He is Jealous for Me

Today I impatiently sauntered into CVS to make a copy, and when I was held up by a woman scribbling her name on some forms on the copier, I became even more impatient. I mean, I had a schedule to keep, couldn't she go fill out her paperwork somewhere else?

My keys jingled, echoing the impatience screaming through my brain.

And then she started speaking in prose.

Good luck to the keys, to Mar Vista, to Jack in the Box, to the Holiday Inn. Good luck.

I asked her to repeat herself and she said the same thing. I didn't know what to say. I was speechless until I finally managed to breathe out "That's very poetic, ma'am."

"I ain't no poet. Just the Bible and some..." and her voice trailed off.

"You read the Bible?" My voice was a mere squeak as I thought maybe this was a Divine appointment.

"I ain't God." And then there was silence. She continued to scribble on her forms and I shifted my weight restlessly. It would be easier to have this conversation if she were looking at me, not shifty eyed, glaring at the copy machine.

"I don't mean to interrupt, ma'am, but I feel compelled to tell you that Jesus loves you."

"Just make your copies. I don't like no one on my back. I've been on the street 14 years and I don't like no one on my back. Especially when they're wearing pink." I was wearing a pink Hume shirt that said LOVE on it in huge letters. "Or red! Or brown. Or black and white. But never brown. Brown is a nasty color, like my sick sister who's on my back."

I muttered apologies as I scanned my driver's license. As I finished I told the woman may God bless her and went into my own world to pray for her as I walked out to my car.

I didn't know what to tell the woman. I saw her hurts, her pains, her soul. She was not some homeless bum, scum of the earth, as a lot of people would see her, especially when they noticed the forms she was filling out were social security. No, she was beautiful, made in the image of my God who is jealous for my love and affections. And hers, too. But I couldn't bring myself to compare the pains of depression for a year or two to being on the streets, desolate, for fourteen years. I didn't know what to tell this woman. And as I turned the key in my car, the word schedule rang out heavy, not proud as before, but as a burden. If only I could run back in and hug this woman, offer her a smoothie, ask to talk, at least tell her I would be praying for her. But, no, I had places to be...