Top Shelf Ink

Photography by Karen Mitchell Smith

I saw his bike as soon as I pulled up to the convenience store. It was dusk, and having spent the day in my hometown, I was ready to make the hour-long drive to my home. Planning for a quick dash into the store to pick up a Coke, I suddenly was confronted with a ramshackle bicycle piled high with a bedroll and other odds and ends and a big sign on the back: Hungry.

He stood at the counter, a bag of Doritos and a cup of coffee beside a crumpled dollar bill and a pile of change. He looked at the corn dogs baking under the heat lamps and, although I couldn’t hear what he said, I assume he asked how much they cost because when the cashier answered, the man just shook his head and let his shoulders drop a little lower. I felt a little stunned. Not at the sight of a homeless man. I’ve lived in big cities and dealt with the homeless one-on-one in ministry on many occasions. No, the shock came from the fact that he was there, in Breckenridge, Texas, population just over 5,000. The Mayberry of my childhood. The place that I could always go home to for safety and security, for familiar faces, for love and acceptance. Not a perfect place by any means, but a place, for me at least, removed from some of the harshest realities life holds. And there he was. The symbol of despair, hopelessness, and worst of all, helplessness — all the things you might find in the big city, but not in your hometown.

He headed to a booth in the back of the store as I walked to the soda fountain. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he tore into the little bag of chips and devoured them like the starving man he most likely was. I caught his eye and he nodded a greeting. His unkempt, long white beard brushed his chest and the knitted stocking cap on his hair spoke of hard use. He wore a thin army-green coat with the collar turned up. Not much protection against the sharp wind blowing outside. I nodded back to him and smiled.

At the counter, I told the cashier I’d take his last two corn dogs. When I handed them to the surprised homeless man, I mumbled the cursory “God bless you,” wishing I had more to give him. Wishing I could change something for him, but knowing I could not. His surprised eyes met mine again. His were brown. Big and sad and devoid of hope. I prayed for him as I drove away from Mayberry and toward my warm, comfortable custom-built home, where I would soon curl up on my leather sofa with a good movie and a cozy blanket. I prayed for the man who would lie somewhere in a ditch tonight, with a shabby sleeping bag between him and the cold, hard ground. I asked God to give him hope, to give him mercy. To lead him to where someone could help him and show him the love of a Savior who was also a wanderer with no place to lay his head. And the thought that we, as a society, completely miss the point of life plagued me all the way home. We get and get and buy and buy. Consume and pile up things that have to be maintained and dusted and cleaned and organized, then we sell them in our garage sales and donate them to the Goodwill, so we can make room for more.

Change has been the buzz word since the November 2008 elections, and it is the engine that drove the Obama campaign to Pennsylvania Avenue. But corporate change begins with individual transformation. Change cannot be legislated. It can’t be mandated and it can’t be demanded. We each must find our place and do what we know to be the right thing.

I don’t know whether I made a difference in that homeless man’s life beyond this day. Maybe tonight he crawled into his bedroll without an empty gnawing in his stomach, but will he tomorrow night? What about the next? It’s nearly overwhelming to think about the enormity of this issue. Yet,  I’m reminded of the story about the man who found hundreds of living starfish washed onto the shore. He patiently threw them back one at a time and when someone asked what kind of difference he could possibly make, he answered, “I can’t save them all, but it matters to this one. And this one. And this one.”

My actions did matter to that man tonight, of that I’m sure. The real question is, can I matter to someone tomorrow?

Water Colors

Original photo uploaded by Karen Mitchell Smith

Fall is the season of change, of transcending normal appearances and showing forth with all the richness of reds and golds and the earthiness of browns. It is a last burst of glory bridging the heat of summer busyness to the season of bareness and quiet, snow-covered rest. It is the time of crunchy leaves under foot and spicy wood-fire scents in the air. Of bringing out the sweaters and jackets and boots and discovering old, comforting treasures like hot chocolate and fuzzy blankets for the first time again. It is long walks on frosty mornings and early evenings by the flickering flame. It is a time of remembering blessings past and of looking toward those yet to come. It is the season that beckons us to hold on to those you love and to those who love you. It is the season that reminds us, change comes to us all.

Enriching Your Prayer Life through Contemplative Prayer

“Be still and know that I am God,” the Lord tells us. Oh, how I long to follow that directive, but how? Ironically, at a time when we have more conveniences and technological advances than ever, we also have more demands on our time than ever. Do I even know how to be still? Does anyone? Growing up an evangelical protestant, I had a full understanding of  prayer, and I have always gained much peace from my prayer life. But it’s always been  me, talking to God conversationally, as I would to a friend. Is that kind of prayer, called discursive, really being still? God tells us to meditate on his goodness and the psalmist writes, “Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing unto you, O God.” (more…)

My father is dying. These words are the first thing in my head every morning when I wake up now. Six months ago, I awoke to “my mother is dying” rolling around in my head each morning. In a  short time, I’ll be parentless. I don’t want to say I’ll be an orphan because, really, I won’t be. I think of an orphan as a waif, a helpless child. No, I had 44 years with two amazing parents, and while so many of my friends have told me of sad, loveless, even horrific childhoods, I was so blessed. And even though I’m all grown up, I’m just not ready for that parental blessing in my life to stop.

Forty-four years isn’t enough. Most people my age have parents in their sixties. But mine were already approaching middle age when I was born. My sisters and brother got to have our parents longer — 55, 6o years. But I had them to myself. My siblings had quantity of time, but I had quality of time. By the time I was eight, the youngest of my older sisters had married, and I was suddenly an only child in a very large family. I had the best of both worlds. Unlimited personal time with my parents and center-stage attention from my adult sisters and brother. (more…)

“I don’t know what my purpose is now,” my 83-year-old father told me a few weeks after my mom passed away. Fighting cancer and taking chemo, already in the early stages of dementia, he had managed to hold it together to take care of her for as long as she needed him. And she had needed him for 64 years.

Now, he seems to have let go. The dementia has multiplied exponentially, and there are days we have to tell him Mamma’s gone. It’s like he’s finding out for the first time, and the pain is terrible.  I think alot about that day he sat on my deck and told me he didn’t have a purpose anymore. (more…)