Coming from a small town in rural, southern West Virginia I have had many run-ins with poverty. I remember growing up with kids who told me (and their other classmates) their parents couldn't afford to keep the lights on or the water running. I remember feeling a sense of pity, mingled with guilt and relief, when hearing such stories. I was so "lucky." Lucky that my parents had good jobs, lucky that the lights in my home never flickered (except in a thunderstorm), lucky that I was not living the harsh reality of American poverty.
I knew I came from a poorer area, and that I was extremely fortunate to have never gone without. Through the years, poverty in my hometown has grown worse; people are losing their jobs in the coal industry, and some are turning to prescription narcotics just to cope. All of this has surrounded me for years, but I have to admit: I was never directly exposed to extreme poverty and homelessness. I knew it existed, but I never actually saw the conditions my impoverished neighbors lived in. I wouldn't see these conditions up close, of course, until moving to New York City in the summer of 2016.
Upon arriving in Brooklyn, I already knew that New York was home to the elite and the lesser. I wasn't naive about poverty entirely; I saw many beggars on the street, in the subway cars, etc., and I had pity on them. Many people did. Fellow New Yorkers would toss a dime here and there, or hand a dollar to those whose signs read "GOD BLESS YOU, ANYTHING HELPS". You do what you can, and you keep walking. You don't look back, you don't think twice. This is the way in New York City. Or, at least, I thought this was the way in New York, until I became involved with Hillsong NYC's "City Hope" program.
Hillsong NYC is a branch of the Hillsong International Church, which ministers to people all over the world. Hillsong offers many services here in the city; eight services between two locations every Sunday, a service every Wednesday, social groups that meet on the weekends, and more. Upon attending a service one Sunday at The Playstation Theatre in Times Square, I learned of a program in the church called "City Hope." "City Hope" has street teams that meet every Wednesday after the midweek service, who go out on the streets of New York City and feed, clothe, and minister to the homeless. I was immediately intrigued, so I decided to go out with the street teams after Wednesday's service.
I knew it would be hard (emotionally, not so much physically) to see the things I was going to see that particular Wednesday evening. I knew I was going to encounter some extremely sad stories, and some very harsh realities. Not knowing exactly what to expect, I joined a street team and headed to Midtown Manhattan with three other church goers. Two of them had done this before, my boyfriend and I being the two "newbies." The more experienced couple tried to brief us on what to expect, what to say, and so on. "Some people don't want to be bothered... We tend to say our names first, to make people more comfortable... We ask them what they need, then offer to pray for them... Some people don't want prayer, we give them what they need and we never force them to stick around..."
As we walked and talked, I attempted to absorb as much of this information as possible. Before I knew it, though, we had encountered our first group of homeless youth. They were sleeping, so we didn't wake them. We left some bottled water and bagged up sandwiches by their cardboard cots, and kept moving. Within five feet of us, another homeless man shouted, "Hey! What about me?" We approached him, and asked what he needed. Honestly, he just needed someone to talk to. He said he had been fed by a business owner nearby, so he wasn't hungry. He accepted some bottled water, but wouldn't take any food. He engaged all of us in conversation, asking where we had come from and what we were doing out on the streets. We explained to him that we were from the church, and he was very interested in our program. He continued to ask us questions, shake our hands, and engage us in lengthy conversation.
The next homeless man we met that night did exactly the same thing. He accepted water from us, but told us he had food in his bag. He mostly just wanted to talk, and told us his life story. He had been adopted at three weeks old, and his foster parents always treated him like a "favor" they were doing for someone else. He never really had a family, or any real friends. He told us that throughout the previous week, many people had kicked and slapped him for sleeping outside of buildings or in the train stations. The cops were called on him constantly, but he never got in trouble. He wasn't bothering anyone. He was simply a man out of luck, without any resources. He was ecstatic that we even spoke to him, and continued to speak to us for about another ten minutes. When we parted ways with this man, I felt a lump in my throat that was hard to swallow. I had just experienced a horrible realization, that I should have years before. It occurred to me suddenly: homelessness is about so much more than meeting physical needs. Homelessness isolates a person beyond comprehension; imagine going days on end with no human contact, other than a few rude comments and dirty looks directed your way.
As I pondered this, my eyes filled with tears. I had never gone a single day without being told that I am loved. I had never gone a moment in my life without the absolute certainty that I had someone to lean on, some place to call "home." I had never gone one single day without human contact, and I could not imagine how horrible that must be. By the end of the night, we had met many other homeless individuals who asked us for food, for clothing, and even for a Bible at one point. All of the things we gave them, though, did not seem to compare to simply talking to them. By treating these homeless individuals like actual humans (which so many neglect to do), we touched their hearts. Meeting their physical needs was important, yes, but they were much more affected by the meeting of their social, human needs.
I had never imagined that loneliness to that degree could exist, but I now know that it is incredibly dangerous to the human psyche and, sadly, incredibly real. The next time you see a homeless person and you want to help them, ask them about their physical needs first. Give them food, clothing, water, whatever they need. Then, please, take the time to actually speak to them. Ask them their name, their story (if they are willing to share), their aspirations, etc. Talk to them, engage them. Treat them like the person they are, rather than an object of pity. I promise you, they will appreciate it beyond words.
