THERE ARE NIGHTS I can’t sleep, even up here where only the yipping of coyotes disturbs the quiet. When I get up and gaze out the window, I can see the silver sheen of lake beneath the moon. The cabin creaks. The dog pads across the living room to rub her cold nose along my shin. I can see the shadowy darts and dips of bats as they hunt above the yard. A furtive house cat prowls the line where mountain grass nudges the cultivated space of lawn. On nights like this I read or write or sit in the rocking chair by the window to lull myself into sleepiness again. I’d rather be sleepless here than anywhere else in the world.
I haven’t always had a haven like this. Once, when I was homeless and in the depths of alcoholism, I woke up without my shoes. They were lined winter shoes, and I’d bought them with the last of the money I had. I’d set them at the foot of my blankets when I lay down to sleep, and in the morning they were gone. It was November in Ontario. Sleet was falling, and the streets were wet and cold. I made my way to a St. Vincent de Paul store. It wasn’t open that early, but when the man inside saw me standing in the doorway, shivering in my sock feet, he let me in right away. The warm air made me shiver even harder. The man made me a cup of coffee and offered me a blanket to wrap myself in. He fed me a sandwich and a bowl of soup, then led me down the aisles and made sure I found a pair of shoes that fit.
The man let me sit in the store until I had recovered my body warmth. We talked about hockey and some jobs he’d heard about that I could apply for. He was friendly, genuinely interested in me, and when I was ready to go he gave me five dollars and invited me to come back again for coffee and a chat. I left that store with a new warm jacket, dry clothes and a good sturdy pair of shoes. But I also left with a thankful heart and a feeling that I wanted to repay his kindness someday.
Eventually my life changed. I cobbled together some part-time work, and that led to a full-time gig in a warehouse. It wasn’t long before I had a room and had pulled together a small pile of possessions. But I held on to those shoes. I wore them until the soles were thin and the heels canted severely to one side. Even when I could afford a better pair, I kept the old shoes on a mat by the door of my apartment, through several moves. Now and then I’d buff them up and wear them on a day I had errands to run. They were a symbol for me of how the world could be.
Many of the tenants in the rooming house Debra and I run are former street people. It’s a struggle communicating with them sometimes. Most of the people who are there are so direly poor and neglected that they’ve forgotten what they deserve from life. Many have lost the ways of graciousness and gratitude. Their speech is stilted and often uttered in whispers. But hardship can happen to anyone. In these turbulent economic times, a lot of us are just a few bad decisions—or a few pieces of back luck—away from being there, too. Remembering that brings us closer as a human family.
Helping someone else can be as simple as opening a door. It can be as easy as listening in a genuine way. And that’s the way we’ll change the world—one person, one situation, one act of kindness at a time.