Once every four to six months, I do something really stupid. It’s not life and death stupid, more like “I just ruined the rest of my day” stupid. I’ll leave my car on, forget concert tickets at home, or leave town without my wallet. There was also the incident with the busted water pipe in the parking garage, but I’d rather not talk about it. Suffice it to say, I screw myself over two or three times a year.
This past Memorial Day was the occasion for one of these semi-annual brain leaks. I went to the office to work on a book. Because of the holiday, I wouldn’t be seeing clients and the building would be empty and quiet. That last part becomes really important in just a second. I came to the office in casual clothes, got comfy on the couch with my laptop, and took my shoes off (remember that part, too). I also removed my keys, watch, wedding ring, and wallet, which is my habit when I hunker down to write.
After about an hour, nature called. Deep in a literary trance, I hopped off the sofa, grabbed the key for the men’s restroom, and walked out the door. When it slammed shut behind me, I got a surge of adrenaline. Two seconds later, I realized that this was one of my stupid days. I hadn’t unlocked the front door to the suite when I arrived, mainly because I never unlock the front door. My partner Rick always unlocks it because he comes to work so early you’d think he had cows to milk. I tried the door even though I knew it was futile. The knob was immobile and the door wouldn’t budge. I would have had more luck trying to play dominoes with Stonehenge.
I threw a fit in the empty hallway. It started as whining, but escalated to panic as I remembered some important facts. (1) Nobody was in the building, including the manager or anybody else with a set of keys. (2) I didn’t have my wallet or a cent on me. (3) I didn’t have my cell phone. (4) I didn’t have my keys, which included not just my office key, but my car keys, my house key, and the key card to the garage where my car was parked. (5) Finally, the humiliating coup de gras—I had no shoes. And the socks I’d chosen that morning weren’t exactly a pair I wanted to show off.
I canvassed the building looking for help. I followed vague noises down long hallways—the sort that lead to trouble in horror movies—hoping to find another human being. The building was vacant. I took the elevator down to the lobby and considered my options.
After a few minutes of pacing and fretting, someone came into the lobby. It was the building superintendent! He strolled in wearing street clothes and his perpetual good-natured grin. I walked up to him chuckling with relief. We’d have a good a laugh about this and then he would let me back into the office.
After I explained my situation to him he said, “Sorry, I don’t have my keys.”
Now that was just cruel.
Harried and hopeless, I accepted my fate. I walked out of the building in my unshod feet.
I know where you think this is going. You think I’m going to tell you that I figured out what it was like to be homeless. I’ll tell you that I realized how dependent I’d become on things I take for granted, like a cell phone and a car. Though these thoughts crossed my mind, I was nowhere near destitute or desperate. My situation was not severe enough to give me real empathy for someone who’s impoverished and alone. I still had a lot of options. I could call a cab from a payphone and pay him once I got home. I never worried about my next meal or where I was going to sleep. This isn’t a story about realizing how blessed I am; this is a story about how easy grace can be.
My sock-footed walk of shame led me to the deli next door. I prayed that nobody would look at my feet. Though I was a regular at this establishment, God wasn’t ready to throw me a bone yet. I’d never seen the young woman at the counter before, which meant she’d never seen me. To her, I was just an anxious looking stranger in ugly socks. I swallowed hard, told her my story, and asked to use the phone. She looked at me like she was the prom queen and I was a John Hughes-era Anthony Michael Hall asking her to dance. But she let me use the phone, keeping a close watch on me.
I called my partner Rick’s house. I knew he’d taken his family to the beach for the weekend, so it was a long shot that he would be home. It rang a few times and I was about to hang up when a woman’s voice said, “Hello?” It was his wife Jhona, but at that moment, she might as well have been the archangel Gabriel.
“Hey Jhona, it’s Steve. Is Rick home?”
“Not right now. He took the kids to see the new Pirates movie.”
I sighed into the phone. Yet another near miss. I told Jhona my sob story and asked if Rick might have some keys around the house.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think he’s still in line for the movie. I’ll call him, we’ll figure something out, and I’ll bring you the keys.”
Just like that. She didn’t sound ambivalent for a second. She was going to fix this for me. I told her that I would wash her feet for this. She said that mine probably needed it more.
Forty-five minutes later, I was in my office writing again. The adrenaline surge had jump-started my brain and I cranked out over 4,000 words. Jhona had given up forty-five minutes to give me 4,000 words, along with saving me from a really expensive cab fare and perhaps Major Depressive Disorder. I had inconvenienced her, but she had changed my entire day.
Like I said, I didn’t learn anything about being homeless from this. Instead, I learned how little it takes to make a tremendous difference. It reminded me of a time when a homeless woman asked me for some money. I only had a five in my wallet. My first instinct was to tell her no, since I didn’t have any change or ones. I could’ve sworn I felt an angel whack me on the head and say, “She needs it more than you do, chump.”
So I gave her the five. Tears welled up in her eyes and she gave me a hug. At the time, it kinda freaked me out. When Jhona let me into my office, however, I felt a fraction of what that homeless woman experienced. A small act of grace can grant big feelings of relief. We hear about this all the time when we’re told about ten bucks a month feeding a child in Africa. I got a taste of what it was like to be on the receiving end of that. Now I’m eager to give it to somebody else.
I hope I remember that day the next time somebody asks me for something that’s inconvenient or annoying. I need to see that going a little out of my way can go a long way for someone in need. This is one of the coolest things about the way God designed life—sometimes, it doesn’t take much to save somebody.
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