A Banging and a Wailing
This Blog has readers right across planet earth, China, Brazil, Japan, Russia, France, Australia, Thailand, Saudi Arabia, Germany, Georgia, Italy, Romania, Taiwan, Poland,France, Colombia, Canada, Estonia, Zambia, USA, Sweden, UK, Ireland, Israel, Netherlands, Singapore, Chile, Lebanon, Mexico, Lithuania to date. But it is a fair bet that many of these people have never heard of the town where I live, so let me offer you all a very brief description: Blackpool is a holiday resort on the Northwest coast of England which sometimes glitters but often stinks.
I drove through the glitter tonight. The Christmas lights in front of the famous Tower and running south along what was once called the Golden Mile, really are pretty and even (hold your breath) tasteful. But there was no getting away from the stink either.
I was out late in that part of town on what might be called an errand of mercy. Earlier in the evening, just above the sound of the television set, I fancied I heard someone cry out. At the front door I saw a hand struggling to get through the letter box. The poor girl looked absolutely wretched; wet, emaciated, desperate.
I happen to like those soups in plastic cups you can get in Sainsbury's, so there are usually one or two in my top cupboard. I have never seen anyone demolish one of them as "Teresa" did, sitting there at our kitchen table in the warmth of the electric fire. She took mightily to the cheese sandwiches too. She was ravenously hungry.
She needed money too, don't we all? But once we had secured her accommodation for the next few nights, her sobs died.
We found her a place near enough to my place (too near?) but needed to go all the way to South Shore to get the key and it was on the way to South Shore that I drove through that section of the famous "Illuminations" and noticed how well they look since the re-organisation. It was then too that I noticed the stink. And no, it was not the girl, it was me.
You can call me a hero, if you like; after all Teresa had already been turned away at three churches. But I had a guilty secret gnawing away inside and it wouldn't go away. I knew in my heart of hearts that at this stage all I really wanted was to be rid of the creature, and (forgive me) her incomprehensible accent.
I had given her food and arranged her lodging, but somehow the words "as long as you did it to one of these the least of my brethern, you did it to me" didn't seem to fit how I felt, inside.
I passed "Funny Girls" on the way home, a famous night spot where men dressed as girls entertain audiences who pay over the odds for their night out. I had a real urge to snort "this town stinks", but I held my tongue for I was acutely conscience of my own B.O. problems.
I know he said, " the poor you will always have with you", but does he have to send them banging and wailing at my door?
I drove through the glitter tonight. The Christmas lights in front of the famous Tower and running south along what was once called the Golden Mile, really are pretty and even (hold your breath) tasteful. But there was no getting away from the stink either.
I was out late in that part of town on what might be called an errand of mercy. Earlier in the evening, just above the sound of the television set, I fancied I heard someone cry out. At the front door I saw a hand struggling to get through the letter box. The poor girl looked absolutely wretched; wet, emaciated, desperate.
I happen to like those soups in plastic cups you can get in Sainsbury's, so there are usually one or two in my top cupboard. I have never seen anyone demolish one of them as "Teresa" did, sitting there at our kitchen table in the warmth of the electric fire. She took mightily to the cheese sandwiches too. She was ravenously hungry.
She needed money too, don't we all? But once we had secured her accommodation for the next few nights, her sobs died.
We found her a place near enough to my place (too near?) but needed to go all the way to South Shore to get the key and it was on the way to South Shore that I drove through that section of the famous "Illuminations" and noticed how well they look since the re-organisation. It was then too that I noticed the stink. And no, it was not the girl, it was me.
You can call me a hero, if you like; after all Teresa had already been turned away at three churches. But I had a guilty secret gnawing away inside and it wouldn't go away. I knew in my heart of hearts that at this stage all I really wanted was to be rid of the creature, and (forgive me) her incomprehensible accent.
I had given her food and arranged her lodging, but somehow the words "as long as you did it to one of these the least of my brethern, you did it to me" didn't seem to fit how I felt, inside.
I passed "Funny Girls" on the way home, a famous night spot where men dressed as girls entertain audiences who pay over the odds for their night out. I had a real urge to snort "this town stinks", but I held my tongue for I was acutely conscience of my own B.O. problems.
I know he said, " the poor you will always have with you", but does he have to send them banging and wailing at my door?
posted by Val Farrell | 00:48
7 Comments:
Excellent post as always. Please let us know if we can ever help out in future when needy visitors arrive on your doorstep
Can I just say, in response to a few queries I have had, that when I speak of STINK in this article, I am referring both to BLACKPOOL and to MYSELF, personally.
BLACKPOOL's Stink is in having a glitzy veneer that often masks a world of addiction and petty crime.
PERSONALLY, my stink was in demonstrating a veneer of Caring, which almost masked a simple desire to be rid of the lady.
I feel disappointed that I did not get that across plainly enough for some to follow.
The phrase "do not beat yourself up" is floating around in my mind here. I used to argue with a priest whose habit it was to give money to beggars on the street. I used to tell him, in my self-righteous way, that he shouldn't do it as it was just stopping them getting their problems sorted. He would say, with a shrug, that he couldn't solve their problems. So he (at least ) gave them some cash.
Surely you were right to do what you did. You couldn't solve her problems but you fed Teresa and found her a lodging. Do you think the innkeeper beat himself up because he only opened his stable?
I was told by a homeless counsellor not to give money to homeless or needy people as that money was often misused on drugs or alcohol. I was advised to give time, food and drinks but not money. I was heartened by your story Valand thought how ironicthat the girl was turned away from presbyteries. It seems that we will go the extramile to raise money for a church roof but not always for the poor souls that look to it for shelter and healing.
I think I know how you feel, Marie, but a friend of mine once told me that sometimes it is not a case of doing one thing OR the other, but actually doing both.
A little over four years ago, circumstances led us to live at the Salvation Army for a month. We had literally been thrown out of our rented home by unscrupulous agents of the owner, had to put our pets into a veterinarian's care at an outrageous cost and were reduced to living apart most of the time due to the regulations of the shelter. We were housed in a dormatory for the women and the floor of the gymnasium for the men. Couples were split apart. Food was not fit for consumption and drug testing was mandatory, but it was a roof. Here were families who had lost everything due to fire, flooding, loss of jobs, etc., plus those on medication for mental illness, drugs and alcohol. It was such an ecclectic mix of people, each with their own story. I too had been one of those who would have been repulsed by everyone in the shelter until I began to listen to each of them.
There were stories of such loss and tragedy. Often one would hear about post traumatic stress from being in the military and how person couldn't cope, so it drove their family away. They'd turned to drink or drugs - or both and couldn't hold down a job. They had become so low down that even self-pity was gone. That was just one type of story we listened to. Rather than being repulsed, it broke my heart.
And now, in winter, the Salvation Army is being overrun with families but there is no room to house them. And strangely enough, we've seen churches turn people away. However some have opened their doors to the homeless, provided temporary shelter, food and even warm clothing. Those are the people who live their faith and remember there is even dignity in being poor. Rather than being repulsed, they run toward it.
We opened our tiny flat to someone who was homeless and gave him a place to stay, fed him and even did his laundry. His were the horror stories of the street person living rough under bridges, in abandoned buildings and in doorways. His story and those from the Salvation Army really opened our eyes to see a person of true merit who was in need.
We are able to see the real meaning of Christmas more clearly from having this experience and we know there is such wisdom we can glean from it. Perhaps our hearts have been softened to the plight of the homeless, since we were two of them ourselves. We will never turn someone away who is in need. All that external glitter is not gold. The gold is in the heart and all it needs is a chance to show through.
I know what you mean. I was thinking about this. It occurred to me that I shouldn't expect to be any better, that this is exactly the POINT of the gospel, that God loved us while were were still sinners. Baptism doesn't make us perfect. "Lord, I am not worthy". All the things St Therese and St Gertrude (for example) say about not trusting in one's own virtue but in God's goodness - they are true.
Nietzsche is always going on about people who think or say they are doing something for some noble reason, but "really", says Nietzsche, they are doing it because they are afraid or jealous or (insert other ignoble motivation here). This always seems to me like the voice of the "accuser of the brethren" the Apocalypse describes as having been cast down. We have mixed motives, often, at best. But Jesus doesn't condemn everything we do that doesn't have a pure motive. It's okay not to deserve God's love - that's the point, that we don't.
It's like being sick. It's better to be healthy, and one can do more things and better when one is in good health. But because it is harder to do something when one is sick, the credit is greater. One can't do anything about the feelings one has at a given moment, only about what one chooses to do.
Bit rambling, sorry.
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