The Unforgotten

The traffic is congested and the exhaust fumes are as stifling as the loud honking of their horns as they beat on their steering wheels to get unknown commuters in front of them to get out of their way. As the passer's by do their passing by, there is a person few even notice. He stands on the corner of the congestion with a vacant stare and a future even more devoid of hope. His clothes are tattered and his hair is matted as are his mustache and long beard. He holds in his hands a tiny sign that, though it holds few words, it speaks volumes. "Homeless, Hungry, need help." The understatement of those words is unfathomable to the passengers of the passing cars who are all on their way to work, play, or to their homes warmed by heat in winter and cooled by air conditioning in summer. As they pass he does not even contemplate where they are going or why. He simply stands and watches as they pass. From time to time, when the light is red, someone will hand him some change from their pockets or a few dollars from a wallet. He pockets the money and nods as if to say, "Thank you." Though he moves from corner to corner and from place to place on different days, his days are otherwise all the same. Hopeless other than the meager gleanings from the generosity of the few strangers that feel sorry for him because they have been far more fortunate in life.

She walks slowly and awkwardly limping from some real or imagined injury to her foot or leg and she pushes a shopping cart in front of her. The cart holds all there is of her worldly possessions. A coat for the cold nights she spends huddled up against a brick wall in the alley behind the public library, and a blanket, tattered and frayed on the edges from years of being dragged around in the cart. She has plastic grocery bags she has collected along the way to wrap her feet in on those same cold nights or days when it is wet in the streets. She has a knit cap for winter and any number of gimme caps for summer. She passes a group of men and women sitting on the curb outside a local establishment they frequent, mainly because the food is free, but also because for just a short while in the early hours of each morning and around midday, they can find relief from the blistering heat or blustering cold. They enter this old storefront converted to a soup kitchen twice a day for a breakfast of yogurt and fruit or a box of cereal and small carton of milk, most of which are provided by local grocery markets because the "sell by" dates have expired or brought in bags and boxes from local churches and service organizations. Later, the same people will come back for lunch of various foods collected in the same manner. The meals are served by any number of volunteers who have taken a day out of their own busy schedules to do a good deed. Conversation between them and the ones they serve is mostly small talk if anything at all.

They line our streets, sleep in our alley ways and stand on street corners across this nation. They are mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends, and even heroes whose memories of "heroic" deeds don't seem so heroic to them and most nights won't let them sleep. Many of them have slipped off into obscurity and been forgotten, nameless, and faceless.

Jesus said they would always be with us...the poor. But rest assured, though we may not know them or understand their plight, they are not completely forgotten. The Psalmist said that, "He knew us before we were formed in our mother's womb." They are known and they are loved. And when we take the time to help them, even in a small way, speak to them, give to them, the "least of these", Jesus said we have done the same to Him. Though we may drive away and forget them, God still loves them and longs to hold them in the palm of His hand. So, you see? They are not forgotten after all.