Dear Evelyn: A Memoir

Dear Evelyn,

A Memoir

By Chad Matthews

Copyright 2011 Chad Matthews

Smashwords Edition

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For Marjorie, Eisley, & Baby #2

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Table of Contents:

The Beginning

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

December

January

Letter to Evelyn

Other Information

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The Beginning

On the evening of April 12, 2005, the sky was clear and the air cool in Shreveport, Louisiana. As I stood under a busy overpass, it didn't occur to me that tonight would prove to be life-changing--rarely do people realize when something like that is happening. Often these moments are shrouded in normalcy, feeling no different than the moments when you're filling up your gas tank or checking out at a grocery store.

That night I was enjoying my first date with Marjorie--a mysterious artist who wore a pastel-colored dress from Goodwill and tied her hair up with a paisley bandana. She cared nothing for frivolous things, instead focusing her attention on the beauty of God's creation and trying to capture a glimpse of it through painting, drawing and photography. Four minutes into the date, I knew that I loved her and wanted to spend my entire life getting to know her.

Throughout the evening, my focus rarely shifted from her--the world around me was blurry and muted. As our date was coming to an end and we were walking back to the car, I took her hand in mine. The dark skies lit up with fireworks and confetti flew in every direction in celebration of our blossoming love. In the midst of the love celebration, I noticed two shadowy figures emerge from the dimly lit overpass I parked under. I opened Marjorie's door in a hurry, hoping to avoid any confrontation with the obviously homeless couple. I just thought, Whatever they ask for, I'll say no. I had no experience with homeless men and women, primarily because I avoided them at all cost. I wasn't being rude or hateful; I was being safe. Every homeless man and woman is a dangerous, self-destructive addict, right? And if you offer to help them in any way, what you're actually doing is enabling them, right? The best thing to do was to say no to whatever it is they are asking for, ignore them completely. This, I was told, is how homeless men and women turn their lives around: by being ignored and neglected to the point to where they're forced to change their own lives. It sounds ridiculous now, but at the time, it made sense.

How you doin' tonight, sir? the man asked me shyly. He was around five-foot-eight, with sporadic gray hair and bushy eyebrows. His pant legs were ripped and caked with grime, his shirt thin and oversized. The woman standing next to him was short, right at five feet, with curly brown hair and a beautiful smile. She wore a bedraggled skirt smeared with mud, a white V-neck T-shirt and a thick, bright blue cardigan missing buttons. My name is Evelyn, the woman said with her hand extended, and this here is my husband Lee.

Marjorie and I spent the next two hours standing under the overpass with Evelyn and Lee, listening to stories, laughing and having our hearts changed. Lee was full of wisdom and laughter, but it's Evelyn that I remember most. Though she didn't know me, I could tell she loved me. She asked about my dreams and passions, listening closely to my answers, the things I wished and hoped for. I found myself confessing struggles and heartaches to her, only to have her encourage me and remind me that God is always God, in good times and bad. Evelyn and Lee didn't ask for money or food--or anything, for that matter. It was as if they approached us so they could love us, encourage us, and remind us who we were in Christ.

Before the night was over, Evelyn wrapped her arms around me, put one hand on the back of my head and pulled it to her shoulder. For nearly two minutes we stood connected, holding each other in the glow of a streetlamp.

Nothing would ever be the same.

February

February 1st

This morning, as the frigid February air brushed against my face, I watched my dad and brother load my maroon leather couch into the back of a U-haul. That's everything, my mom said as she came out of the apartment carrying my Ghost Busters blanket. I walked back into my apartment and stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the empty space and trying to remember every moment there. I looked at the kitchen and thought about when Stephen got tomato sauce all over the cabinets trying to cook for a girl who didn't like him. I looked in the dining room, where Aaron and I tried to record an album using nothing but kitchen utensils and pottery. I walked to the bedroom and remembered the time I broke down after my great-grandmother passed away. I'm making the worst mistake of my life, I said loudly enough for my voice to echo. In the last three weeks, I've quit my job, broken the lease on my apartment, and informed my wife that for seven of the next twelve months, we'll be homeless.

Almost three years ago, I met a homeless woman named Evelyn under a bridge in Shreveport, Louisiana. Since then, my life has been a wreck, my heart in a perpetual state of brokenness for the homeless men and women trying to survive on the streets of this country. Not long after I met Evelyn, I started researching homelessness and discovered that nearly four million men, women, and children experience homelessness every year in America. The more research I did, the harder it became to continue the life I was living. Where do they sleep? What do they eat? Are they lonely? Do they feel loved? Questions that I didn't have answers to bombarded me.

For almost two years I tried everything I could to forget about Evelyn and what I'd learned about homelessness and poverty, but I couldn't. I got involved in church league softball, with practices twice a week and two games a week. I started making films, spending hours a day filming and editing, and even started playing online video games, investing entire days into leveling up my characters and exploring virtual words. When none of those things worked, I invested one thousand dollars into opening a music venue, only to have it shut down two months later because I couldn't figure out how to make money from it. Regardless of what I did, I couldn't forget about Evelyn and how my life changed the night I met her.

So I started searching the Bible, hoping for clarity and direction. What I found was that homelessness shouldn't exist. Jesus called his followers to love without hesitation or reservation, to love in such a way that is always serving and giving. In Luke 10:25-37, Jesus tells the story of the Good Samaritan, and how he responded to the needs of the broken Jewish man lying on the side of the road. Jesus says that we should love God with our whole heart, strength, soul, and mind, and that we should love our neighbor. Thinking about loving my neighbor, I realized that true love always responds to the needs around it. I learned that I was far too selfish to love like the Good Samaritan; I was more like the priest in the story, looking the other way when I saw someone in need, making excuses along the way.

Two weeks ago, on my way to McDonald's, I noticed an eighties-model Lincoln sitting in the middle of a busy intersection. At first, the Lincoln just sat there in the way of other vehicles, blocking the intersection. After about thirty seconds, two elderly women got out of the car, shrugging their shoulders and pointing at their dead Lincoln. There were at least forty other people at the intersection, most of them frustrated and honking their horns, thinking that somehow the sound would magically remove the Lincoln from the intersection. For a moment, the women just stood there, unsure of what to do. Then they got behind the old, heavy Lincoln, and tried to push it, with an orchestra of horns playing around them.

When I saw the women trying to push the car across the road themselves, I sobbed. I quickly left the McDonald's parking lot to make my way to the intersection. By the time I got there, though, they had already pushed the vehicle to the curb. Not one person responded to them in their time of need. No one loved them enough to stop and help. I decided at the very moment that no one loves the way Jesus commanded us to love, because if we did, we would always respond to need. There wouldn't be any homelessness, because we would encourage them, invite them into our lives, and love them back to a normal life. Our love for our neighbor shouldn't leave room for need to exist. That's the day I decided I was going to quit my job and spend a year responding to the needs of every homeless man, woman, and child I could find in America.

I don't have any plans, other than to walk the streets of each city I visit and spend time with any man or woman in need that I can find. I'll feed them, give them water, clothe them, listen to their stories and befriend them. I'm scared, because I've spent the last four years as a youth pastor, hanging out with kids and planning summer trips to Six Flags. I have no idea how I'm going to support my wife, or myself, for that matter. The only homeless person I've ever spent time with is Evelyn, so I'm not sure how to go about encountering people on the street. I have no idea how this is going to work, but I know in my heart that I have to do it.

Marjorie and I spent the afternoon unpacking the U-Haul, putting all of our belongings in a small storage building outside of town. It felt like we were putting away our old life, and saying goodbye to the comforts of living day to day in a predictable world. For the first time, I'm putting all of my faith in the Lord, believing that He will lead and sustain us. I'm nervous, but I can't help feeling like I'm about to begin an epic story, one that I hope will end well.

February 3rd

Over the last few days, I've discovered that not many people have faith in the love that Jesus talks about. Well-meaning friends have urged me to reconsider my plans, telling me that the majority of the homeless population needs professional help. Others showed concern for my safety, telling me God would never call me into harms way. I want to say to them, The Lord is my shepherd, whom shall I fear? But the truth is I'm scared of being in harms way. Just last night, I had a terrible dream that involved me being beheaded by some gangster clown man who was roaming the city streets, killing everyone in sight. All of his teeth were missing, and he had a terrible onion-y odor about him.

Can I blame people for thinking I'm making the wrong decision? When asked about the purpose of the journey, I have a very difficult time adequately explaining what we'll be doing. We're going to travel the country and love on homeless people! I say to people. Maybe what they're saying is true, and I'm a crazy, twenty-five-year-old going through some quarter-life crisis. Everything I know about homelessness I learned through Google. Though I've tried to find one, there is no How to Minister to Homeless Men and Women Bible study. I'm not trained to deal with the mentally ill, but I did spend two years as a pastor of junior high students, which has to count for something. Marjorie and I got married seven months ago, and here I am, quitting my job so I can drag her across the country to hang out with men and women living on the streets. Am I being a good husband? Are people going to think I'm a bum for quitting my job? Regardless of what people say or think, I know in my heart that God has called me to the streets to spend time with the brokenhearted. I'm as sure of this as I've ever been about anything.

Even though my fears seem to grow by the hour, they dwarf in comparison to the passion I feel deep in my soul to spend time with people like Evelyn. The more time I spend in the Word, the more I believe that love is the answer. Not just any love, but the type of love Jesus commanded us to practice. I believe with all my heart that I'll be able to love and serve people into the presence of the Lord. I believe that I'll not only feed the hungry, give water to the thirsty, and clothe the naked, but that I'll have the opportunity to befriend the friendless, encourage the discouraged, and share the good news with those who have never heard it.

I know I'm unprepared by the world's standards, but that's what makes this journey beautiful. The anticipation growing inside me feels like it's about to burst through my chest. At twenty-five years old, I've never experienced anything else but this small town. I've never been away from home longer than two weeks. I don't know that I would consider myself sheltered, but with this journey looming, it certainly feels that way.

I feel like a character in a Zach Braff film, stumbling through a coming-of-age story, trying to discover who I am and what I believe. Can you come of age when you're twenty-five years old? Do you even acknowledge when you're coming of age, or does it just happen?

Eleven more days until my story begins.

February 9th

When I was thirteen, I asked God to answer a prayer by playing my favorite song on the radio. God, I said, standing in the middle of my room, if you want me to date this girl, make the next song on the radio I'll Be Missing You by Puff Daddy. I closed my eyes tightly and turned the volume up on my stereo. This right here (tell me why) goes out to everyone who has lost someone they truly loved. Check it out. Tears fell from my eyes as I jumped up and down in my room, excited that God had answered my prayer. I called the girl, and told her that God said we should date.

Since then, I've always listened for the voice of God in odd places. Just last month, I heard him speaking to me through the hoot of an owl that was perched on a tree above my bedroom window.

Earlier this afternoon, while I was watching Sportscenter, I heard a car honk outside. I felt like it was God wanting to share something with me. So I put down the remote control to the television, slipped on my flip-flops, and went to the porch. I sat in a rocking chair and told God I was ready to hear whatever it was he wanted to tell me. After five minutes of rocking, a memory of something that had happened five years before crept into my head.

In the winter of 2002, around the time I started believing that Jesus was real, I was sitting uncomfortably in a pew at church on a Sunday morning, fiddling with my watch and wondering how long the sermon was going to last. Before the pastor started preaching, another staff member approached the podium. He looked uncomfortable and a little confused about what to say.

Um, we just received a random phone call from a homeless man. He's staying at a hotel five miles away, and he says that he needs someone, anyone, to come talk to him. He said he needs help, so if anyone wants to go talk to this man, please let me know, and I'll give you the address and room number. Thank you.

Without giving it a second thought, I stood up and approached the staff member, asking for the address and room number. The staff member looked at me suspiciously. You want to go see him? he asked squinting and scrunching his nose, as if he were confused. Yes, I said, knowing that I should've said no, since I had no idea what I was doing. The hotel is Knight Hotel, and the room number is 223. Good luck, son, he said, patting me on the back. As I drove to the hotel, I tried to hype myself up, saying things like, Yeah, Jesus and me are gonna go SAVE A MAN! and other semi-religious cheers. At the time, I had never prayed out loud, and the only verse I had memorized was John 3:16, but I knew Jesus loved me, and I felt like that was something other people should know, too.

When I arrived at the Knight Hotel, room 223, I was surprised to see that several other church members had made the trip as well. This is what being a follower of Jesus looks like! I thought to myself. Thousands of possibilities about what might happen raced through my mind. Would we get this man food? Would we take him back to church with us? Would we tell him about Jesus, help him get a job, give him money for another hotel room? As we approached the door, I said a small prayer, thanking Jesus for letting me be a part of this.

The other four men that had come were elders in the church, so I thought it best if they lead the way. After only one knock, the homeless man opened the hotel room door. A strong odor of alcohol swept over me and made my eyes burn. Crushed beer cans lay on every surface. Cigarette butts covered the bedside table. After answering the door, the man sat down on the stiff hotel bed, his face in his hands. Sir, what is your name? one of the elders asked. The homeless man looked up, mumbled something, then started crying. Red streaks ran down his face, and large drops fell from his swollen eyes. Waves of compassion crashed over me as I stood motionless in the doorway of the hotel room. Are you drunk? the elder asked. We can't help you if you've been drinking. Confused, I looked around at the other men, hoping to understand. There's nothing we can do for you right now, not until you get yourself cleaned up. Get cleaned up, and we can help you. I'm sorry. And with that, the elders walked out of the hotel room. The compassion I felt moments before was crushed under the anger I felt. Surely these men don't know the same Jesus I know! I thought to myself. In his moment of despair, the homeless man had randomly called a church, begging for any help he could get. What he got was a group of men who told him that in order to get help, he needed to first clean up.

We didn't pray for the man. We didn't tell him about Jesus. We didn't hug him. We didn't encourage him or give him any money or resources. We did the exact opposite of what Jesus would've done. We neglected a man because he was too dirty, too sinful, too far gone.

I have no idea why God would remind me of that story now, almost six years later. To make me angry? Because thinking back to that story makes me angry--angry at the church and those elders who are supposed to be leaders in the church, angry that I stood there and did nothing, angry that we didn't share the love of Christ with a man who was obviously eager to hear some good news.

Where is he now? What happened after we completely neglected every need he had? I cannot imagine how alone that man felt the moment we left his hotel room.

Our journey begins in five days. I hope God gives me another chance to meet people just like the man at the hotel.

February 15th

Leaving home was much more difficult than I anticipated. Mom and Dad stood at the doorway as Marjorie and I drove off, waving a sad wave with one hand and wiping away tears with the other. I'm twenty-five years old, I thought to myself, I shouldn't be getting emotional! I opened my eyes wide, hoping that my tears would fall back into my eyelids instead of down my cheeks.

Since neither of us has any experience working with people in need and we had no idea how or where to start, we decided to spend a few months hanging out on the streets of Dallas, a city we're both familiar with. We signed a short-term lease for a little apartment outside of town, and brought almost nothing from Texarkana, just our bed and a few other necessities. I wanted to live out of our vehicle, but Marjorie convinced me otherwise: Chad, if we get a small apartment, we can invite our homeless friends to live with us, and we can throw them personal birthday parties, and I can cook dinner for them. Think about it! I liked her ideas, so I agreed to get a small place. After three or four months, we'll leave Dallas and travel the country. Hopefully.

As we drove into Dallas earlier this evening, we noticed homeless men and women on every corner, each one bundled in a colorful array of clothing, trying to keep warm. On one block we saw the entire sidewalk covered with people in sleeping bags. I don't have any idea what I'm doing, I thought to myself. My heart broke under the realization that the problem of homelessness was far greater than I had imagined. Rows upon rows of people lay on the concrete, motionless, each body touching another. I've seen those sort of things in documentaries about poverty in third world countries; I had no idea these kind of conditions existed here.

Having done research on the current condition of homelessness in America, I thought I knew what to expect, but seeing people lay flat on a concrete sidewalk on a cold February evening is something I wasn't prepared for.

To celebrate our new beginning, Marjorie and I went out to dinner, taking a short walk to a restaurant around the corner from our downtown apartment. On our way there, I hopped and skipped across the crosswalks, feeling free, and fully alive. A homeless man stood outside the restaurant, holding a sign asking for food. That man looks terrifying, I whispered to Marjorie. He was tall and slender and wore a black jumpsuit with a blue hood over his head. Instead of shaking his hand, offering him food or doing anything even remotely loving, I watched him suspiciously, expecting him to jump out and attack me at any moment. As we walked toward him, I considered what I might do if the man decided to attack us. I'll grab his arm, twist it, then kick him in the shin and the ribs at the same time, which will disorient him enough to allow Marjorie and me to get away, I thought. Howdy, sir, the man said to me, beautiful night, isn't it? I didn't reply or even acknowledge hearing him. I've quit my job and dragged my wife to Dallas so I can approach homeless men and women and