Escape

The radio buzzed incoherently as the wheels blistered against the parking lot pavement. We had no plan. Nowhere to go. Accept somewhere else. We had to leave. We were running, ducking, dodging… escaping the wonderful place we too often feel blessed to call work.

The night had a Nashville chill. There was no epic snow nor ice. But you could see your breath. It was the kind of air that makes your lungs feel heavy, always struggling to breath, like swimming the breaststroke or making out in a car.

We turned the heater on to fight with the cold. It hummed to a drumming double-bass-peddle beat of musical exhaustion. The air smelled burnt and tasted old. But it was sweet. Like black marshmallows on the Fourth of July.
…

A year ago Eric and I volunteered at a rescue mission in Birmingham, Alabama. Everyday we hung out with the homeless. We made breakfast for them, sorted clothes with them and took communion beside them. But more than anything we listened. It was exhausting.

At the end of the day I would want to getaway. I did not know how to process their struggles. John told me his wife and kids died in a car crash, Tyler said he went bankrupt after a bad business move and Jim said he started smokin’ crack at age 14. Nearly all of them took drugs, hated the Man and loved Jesus. I related with one of the three. None of them had a fair shot.

At 3:30 Eric and I would escape. When our shoulders were heaviest and our minds most confused, we left.

A mile or two down the road there was a coffee shop. Few of our homeless friends knew about it and those that did only loitered outside. We hid inside, upstairs, towards the back, and released our frustration, together, between the sweet smell of roasted Moroccan beans and fresh inked newspapers.
…

Michelle, Audra and I too drove to a coffee shop.

It had been a long night. Typical inner-city, Myspace, gangster drama. We left and drove fast.

But we couldn’t move fast enough. The light fumbled yellow to red and we stopped.

I think there are certain moments in life you are just bound to remember: seconds, minutes, eternities. Like the first time you drive, hear your parents argue or kiss a girl. This was another first. It was the first time I felt someone else’s pain without hearing their story or even their voice.

Five men sat on the curve–squatting under a heat exhaust vent. They were huddled together, half smiling, half drunk, but most clearly frozen. They had nowhere to go. It was a black painting, the world of the loveless, as viewed through the passing window of the have-lots.

The vent was their only escape.

Michelle was silent. I knew what she was thinking. I mumbled something about it being a cold night and she said it broke her heart. Audra agreed. I wondered about the one on the end–the outsider. I said he would be the one I would think about. I wanted to hear his story.

Later that night Michelle told me she couldn’t stop thinking about the five guys. She said it would keep her up at night. She told me she wanted to go back, listen and touch them on the arm or shoulder.

Michelle said she often embraces individuals at the medical clinic where she volunteers through touch. She believes it might be the single most healing action she can provide. She said many of the people she sees go days, weeks, years without feeling the loving touch of another. She tries to show them grace. She said she touches their arm or shoulder because she believes that is what Jesus would do.
…

The next day I thought, hoped and even prayed for the five guys.

Michelle went back.

She brought blankets, listened to their stories and placed her loving hand on their shoulders.

She told me Jesse was the one on the outside. The other guys call him Jesse James. He is a cowboy of sorts–always look for an adventure: somewhere new to escape to.
…

For the last week I have been wondering where the homeless escape. It has made me wonder if escaping is not so much about a place or even a moment, but the company of others.

Maybe instead of thinking about escaping to the Bahamas, a coffee shop or even one’s church, what one really needs is a friend who listens, a colleague who cares or the loving touch of a stranger.

May we all escape this day,
Kent