“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest
if we do not give up…”
-Galatians 6:9
This year, more than ever before, I've felt the weariness. I think there are multiple factors, one of which is living in an urban environment where multiple times a day I am faced with those who are desperate, lonely, and hurting. To be honest, sometimes I feel so helpless that I just want to look away. It's so much easier not to look, not to see, not to engage. But in my heart, I know this is wrong. I must look, I must see. I don't want my heart to become hard. I don't want to lose my compassion. So I feel caught in a tension, wanting to do something to help but rarely knowing how, feeling like for every one person I talk to, there are ten more that I don't. People say, You can't help everyone, and that's true. But does it mean that I should help no one? At the very least, I think, whatever I do or don't do, I should not look away.
***
I exit the metro with my cell phone in my hand, intending to make a call. But then I think better of it and slip it back in my purse. It's getting late, and I've heard too many stories already of girls having their phones snatched out of their hands--or worse--while walking alone at night. Better to stay alert, I think.
I cross the street to cut through the small park in front of city hall. It's a relatively open area, but there are some large bushes on the left side of the path that obscure the view around the corner. I think about how easy it would be for someone to hide there and jump out when I walk past. I give the bushes a wide berth and quicken my pace. As I peek around the bushes, I see that there is no one there, but then I notice an older gentleman on one of the park benches. He'd been there this morning--or was it the previous morning?--when I was leaving home. In fact, I've seen him here often lately, at various times of day, always with his crutch and a shopping bag next to him. I suspect he even sleeps here sometimes, but I'm not sure.
The man mumbles something, and I stop walking. He says something else, obviously addressing me, so I move closer and ask, "Pardon?"
"Excuse me," he says in a slurred voice that is very difficult to understand, and I move closer.
"I'm handicapped and homeless. Do you have a cell phone?"
Before I can even think, I go into defense mode. "No, I'm sorry," I respond quickly, even though I can feel my phone beneath the hand resting on my purse. "But here," I say, unzipping a side pouch and pulling out some coins. "Here's some money. Maybe you can use it to buy yourself something to eat."
"Thank you, but please, I need a cell phone. Can you call the 115?"
Still with defenses up, my mind goes into double time, searching through its French language and culture files...115, 115, why does that sound familiar...? Oh yes, I think that's the number my coworker called when a woman came into our building looking for shelter. It's the number you call when you need shelter.
"Please, can you call the 115?" The man asks again. "If not I'm going to have to sleep on this bench." His words are badly slurred, and it's hard to understand him. I don't know if the slur is the result of alcohol, his handicap, or the large wound on his forehead. It's starting to scab over, but it still looks pretty nasty. In any case, it seems like he really does need help, and I know I can't just walk away. I've already told him I didn't have a cell phone, but he seems so out of it, that I doubt he'll think twice about it. So I pull out my phone and dial 115.
Several rings, no answer.
"Is it normal that when you call the 115, there's no answer, sir?" I ask.
"Very normal."
Just then, two girls approach with a drink and some small sandwiches.
"Here you go, sir. We brought you back something to eat."
I smile, and they address me. One tells me she's already called 115, but they told her they had no vehicle and couldn't come get him.
"So what should I do?" I ask.
"Call the firemen," the gentleman says. "The firemen know me."
The girls ask if I need help, but I say it will be ok, so they leave.
The fireman is kind but says he can't help either. I'm not really surprised; of course finding lodging isn't part of his job.
"But what am I supposed to do?" I ask.
"I don't know. Unless a Good Samaritan wants to take him home. Where do you live?"
A Good Samaritan. A term right out of the Bible, from a parable that Jesus himself used to teach us about what it means to love our neighbor. What would Jesus do? Take care of him. But is that really what Jesus wants me to do?
"I live by myself, I can't really...but I can't just leave him here alone."
"I'll transfer you to the paramedics," the fireman says. "Maybe they can do something."
I'm not 100% sure if he's helping or just trying to pass the buck, but a few minutes later I'm re-explaining the story to the emergency operator. She seems dubious at first, but she dutifully takes the information. I can hear keyboard keys clicking each time I respond to one of her questions.
"How old is he?" (62, he says--younger than my dad, but he looks so much older and weathered by life.)
"Has he been drinking?" (He says no, but I think maybe. But I don't tell her that, because I'm afraid that if it's true, maybe they won't send help.)
"Is he hurt?" (I tell her about the wound on his head. He says he was attacked, but I don't know when. I remember seeing it when I passed him this morning--or was it the previous morning?--but I don't tell her that, either, because I'm afraid she'll think he only wants medical help in order to get off the street tonight.)
"Does he want to go to the hospital, or does he just want shelter?" (I ask him, and he says hospital.)
"Ok. I'll send the ambulance. You wait with him until it arrives."
By this time, the man has realized that I am not French, and I tell him I'm American.
"American, really? He raises his eyebrows. I like Americans." Then in English: "Thank you very much."
I smile. "You're welcome."
"So they're sending someone?"
"Yes, the ambulance is coming to take you to the hospital."
"And you'll wait with me?"
"Yes, I'll wait with you until they get here."
"Thank you very much." He pats the bench beside him, and I sit down. Now that I'm on this side of him, I can see an open wine bottle, more than half gone. My heart sinks. What will the paramedics say when they arrive and see it?
"What's your name?" I ask.
It takes three tries before I'm able to understand his response.
"Jo-Jo. My nickname is Jo-Jo."
"I'm Emily."
We make a little more small talk, or rather Jo-Jo talks. I can't understand a lot of what he says. I think he tells me he used to be in the military. It would explain why he walks with a crutch now.
"So they're sending someone?" he asks again.
"Yes," I confirm.
"Who? From the 115 or the hospital?"
"From the hospital," I say.
Jo-Jo bursts into tears. He's trying to talk, but he's blubbering, and I can't understand anything.
Oh, Lord, I panic. Did I make a mistake? Should I not have called the hospital? I don't know what to do. I put my hand on Jo-Jo's shoulder while he cries. I still can't understand him, but after a minute, I'm pretty sure that they're tears of relief.
"So the hospital is sending someone?" he asks.
"Yes, they're sending an ambulance."
"And you'll wait with me?"
"Yes, I'll wait with you."
"Thank you very much."
"You're welcome."
We continue like this for the next few minutes, making small talk, as much as we're able. Jo-Jo tells me some things about his life. He mentions that he speaks several languages. ("Did you notice? Thank you very much.") I can't help but chuckle at this, even in the midst of such a wretched situation.
At least five more times, he asks, "So they're sending someone?"
"Yes, they're sending an ambulance."
"And you'll wait with me?"
"Yes, I'll wait with you."
"Thank you very much."
"You're welcome."
At least three more times, he bursts into tears. It makes my heart hurt so much that I start crying, too. He's so relieved to get some help, to get some relief, to have somewhere else than a park bench to go tonight. But I worry about him. What will happen to him when he gets to the hospital? What does French law say about their obligation to care for someone like him?
By the time the paramedics arrive, I'm not sure if I'm relieved or even more anxious. What will they say? What will they do?
I soon realize that I needn't have worried. The two paramedics are quick, calm, and kind. Their job is to care for people, all people. I am so grateful to them for their impartiality, their professionalism, their discretion.
I thank them for coming, and they thank me for waiting. They tell me I can go, but it's hard to walk away. I linger for a moment, watching them help Jo-Jo onto a stretcher. He reaches out for my hand, and I grab it.
"I'm praying for you," I say. I've told Jo-Jo that I'm a believer, that I'll be praying for him, that I don't understand why God allows certain things to happen, but that I know God loves him. I know this is true, but it's still hard to walk away. I ask God to watch over Jo-Jo, to protect him. I thank Him that Jo-Jo will be safe tonight.
I don't know if I'll see Jo-Jo again. Will he be back on the park bench tomorrow? Or could this trip to the hospital be the start of a greater healing for him? I hope so, but I don't know.
