Finding Frank

I loaded up 3 big zip-lock's of warm cookies, and 3 hot, tender, good-looking cakes into the back of my Blazer. My wife and our friend Kacy (who was here for the weekend to visit my family), had hurriedly gathered the supplies and cooked them for me to join a large team from our church who were headed down to the Amarillo Civic Center to feed a meal to the Hurricane Katrina victims that flew in Sunday from New Orleans. I could not have been prouder of my church family. They have enough deserts for a month, it looked like. And we'll be returning this Thursday to feed these sweet, appreciative people again.

 

As the refugees slowly started to trickle in, I met a man who looked to be in his mid to late 60s, and I initiated conversation anxiously by asking him if he was hungry. He, equally anxious to talk, said he was and quickly informed me that he was 91 years old. I asked if he needed help, and I got to walk him through the line, carry his food to the table, and sit down with him and listen.

 

Frank was a very kind, gentle, patient man.

 

He moved from Mississippi to New Orleans in the 40s and worked in construction most of his life. He helped build the Superdome back in the day, the same Superdome that barely houses some of his New Orleans neighbors. He remembers working for 65 cents an hour. He lived on Canal street in a 5 or 6 story building on the 3rd floor and witnessed trees flying by his (thankfully, unbroken) window. Frank told me he grew up with "white folk" and it was always just fine, that they even trusted him to cash checks for them, and he would walk with 2 or 3 hundred dollars for someone else, and was always trustworthy with it. He has buried 3 wives, 2 sons, and all his siblings. One son was in the army and was killed somehow when he returned to the States, and his other son was at truck driver and died in a crash in California. He attended a Baptist church back home. He shook his head sadly at both the looting that he saw taking place in his city and that we went to war with Iraq. He met several of my friends from church, and was gracious with all of them.

 

He has no one, and no plan, but doesn't seem worried. I gave him my name and number, offered for him to stay in Amarillo, and assured him I would help. He might. He has no plan. He's working with Red Cross workers to get his monthly Social Security check sent to him here. He gets enough to pay his $400 rent back home, his bills there, and still have a little to live on. I think that's enough for him to make it here.

 

I found myself committed to sitting with Frank the whole time I was there. You know why? I could tell you that it was because there was so much to learn in this one spot I was sitting, so much experience, life, love and love lost. I could tell you that it was because with every piece of information, Frank became more and more someone I loved and cared about.  I could tell you that it just felt good to help someone. I could tell you it was because it is what I think Christ would have done. And all of that would be true...

 

 But let me 'fess up to the deeper, truer answer...I was scared to get up and meet someone else. Scared because my heart was already breaking for Frank, and I'm finding myself wanting to do whatever I can to help him. And as long as I don't meet any more of the people here, they will stay just "the people here". "The people" who I helped feed a meal to. "The people" that I've been watching pictures of on the news and reading about in the paper.

 

But if I allow another one to become who they really are to me, a personal name with a personal story, I will fall helplessly into my desire to help...my desire to do anything to help...and feel helpless. I would want to do all that was needed for each person...then I'd have to admit that I'm just unwilling, unable, or under prepared...it would leave me going home feeling helpless, and maybe even guilty for how good I have it.

 

Now forget the compassion that was initiated because of this Hurricane thing...I'm loving Frank, this sweet man, for who he is...not because of what he has recently been through. The same thing would have happened to me if I just took the time to sit with him on the porch of his 5 or 6 story tall apartment building watching people walk by on Canal Street.

 

So gets me thinking, I bet there are plenty of "Frank's" in Amarillo who should not need a Hurricane to hit their home for me to find them. They should be found by me simply because I've been commissioned to by my God, Jesus Christ, to go and find them.

 

No wonder Jesus said that unless you give up everything you have, you can't be his disciple. There is not any time to do anything else.