Minnesota Prairie Roots

ON SUNDAY, I CAME face to face with homelessness for the first time.

Sure, I’d read the news stories and statistics. But in the deepest depths, I never quite believed that homelessness exists in Rice County. We are, after all, out-state Minnesota and not “the Cities.”

However, that naïve thinking—or perhaps it is more an attitude of not wanting to believe—changed when I met a homeless woman after Sunday morning worship services at the Lutheran church I attend in Faribault.

When the middle-aged woman and her companion, a young man perhaps in his late 20s or early 30s, walk into the nearly-empty narthex, I can’t help but notice them. In their worn, casual attire, they don’t really fit in.

Even writing that last sentence, I feel profoundly judgmental. I have just come from a contemporary “Connection” service where I’ve sung about embracing others. Although I can’t recall the exact words, I remember the line about a strange woman slipping into the pews and the staring glances of faithful worshippers.

I will admit that on Sunday morning I am more cautious than welcoming.

As the woman enters the narthex, I approach her because, clearly, she is looking for someone. “Can I help you?” I ask as she walks toward me. Her male friend (or maybe he is her son) is already half way across the room. I am keeping a distrustful eye on him. Earlier this year, a stranger prowled our church during worship services and stole a computer and other items. Since then, we as a congregation have been on watchful alert.

As I am thinking all of this, the woman asks to speak with the pastor, whom she met in March. “Which pastor?” I inquire, giving their names.

She doesn’t remember, but I tell her I will take her to the pastor. As we head toward his office, she explains how she already has been to another church in town that morning seeking help. She found none there, although she says she got a doughnut. That pastor had left for the day.

I am surprised that she shares this information and her first name. Perhaps she is trying to emphasize her desperate situation.

She talks about a man who “tricked” her and something about the wife he is divorcing and that’s why she is without a place to live. I don’t quite understand the situation. But rather than probe, which would be typical of me and my inquisitive nature, I keep quiet.

She seems to need a listening ear and I can at least give her that, and her dignity.

Then she apologizes for her comments. I tell her she’s entitled.

We are walking through the gym now where volunteers are setting up food for an afternoon reception. “Are you having a lunch here?” she asks, the new optimism in her voice noticeable.

“Oh, it’s a reception for someone who’re retiring,” I reply, knowing full well that’s she’s likely hungry. I wish I could offer her some food, but I don’t feel it’s my right to do so.

Then we are at the main office, where the pastor is just leaving.

“These folks would like to talk to you,” I say, wishing I could remember the woman’s name. Typically, I am good at recalling names.

As I turn to leave, the pastor is already jingling his keys, opening his office door to allow the pair inside. The door closes.

I walk away, wondering about this woman and, if by failing to remember her name, it will be easier for me to dismiss her and her homelessness.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling