men and women is something I first experienced back in the 1970s when I was a student at LaSalle College and, over the years, something my wife and I have worked to introduce into the lives of our children. On this particular evening, I had given out nearly all the winter coats I had brought with me, but still had three blankets and a couple of sandwiches left. As I drove down Eighth Street headed toward Market, I decided to turn into an alleyway  hoping I might encounter one more person before heading over the Ben Franklin and back to home.

“Where are we going?” my daughter, Martha, asked. Martha was home for a short break from college and was more than eager to accompany me in the evening’s activities.

“As cold as it is tonight,” I explained, “I’m thinking that just maybe somebody is hunkered down in this alley — trying to get away from the wind.” No sooner had I finished speaking when my headlights caught the silhouette of someone lying against a building. “You stay here,” I said to my daughter.

As I got out of the car, I grabbed one of the blankets from the back seat and walked slowly toward the person. As I got closer, I could see the top of a head sticking out beneath a jacket; the rest of the body was curled into a tight ball lying motionless in the cold granite doorway.

“Hello?” I said trying not to startle. A young face slowly peaked out from beneath the jacket. “I’ve got a blanket for you if you want it,” I said.

“God bless you!” a voice responded as the body started to move.

“I’ve also got a turkey sandwich.”

“Thank you so much,” the voice said — and with that, the body slowly stood up.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Eric,” he answered.

After I introduced myself, I offered Eric the rest of the food and blankets left in the back of my car. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?” I asked. “It’s supposed to get very, very cold.”

“There’s a shelter a few blocks away,” Eric replied. “I’ll probably see if I can get in there.”

“You can tell me if this is none of my business,” I said before getting into my car to leave, “but why are you on the streets? You’re young enough to be my son — do you have a family nearby?”

The young man sat back down on the granite step and pulled the blankets tightly around his shoulders. It had been a long time since someone had asked about his family, and it had been just as long since he had spoken about them.

In the few minutes that followed, Eric described how he had become addicted to drugs, lost his job and left his parents’ house — hoping to go somewhere to “get better.” And while more than a year has passed since I met Eric, the thing I remember most of that evening was the look of utter joy and peace that came to his face as he spoke of his family. Whenever I think about our encounter, I wonder if it was in speaking about his family that Eric recalled not only who he was, but “whose” he was as well. I wonder if at some point while lying on the cold granite step in a dark alley, he remembered things that are sometimes all too easily forgotten — that he was loved, cared for, and missed … that he was someone’s son.

During this Advent season, each of us will meet “Erics” in Center City, or Camden, or Blackwood, or Cherry Hill or anywhere else we happen to be — men and women who have left the church because at some point they forgot that there is a God who loves them and cares for them — and yes, even misses them. When you see them, will you remind them that their family has been looking for them? Will you let them know we’ve missed them? Please, let them know it’s OK to come home.