Home for the Homeless
I was on a walk, oh, decades ago when my children were still small. I was caught up while I walked, this story came to me, almost like a vision. I felt the love, the road beneath my feet, the emotions like an embrace. But what I wanted to showcase in this writing I’ve fallen short of capturing all these years. It was that inexpressible wonder, of going from sad to surprise. Only someone in love can understand. When you discover the One you love, loves you even more. You’re a princess in a castle then. An adopted child. A puppy picked out of the cage. I saw this man in my vision, and what happened to him. Here is a retelling:
The man’s name isn’t important, because he’d almost forgotten what it was. Names were for other people. Those that belonged, and had belongings. Houses and names went together, and families. Friends called out names as they waved at you, urging you to remember past plans and good times. This man had none of these things. No home, or friends left to turn to. After all, if he had a family, wouldn’t he huddle with them under the roof of comfort they shared?
In this time of days passed by, the man wandered through crowds of people, and tried to remember his own humanity.
Tan, soft-dusted paths between tables, sand upon stone, exotic pipes from a distant street musician, vibrant draperies on colorful people, and the rest of the market, filled with abundance. Food, of all varieties, hot and spitting from smoky firepits, sweet and baked just that morning, plump fruits and hearty vegetables, there, so close, except the man couldn’t touch it.
No coin in his pocket, no valuables to barter, no skill to offer, not even the scraping up of animal dung. No step to sit on which didn’t belong to someone’s house, or business. He was an interruption, not a name. If he reached out a longing hand, it would get struck.
Yet he realized he still owned a few things besides the rags on his body. Eagerness, in case anyone was willing to meet him. He had eyes which could see, ears able to hear the sizzling of the food being turned, and a tongue, if only there was a chance, which could taste the tidbits being cooked. He hadn’t eaten in a long while. He didn’t beg anymore.
His last possession had been of good use to him lately. He’d plant himself next to a fragrant booth, and breathe in deep, the smells of food. This was the best of what life had left to offer him. Smell was so close to taste. It connected to memory. He could almost, feel like he was partaking of it.
No one could steal this from him, surely? What he smelled, and the delectables he saw, and the memory of eating it, those things he’d cherish to himself. And when the stall owner got mad at him and shooed him away, that was good too. It meant, for that moment, he was a person to be reckoned with.
That evening as the sun began to set, the man, who’d made a meal out of fragrances, shuffled, dizzy as he journeyed out of town. See those colors in the skyline. What a beautiful picture. That sunset belonged to him tonight. No one could tell him he wasn’t allowed to have it. Pinks, under the peach-colored streaks, up to the sharper tangerine shades, which glowed next to the lowering sun.
He’d find a hidden patch of ground under a bush, away from the path and any person’s home. He’d lie down and take his final rest, and remember what he saw, and heard, and smelled today. It was a better death than many a homeless, nameless man had faced.
The road he was on turned a corner, and there, beside him stretched a flowered path leading up to a fine and gracious home. He had to stop and stare, for this place was the largest, as big as a palace, with many windows. Made of rounded stone, mellowed, rich wood, dappled with dainty shade by trees in the yard, surely an artist had designed it, from the top of it’s fine-tiled roof, to its wide, arched door, and over to the quiet fountain which tinkled a tune of dimpled waters. It was the most desirable residence he’d ever seen.
It was too much to bear, and he tried hard to cling to his last possessions. The fragrance-dinner slipped from his grasp for his stomach was long-empty. The line of fading sunset lingered over this mansion to light in the windows, indicating the two pictures belonged together, and never for a man like him.
What had he been thinking? Truth confronted him at the last. The homeless man, confronted with the sight of the perfect home, had to realize he owned nothing, and was nothing. Tomorrow, they’d find his body under a bush, and no one would remember his name. A remnant to be buried, as a final inconvenience.
He clutched at his chest, and ached, about to turn away. But just then, the door opened. A servant came hurrying out, his eyes alight.
“There you are!” the servant said, waving a hand in eagerness.
The homeless man looked around, but he was the only one standing there. It wasn’t easy to speak when you’d never expected to converse again. “Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat. “You mean me?”
“Yes, I mean you! Won’t you come in?”
“But… I don’t belong here.”
The eager man laughed. “You’re welcome here, of course you are. Don’t you know this is your home? The Master sent me out to get you. Open the door and go inside!”
One step, towards the arched doorway. His tired, dirty feet on the flowered pathway. He must see if someone inside would speak a word to him, even if it was to expel him. He was invited, and he would go. He opened the door and so much spilled out of it. Warmth, he hadn’t realized he was cold. Beautiful sights everywhere he looked. And the smell of a delicious feast, which made his mouth water.
“Go on to your chamber, and you can clean up,” said the servant.
“My chamber?”
“Yes, all yours.”
“No, I must confess. You see, I’m just a homeless man. I own none of this. I don’t belong…”
But the servant’s eyes lit on someone behind him, and bowed in reverential respect. The homeless man turned around to see who was approaching.
The Master came, arms outstretched, eyes aware, kind, and filled with something the homeless man hadn’t seen for a long time. Love.
“I don’t understand,” was all he could think to say.
“Then let me explain it to you,” the Master said. “This house is your inheritance. The clothes in your closet, the food on the table, everything. I’ve been waiting for you to come home.”
“But you don’t know who I am?”
The Master smiled at him, and suddenly the man’s senses were filled to bursting. He was a baby again, with a mother who held him. He was a child running with a friend down by the brook. He was a teen, sitting on a hill and admiring the stars. He was a young man, strong, and choosing his way. All had been gifts to him. All those spots of brightness in his moments. Every time the rain fell or the sun heated his back on a chill morning.
He realized the Master had been calling to him his whole life. All he had to do was take hold, and leave his lonely wandering behind. He was ready, for where had the stubbornness to go his own way led him to?
“Yes,” the Master said. “Now you see Me, will you choose me?”
The man stepped forward and into the Master’s embrace. He was homeless no more. Emptiness left him when the Master said his name.
“Son,” he said. “Welcome home. Go into your chamber and put on the garment I made for you, and then, let’s go feast.”
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