Follow a Spirit Whisper
Reed Cowan
December 16, 2019
Facebook Post
Powerful human experiences often follow a spirit whisper.
Don't you forget it.
I'm out from work, sick with the flu that has beaten me up all weekend. But I had an interview for The Homeless Project for KSNV News 3, Las Vegas that I had fought for and couldn't let myself reschedule, so I forced myself to go downtown, unshaven with messy hair, to honor the commitment to interview with a City Code Enforcement official.
Interview done, I bid farewell to my photographer and began the drive home where a warm bed and a refrigerator full of food awaits. That's when, in my periphery, I saw a 4'x3' framework covered in blankets on the sidewalk, next to a parking meter.
I felt a whisper.
"Pull over," it urged.
I answered: "No. I'm sick. I'm going home."
Again, "pull over."
I pulled over and pulled out my cell phone to call my photographer.
"Hey, can you get a little B-roll of the homeless encampment I found around the corner?" He obliged. I hung up. I put the car in drive.
Again, the whisper:
"Put the car in park. Get out. Go talk to the people inside."
This is when all the "buts" started.
"BUT I don't feel good. BUT it's not safe. BUT maybe they don't want to be bothered."
Here's the catch: Spirit doesn't heed the counsel of a "BUT."
So, I picked up my phone again.
"Justin, grab your microphone. We're going to talk to them."
We approached this humble, temporary shelter from temperatures that were in the 40's on this December day, to find a black and white cat, on a leash attached to a hand that belonged to someone just behind the dirty blankets that made a roof for someone.
"Talk to them," the voice whispered.
I spoke loud enough so as to be heard behind the cloth that separated my face from the face inside the encampment.
"Hello, my name is Reed, and I'm wondering if you would talk to me today. I'm with Channel 3."
The hand with the leash, attached to the cat, slowly revealed an arm and then a body and then a face attached to a head wearing a hat that revealed this is a US Veteran I would be talking to.
He answered: "Sure, I'll talk to you."
We exchanged pleasantries and introductions as I explained to him what News 3's THE HOMELESS PROJECT is all about.
He told me about finding the cat as a baby, abandoned and needing to be bottle-fed to survive. He told me the cat's life mattered to him, even though it was skin and bones with eyes that had not opened to the world yet.
"I fed him, because he was like me, abandoned and alone and hungry, but important, nonetheless."
We began the interview about what it's like to live on a sidewalk in a structure made of frayed tarps and blankets. He would answer, and then a female voice from behind the blankets would chime in with answers of her own. No face...just a voice.
Then again, the whisper: "Ask to come in."
I looked down at the glint of light reflecting off a large and protective knife next to the man and turned away the whisper, citing my safety and the safety of my photographer.
He could stab us once inside.
Again, the whisper. "Ask to come in."
No "but" would suffice. I asked:
"I want to ask you something that may seem bold and intrusive, and I'm sorry in advance. May I come in? May I show people where you sleep? May I show people...your home?"
The man disappeared behind the blankets and tarps to ask the woman who I only knew from her voice.
"Yes. Come in. We can make room."
Something about the words "WE CAN MAKE ROOM" struck me and I had to put my emotions in check.
I parted the blankets and got on hands and knees and followed the light that made its way through the opening of blankets, feeling the cold sidewalk underneath me and seeing the face of the woman who had spoken to me from behind the veil of worn-out fabric.
There was enough room for her, seated, him, seated and me, crouched in a corner.
She began to cry.
"I'm sorry there's no more room for you. But as you can see, it's clean. I'm clean. I promise I'm clean."
She produced a large container of water and held it up.
"I use this to bathe every day so people won't think I smell."
Again, the whisper: "Hold her hand."
This was easy. I felt love well up in me and it moved my hand on cold air to cradle and coax hers in to mine.
I held her hand and looked at her and thanked her for letting me come into her home.
"I want you to know I see you. I want you to know your home is just as important to me as my own home today and I'm honored you invited me in."
If they had had food to offer me, I'm confident they would have offered it. The did not have any to offer.
But they had their stories and offered them freely. He, an Iraqi war vet. She, a former working professional who had a back injury that led to unemployment and finally, homelessness.
She wiped tears as she shared her story.
"Christmas is really hard. I have kids, you know. And not having anywhere to host them makes me cry."
She took a moment, putting her face in her hands to compose herself.
"I have gotten so I treat Christmas like any other day because it hurts to look around at the four walls of this lean-to and know at any moment someone will complain and make us move and know this is what it has come to. But even though I try to tell myself it's just any other day, I know it's not. I know it's Christmas. I know I have to have hope."
I asked her if hoping was difficult...if hope led to more hurt.
"Yes. Hoping at times does hurt. But I keep doing it because I just want to live inside somewhere like I used to. I want people to see that I can be pretty when I'm clean and have had a shower and a place to do my hair. I'm a somebody. I have a story. I don't want to be homeless. Nobody thinks it can happen to them, but it can. I'm not a thief. I'm not dangerous. I tell people who park their cars next to the sidewalk where we camp that their car is the safest next to me because I'll protect it. I will. I'm a good person. I just want other people to see that I am. I'm a person, I have feelings."
I asked all the questions from all the angles to these people who welcomed me into their home.
I found them reasonable and intelligent and kind and understanding to the point that property owners have a right to have people respect their property, absent of squatters.
They get it. They really get it.
What they don't get, is a way out of the cycle. What escapes them, is a way out of the cold.
Letting go of her hand, I promised her I'd take their stories to my viewers and I'd devote all I have to tell Las Vegas' homeless story from all angles.
She bid me farewell asking that I ask something of all of you.
I'll put her words in all caps, hoping you read them and consider sharing this post with others.
"DON'T BE AFRAID TO KNOCK AT OUR DOOR. DON'T BE AFRAID TO SAY HELLO TO US. WE NEED PEOPLE TO SEE US AND TO NOT BE AFRAID TO COME INTO OUR LIVES AND TO SEE OUR LIVES. THAT'S MAYBE WHEN WE WILL ALL FIND A SOLUTION."
I bid them farewell and went to my car thankful for the whisper of the still, small voice that persisted to stop...to pull over...to get out of my car...to ask to talk...to ask to come in, even when everything seemed inconvenient and unsafe.
Powerful human experiences often follow a spirit whisper.
Driving away, a kind of affirmation came to me, confirming that listening to the whisper was right and accomplished the calling of the day.
Maybe the people behind the frayed and tattered boundaries, represent the essence of what existed at the heart of the Christmas Manger, when, hundreds of years ago, others followed a whisper to come kneeling.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
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