Home by Heidi Yost

This morning a homeless woman walked into the worship service at church. I was that homeless woman.

My arms were covered with dirt. My gait was aged and uneven, my shoes didn’t match; my left foot was crammed into a stained, worn right-footed slipper. My filthy green terry cloth pants, striped child’s swimsuit cover-up and torn red nightshirt cloaked my familiar figure. The scarf tied with a lopsided knot under my chin concealed my face and auburn hair and the big glasses shadowed my eyes beyond recognition.

When Nina invited me to be a living sermon illustration, my biggest fear was that I would be recognized, people would giggle and portraying a homeless woman would be a farce. While I didn’t want to be found out, being a dirty stranger who might be mentally ill gave me anonymity, made me insular and unfortunately made me scary.

My goal was to get down the center aisle and find a seat without being discovered, but there was John Bell leaning in to make eye contact saying, “Peace.” I freeze, surely John whom I spent 10 days with in Kosovo ministering and acting together knows who I am. There is no glimmer of recognition. I ignore him. John is relentless, he extends his hand saying, “Peace” determined to offer me Christ’s peace. I peck him on the cheek and hurry down the aisle.

My eyes dart around the pews on the left side; there are no open aisle seats. My only option, if I don’t sit on the floor is next to—no!—my good friend from my social justice class Michael French. Surely he will know me, there’s no way around it. I don’t use my voice and stop and stand there and stare at him. In Dad mode, he gingerly moves his little daughter Sophia over, slides next to her and makes room for me. Then he makes a little more room for me. Sophia drops her hat at my feet and after careful thought, I grab it and hand it to her. I begin to rock back and forth during the anthem, first from side to side then forwards and backwards. I am aware of many eyes being on me—the tension is palpable.

After the music, it is time for the children to depart. Michael has the option of scooting all the way down the aisle, which I was confident he would do. I was wrong. Michael gathered Sophia in his arms and stands looking at me with the expectation that I will know to get up and let him out. I looked at him for a second as if I was contemplating his need and rose and let them out. I stood in the aisle for a moment deliberating my next move and chose to sit down. After Michael deposited Sophia he came back and sat beside me—I like that Michael!

With an air of uncertainty about how to behave, I reach inside my crumbled paper bag and pull out a stuffed dog and a popcorn box. I start talking to the lady in from of me and pointing to the pulpit asking for the minister. She ignores me. Nina finally comes down from the pulpit to rescue me asking me if I need any help. Gary turns off her microphone in case I might say anything inappropriate and I say, “Yes, I need some help.” She escorts me over to Bill Campbell.

She hands me off to Bill and he welcomes me like his sweet favorite niece. He helped me sit down, even putting his arm around me. He tells me in the kindest voice I have ever heard, “Okay we have to be quiet now, she’s going to talk; she’s going to preach.”

Every day people come into Highland who are “homeless”: suffering from shame, hopelessness, addiction, abuse, un-forgiveness, discrimination, hatred, physical ailments, mental illness, grief and loss of every sort. While they, like me, don’t want to be recognized by their suffering, they long to be embraced. John is relentless in extending Christ’s peace. Michael is brave and sits with his own discomfort and the stranger’s next to him. Bill’s generosity and kindness is healing. How will you offer home to those who come?