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2007-11-20 issue:

My encounter with Ken

An encounter with a homeless man changes two people.

by Cindy Miller

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I had no plans to reach out to a homeless person this summer, but I did. I arrived in San José, Calif., for the Mennonite Church USA convention early and explored the area around my hotel. I felt uncomfortable as I strolled the city and encountered the homeless. My most awkward feeling, however, was the quandary of whether to do something or ignore the situation? In the past, when I experienced fear of something, I needed to face it, though I had no intention of acting on that thought.
















Living the call: Cindy Miller talks with Ken on a bench in San José, Calif., in July. Photo provided.

One evening I sat at a Chinese restaurant with three-fourths of my fried rice left over. For some reason I took the leftovers with me. On my way back to the hotel a young man approached me and asked for money for food. I declined and kept walking. Remembering the leftovers in my hand, I realized I could have fed him. But the face of a homeless man who sat by my hotel day-after-day, hour-after-hour came to mind. I felt God’s gentle nudge to take my leftovers to him. I argued with God for awhile. As I approached the corner, I found him sitting on a bench with three other homeless men. I wondered how I could offer food to only one man, but God provided a way. Just as I came around the corner, this man got up and walked toward me. I offered him my food, made small talk with him and asked about the lady I had seen delivering sandwiches to him earlier, wondering if she was a mother or a sister.

“No, that’s Sadie, the cat lady. Everyday she feeds the stray cats.”

We ended our short conversation, and he insisted on giving me a hug. I received the hug as graciously as I could. Returning to my hotel, I struggled with what just happened. I asked God to relieve my fears, trusting that he who had brought me to this point would see me through.

The next morning I felt convicted to continue the relationship that had begun the night before. As usual, I found this man on his bench and handed him his breakfast. I told him he could expect me sharing each meal with him until my departure. He said his name was Ken. I asked how he got this way, and he was open about his alcoholism. As I left, he thanked me with a hug, but this did not feel as much of a violation as the first one.

On my way back to my room I wished I had not committed to three encounters each day. A Mennonite youth ran up from behind and said, “That was a really nice thing you did back there.” He said that the night before, his youth group discussed what to do with their leftover pizza. Though he tried to persuade them to give it to someone in need, one youth said, “I don’t want to relate to those kind of people.”

Three meals later, as I returned to my room, Ken saw me walking by and yelled out my name. I approached him and found him drunk. With all the respect I had, I told him I could not talk with him right then. “Ken, can you sober up by morning so we can talk?”
“For you, honey, I can.”

The next morning I found Ken all alone when I delivered his breakfast. This helped me relax and talk with him. I heard his stories of better days—days when he was making $17 an hour, when he was married, when he had money by winning a lottery. But there were also unpleasant days he shared—the day he found his wife with his best friend, when his divorce was final and he skipped town, heading for San José, when he graduated from rehab following a six-month recovery and celebrated by going to the liquor store. He told stories of 20 years of homelessness, of alcoholic parents and living in a house full of smokers.

“My mom was a witch, God love her.” Then he said, “I wake up every morning thanking God for keeping me safe and for giving me another beautiful day.” My life holds so many fewer challenges than his, yet I have many days I wake up falling short of that thankfulness. As I headed back to my hotel room, I felt blessed for having shared this time with him.

I felt God nudging me to bring Ken into my world. I needed to get four boxes from my hotel to the convention site. I asked Ken, who was more than willing to help. He kept his bike in the good care of a homeless friend, and I arranged for Ken to meet me at the hotel lobby. He arrived right on time and to my surprise had a utility cart, borrowed from his hotel connections. As we headed to the convention center, I wondered what people might think, perhaps not in judgment but in curiosity. I enjoyed showing him around the Mennonite Mission Network exhibit and introducing him to my friends and co-workers.

As the week wrapped up, I wanted a photo of Ken to add to my memories of my San José experience. Ken was more than eager to pose for a photo at my request, pulling out his prize possession, his bike. He positioned it just so, backing up to check the proper angle. A friend shot a couple photos of us. Ken was excited and asked if he could get copies. In one hour I had the photos developed and enclosed them in a greeting card. As I handed him the envelope, he said he didn’t want to open it until his birthday, Dec. 2. Selfishly I convinced him to open it right away. He opened the card as if to be handling a precious piece of glass. He read it with reflection and gratitude, then looked at the photos. I wonder how long it had been since he saw himself in a photo. I suspect years.

Holding the photo of us, Ken said, “What are you doing hanging out with this drunk?”

I said, “You ought to see the characters I hang out with.”

Later I headed to his usual spot on the park bench, only to find his friend Jimmie James. I told
Jimmie James that if Ken could entrust him with his bike, I could entrust him to deliver cards to Ken. I had both a birthday card and a Christmas card for him. Jimmie James ran off to find Ken. As I waited, I realized he would probably be drunk, since it was the end of the day. I grieved that my last conversation with him would be tainted with intoxication.

Ken arrived in his drunkenness, and I said my goodbyes. I handed him the two cards, marked “Do not open until Dec. 2” and “Do not open until Christmas.” In his thankfulness he hugged me for a long time. I took his hand and said goodbye.

At first it appeared Ken wanted no more of his life than he had. In an odd way, he was content. But I helped him imagine recovery, and for a split second he almost tasted it and wanted it. I will continue to pray for Ken over the years, in hopes he will find recovery and the fullness of life he could never have dreamed of.

While some attended an assembly entitled “Live the Call,” I humbly found myself—by the grace of God—living the call. Ken was not the only person blessed through this experience. I will never forget the 52-year-old man from Pennsylvania named Ken who changed my life.

Cindy Miller attends Clay Community Church, South Bend, Ind., and serves as executive office assistant for Mennonite Mission Network.

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