Bart Barrett

I have been blogging for 6 years now. My first post was in November 2013. I posted a lot at the start, 2-3 times a week. I was unable to keep that pace, and slowed down to the point that for the last few years have been trying to post at least once a week.

That streak is ending. It has been 2 weeks since my last post, and it will be a while after this before I post again.

The surgery I had three months ago to relieve nerve pain in my right arm didn’t work. Although the doctor said he successfully unpinched the nerves during the procedure, it seems that things had been pinched too much for too long. The pain has not resolved, and the doctor now thinks it never will.

That is not to say there is nothing I can do. The pain increases with repetitive motion. The less I use my hands, the less it hurts. In order to minimize the pain I have decided to minimize how much I type. In the office I have hired a scribe to type for me. At home, I have decided to try and avoid typing altogether for a while.

This means I will cut back on the blog. I pray that it will only be temporary, that God will intervene to restore the health in my arm, but I feel I need to accept the situation for what it is. I may occasionally share a post, but the days of writing every week seem to be behind me.

Thanks to all who have shared the journey for the last 6 years.

Bart

“Is this a doctor’s office? Do you have a band-aid?

I was standing outside my office with some of the men from my weekly men’s group when the young man approached from the liquor store across the street. He was disheveled and dirty, his clothes the standard ground-in-dirt style common among the homeless. His face was dirty as well, making the gash on his forehead an even greater concern. It did not take long to realize he needed more than a band-aid.

The gash had an impact on me, for the wound helped me see him as a person in need and not merely as a man of the streets. His attitude as he approached also disposed of my preconceptions. He was polite and unassuming, even shy, as if he was embarrassed to approach me as he was by his request and his circumstances.

In response to his question I turned and unlocked the door to my office. “Come on in, “ I said, as I swung it open. He followed me into the office and down the hall. I grabbed a magnifying light and took a closer look. It was deep enough for stitches, but when he told me the cut was over a day old I decided not to apply sutures. The risk of infection from a dirty laceration that old was too great. I instead gently cleaned it and applied medical steri-strips, pulling the edges together as best I could.

As I did I asked him how he had ended up on the streets. He openly shared with me that he had a problem with drugs and alcohol, and that he had lived in a rehab house in town for a while. He had recently been put out of the house and had no where to go but to the streets. He was doing well at staying off of drugs, but was not doing well with alcohol. He said he was hoping to find a place to live, but he did not seem to have a plan that made his hope seem viable.

When I finished dressing his wound he thanked me profusely and made his way out of the office. I followed him outside and rejoined my friends. I watched him walk across the street and return to a spot behind the liquor store. There he took a seat on a low wall alongside some other homeless men. Although there was nothing visibly different about him, nothing to distinguish him from the others, after our conversation he seemed strangely out of place.

My interaction with him was starkly different than one I had with a different homeless person a few weeks later. He was a much older man I had seen across the street at the same liquor store several times. He had white hair and a white beard, in marked contrast to his darkly tanned face. He always had a bike with him, and almost always had a paper bag with a bottle of alcohol. He changed locations throughout the day, following the shade to stay out of the summer sun.

One day as I returned to the office from lunch, I saw that he had followed the shade to the trees in my parking lot. He was sprawled in the dirt, sound asleep as I walked up. “Excuse me sir,” I called to him, “but this is private property.”

He woke with a start. “Alright, alright, I’m moving!” He said with a grumble. As he gathered himself and his bicycle the expletives began. “I am sick and tired of all of this $%#&,” he muttered loudly, “it’s the same %$&#@ thing all of the time. People giving me $&@# over nothing!”

“There is a solution to this problem,” I replied, “you could get a job!”

“You can get a %&$%@# life!” he yelled as he rode off.

Two different men, both homeless, both trapped in addiction. One approached me in humility, as if he knew he was intruding and undeserving of help. The other responded in anger and arrogance as if he was entitled to make a home on my property. One inspired compassion, the other disgust. Together they reminded me of an important truth- we do not suffer from a homeless problem, we suffer from thousands of homeless problems, experienced by thousands of unique individuals. While they were both plagued by alcoholism, they were not alike.

I do not presume to know what society’s response to the homeless problem should be, but I am beginning to realize what my response should be. I must strive to see each person as an individual created in the image of God, and to respond to each person in a unique way appropriate to the individual circumstances.

Bart