Tents and Time and Noise and Hope

I spent the weekend with Boyfriend and his family. They are simply the best people I know. The more and more time I spend with them, the more I see an outward, unmistakable Love that wins. 


Our church spent Saturday mid-morning and afternoon in Hopeville, a homeless city just across the Mississippi River. And by "city," I mean about a 50-tent cluster on the riverfront, just north of the Arch. 


Spending time with these people has been more rewarding than I can say. It's the little things, like knowing that I have a bed to go to, a place where I can warm my frozen toes, a car to drive me where I need to go, a family to fall back on, monetary birthday presents that buy me canvases to paint on... you know, those things I have-- those things they don't. I sloshed through the muddy terrain, handing out the supplies I could carry (gloves, scarves, cookies, hot dogs), all the while remembering the disconcerting wisdom Boyfriend gave me:
That homeless man is me if I were born in different circumstances.


They are people. And people matter, no matter their background, circumstance, age, color, addiction, education, or work ethic. They are children, mothers, brothers, uncles, and grandmas. One of the most important realizations I've been given in the past 6 months is how God feels about us. His eyes see me, the 21-year-old brunette college student, and Colombus, the 50-something year-old homeless man, exactly the same. The point is not that these homeless families have done nothing wrong or are exclusively victims. The point is that I, Kelly Rae Caringer, have no occasion to judge or assume anything about their lives. So, rather than stand far off, questioning why or how they got to be homeless (which does absolutely nothing), I meet them where they're at-- whether that means food, money, water, blankets, coats, batteries, candles, a hug, a conversation, or a good laugh.

 Hopeville. (Google.com)

I heard a spokesperson for Compassion International tell a story at a Shane&Shane concert in 2009. During and post-WW2, a church in Poland hired musicians to play loud music every Sunday morning so they wouldn't be able to hear noise from the outside. Established next to a train station, the church had heard the screams and groans of prisoners being shipped to the nearby concentration camp. So, they turned up the music. Ignorance was better than the guilt they felt. They turned a blind eye (and ear) to the most urgent and tangible need within their reach. 


In response to this story, and other stories of the forgotten hopeless, Shane&Shane titled their tour, and newest album and song "Turn Down the Music." 
Some of their lyrics:


    If you were hungry would we give you food?
    If you were thirsty would we give you drink?
    If you were a stranger would we let you in?

    And if you were naked, would we give you clothes?
    If you were an orphan would we give our home?
    And if you were in prison, would we visit you?

    What would be a song we’d sing to you when there in need?
    Would it be an empty hallelujah to the king?

    Turn down the music
    Turn down the noise
    Turn up your voice oh God and let us hear the sound
    Of people broken, willing to love
    Give us your heart oh God a new song rise in us

Ignorance is no longer an excuse for me. I have seen, smelled, and talked to those in need. And although I am unsure how to make a lasting difference, I simply must go. I must help. The Redeemer gives hope to the hopeless; He makes a lasting difference. But the extraordinary work of the Giver of Life is not always what I see. He works mysteriously, supernaturally, or unexplainably (and sometimes, tangibly or visibly). My job is not to see or know that I made a difference. My job is to go when He says.


I heard a resounding "God is good" coming from the mouths of the hungry and destitute on Saturday morning- more than I think I've heard all year. And certainly more than I've heard it from my own mouth. There is hope. I believe God is who He says He is, and I believe that there is hope.


Light a fire in this soul of mine.