Your Heart His Home

Some years ago I developed this little habit when traveling alone: When boarding an airplane or a train, I would ask the Lord to give me the least desirable seat, the one no one else wanted, next to the crying baby, for example. I cannot count how many times I have been seated next to a young mother traveling with a small child.

Bedouins are an exceptionally hardy, hospitable people. I learned this in the Holy Land from my friend Tony, a Catholic archaeologist who grew up in Jerusalem and is presently completing his dissertation on King David, examining his life in the rock and ruins. Tony tells me that he will sometimes employ Bedouins to work on his archaeological digs, especially during the blistering summer months.

Jeremiah is homeless. He is a slight man and slanted to the right. Some days he has a pronounced limp — arthritis in the knee. He’s lost most of his teeth. I first met Jeremiah some time ago on my way into work at my highway exit where he stands and holds a cardboard sign at the stoplight: “Homeless, hungry.” One day I rolled down my window, asked his name and offered him a few dollars that he accepted with a two-tooth grin. He asked my name and we shook hands. He thanked me and blessed me and the light turned green.

When I first moved into the cozy little house I rent, my yard — especially the backyard — was a bit of a disaster. A double-lot and long-neglected by previous tenants, what green there was was mostly weeds, and there were large, barren spots flooded with mud that bore a striking resemblance to the mud flats of Alaska’s Chugach Sound. (Just think “reeeally muddy.”)