An Unexpected Guest
I remember sitting at the table looking across the table at the hairy, dirty, and smelly man that was eating our dinner. We hadn’t expected company and I knew I wasn’t going to get a second helping of my favorite baked chicken because this man was really hungry and mom was going to make sure he didn’t leave that way.
My parents tried to engage the man in conversation, but his replies sounded like grunts between his hungry bites. I could see his backpack sitting on the family room floor in the next room and I was pretty sure it was going to leave a ring of dirt on the carpet when he picked it up.
“Where are you from?” Mom asked.
I think he said, “California,” but maybe I just wanted it to be California because I had never been there and it sounded exotic to my eight year old self.
I don’t remember much else about the attempts of conversation, but I clearly remember when my mom said, “Would you like to clean up or take a shower before you get back on the road?”
My eyes snapped up from my plate to my mom’s face. She was looking at the stranger without pity or condescension or hesitation. She said it like she was talking to an uncle or family friend, but he was….homeless. I felt confusion and curiosity and — I’m not going to lie — concern. I knew if he agreed he would be showering in the main bathroom and that was the one that I used.
I felt slight panic as I interpreted his mumbled response as, “Okay.”
Mom hopped up and cleared his plate and excused herself to gather up a towel and washcloth. Thankfully dad was still there so I didn’t feel unsafe.
As the man disappeared into the bathroom to wash up my mom and dad filled in my siblings and me on how the man came to be in our home.
They were driving home on an old remote highway that many in our small town used to travel to and from another small town, Mesquite, that was about 45 minutes away and just over the border in Nevada. From there you could get on the freeway and continue on to Las Vegas, which was another hour and a half away and where this man had likely come from. They saw him walking down the highway with miles of empty road behind him and ahead of him. I don’t know how much discussion they had before they stopped to talk to him, but I remember my mom talking about having a “feeling” that he could use a ride and some food. When mom had a feeling it was as binding as if God himself gave her an order. The man was going home with them.
My parents were cautious and careful and always put the safety of their children first, so it was unusual for them to pick up someone they didn’t know and bring them home right to where their five young kids were. And not just any random stranger…but a homeless stranger. It was the mid 80’s and it wasn’t uncommon to hear people refer to homeless men as vagrants, beggars, tramps, or bums. My parents didn’t use those words, but I read them in books and heard them said and they had painted a definite picture in my mind of what a homeless person was. Particularly a homeless man.
The man returned after a short ten minutes or so and although he hadn’t used the shower, he had clearly made use of the washcloth and soap and whatever grooming tools he carried in his large backpack. He looked (and smelled) better and he looked more relaxed and comfortable.
After several offers of rides into town or to a bus stop or wherever he might need to go, the man only agreed to a mile ride up the road and back to the highway so he could continue his journey to a destination that only he knew, or maybe to one he still didn’t know.
My siblings and I all said, “bye,” and waved as he walked to the door with my dad. The man turned and for the first time looked right at us and gave us a nod and a small wave. I realized he had kind eyes. As he left his backpack looked the same as when he walked in, but he carried it as if it was lighter and he walked with his shoulders and chin held higher.
I never saw the man again and my parents didn’t really say much about it. They never grandstanded the many acts of service that were a regular part of their lives.
Mom took the soiled washcloth and towel to the washer and then cleaned and disinfected the bathroom and there was no sign the man had ever been in our home. There wasn’t even a dirty ring on the carpet where his backpack had been like I thought there would be.
The man was in our home for about thirty minutes over thirty-three years ago and I still occasionally think of him and wonder if he made it to his destination. I hope that a full belly, clean hands and face, and the kindness from my parents made his journey lighter.
