The Homeless Man

We don’t see many homeless folk sleeping on the street around here.

I saw one in Beijing once, 2 years into living here. It was the first homeless person I had seen in China.

Don’t get me wrong, I am sure they exist here. I assume they are corralled into very poor areas of the city, and live in abandoned buildings, but they are most certainly not allowed to clutter up the streets with their unlucky selves.

My kids are compassionate creatures. Every single beggar on the street gets money from my kids. Their own money, my money, the would rather skip an ice cream cone than not give money to someone who is poor. I like that about them, and I have encouraged it, as has their Dad. When they are old, they will begin to understand the complexities of the power of cause and effect (not working, not getting to eat) and of governments that make it seemingly impossible for the unloved, the imperfect, and the uneducated to earn a living.

So for now, I am happy that they want to give.

A couple weeks ago, Miss Z found a legit homeless guy.

She is crazy about him.

He does not smell good.

His hair is, well, crazy.

He doesn’t talk. (at least not to me, but that isn’t saying much, because maybe he speaks a local dialect, and thinks I am the crazy one, hollering at him in Mandrin)

He has been wandering around our Walmart since fall, making himself useful by helping the cart-gatherers, and cleaning up trash with the trash ladies. He is resourceful, gathering recycling and trading it in for cash to buy some smokes. I have NO idea why the guards and police let him stay there, but there he is, every day.

Miss Z followed him to his “home” the other day, before I had the chance to let her know that is considered in poor taste for homeless folk. He lives under some stairs, in a weird corner of the basement stores under Walmart.

He has a toothbrush.

And a piece of carpet.

And a very old blanket.

Miss Z find this all at once romantic, and tragic.

She thinks about him every day, and plans how to serve him.

She gets angry at me when I tell her we don’t have time today to go seek him out, and take him a snack.

She thinks it is ridiculous when I suggest that he might prefer a bowl of noodles (the local dietary staple) to a hamburger from McDonalds.

Miss Z remembers that, when we are in America, Mommy and Daddy carry around $1 gift certificates to McDonalds to give homeless people. So to her, McDonalds seem like the obvious cure for the hunger of the poor.

So she takes money from her own savings. (she is saving for jewels, or maybe a horse)

And she buys him hamburgers. She drags her sister along with her. (“I want to teach her to show love” she says)

He stares at her with frantic eyes, snatches his hamburger, and darts off.

She yells “yesu ai ni” and tears well up in her eyes.

My mama heart tugs, and I love her so dearly.

Mangy hair.

Mismatched socks.

Nails bitten to the quick.

Strange looking coat. (but it’s her favorite, and I’m the one that bought it for her at the thrift store)

This is 6.

And this is my Father’s heart.

originally posted 1-31-13