Bye, Bye Sophie

I've always had a heart for the underdog. I'm fortunate to have a job that allows me to "live into" my passion. Everyday I get to do something that I love and believe in. In Matthew 25, Jesus talks about separating the righteous from the unrighteous as a shepherd separates sheep from goats. The difference in the two groups will be determined by how we have treated "the least of these." The righteous group will feed the hungry and thirsty, clothe the naked, visit the sick and imprisoned and take in the stranger. The unrighteous group will not. Jesus made it clear that when we minister to the unwanted, the unlovely and those on the outside looking in, that we are ministering to him. That's good enough for me.

“Miggy transit! Train tracks! Arista tomato pop! You don't win if you don't get nothing. It's been a long time since you got crushed. She ain't nothing but a tadpole! Bye bye Sophie. That's who did it. You watch. He a scientist. She walked out when she found out. She don't miss nothing. Cobalt needle. Synthetic? Synthetic! Sophie's in the mix. She bought them again, true lips. They wanna know where it's at. Carl! Carl! Plaza dalmation!”

Kenosha is mentally ill. Long before we opened the church to the homeless, Kenosha would knock on the door and ask to come in. He would sit on an old pew outside my office, rock back and forth and talk…not to himself, but to the voices that he obviously hears in his head. A friend of mine wrote down the above conversation one day while Kenosha was here. Some days he would laugh, some days he would cry. But every day that he visited brought elaborate conversations with the voices. Some days he would come in angry and curse everyone. Some days he was just hungry and needed a sack lunch. One day he told me that he loved the diamonds that I wear on my legs.

Kenosha is a young man, late 20’s or early 30’s, lost in a world of schizophrenia. He wears what he can find or what is given to him. When I see him in downtown Jackson, he is usually walking down the middle of the street. I wonder if he has family and where they are. I wonder if they know what shape he is in or if they even care. I worry that he will be hit by a car or that someone will mug him. I worry when I don’t see him for several weeks. When he’s not around, I miss hearing his conversations. He has better visits and is better engaged with his imaginary friends than most of us are with our real friends. Sometimes when I think of Kenosha, I have a strong urge to yell out, “Miggy transit, miggy transit” in his honor. I guess that is sort of a solidarity thing. He still comes by our day shelter every month or so. I'm always glad to see him when he walks in. We are connected in our disconnection….I think that is called being friends.