see muddy, messed-up Thomas sitting curbside, drinking from dented pop cans left half-full in trash bins, the quickest assumption made is that “he’s a problem.” He looks like a problem. Smells like a problem. For sure, he and all those like him are a problematic black eye on tourism. A problem for store owners, city council, family restaurants and fancy hotels. Some think he’s the mayor’s problem. Some think he’s the police’s problem. Provincial problem. Federal problem. Maybe he was the liquor store’s problem? The next-door neighbour who looked the other way’s problem? The teacher who didn’t report the obvious bruises’ problem? The downsizing employer who laid off his dad’s problem? The hospital that couldn’t cure his sick mom’s problem? The church at the end of his street’s problem? Messy, messed-up Thomas was the poster boy for pass-the-buck finger-pointing from every direction. He just thought he was a kid tired of getting beat up in his kitchen. Until he left. Then people made sure he knew what he really was. Not sure of whose. But sure of what.
A big problem!
But what about his story! His incredible story! It is his. The story of a heart that should be a brick but never hardened. The story of salvaging love and keeping promises. The story of broken bottles, broken limbs and a broken heart. His, his and his. All parts of his story. One of only two things that any of us possess that is truly priceless. One is our time. The other is our story. Each one one-of-a-kind. No less than the sleepy man on public transit, the sweet girl doing her best with simple mathematics or the wealthy teenagers looking for something more. The ones I jump to conclusions over. The good, the bad and the ugly. They all have a story. Their own story.
Only days later, Hurricane Katrina devastated the delta expanses while terrorizing the Northwest Gulf of Mexico and hypnotizing an entire continent. The worst natural disaster on record in the United States of America. Thomas and I watched it on CNN through an electronics store window, alarmed at the pictures and headlines. Unable to hear the reports, aghast at the images, we followed the headers at the top of the screen. Thomas was in tears. Not the same desperate tears of stabbing grief shed days earlier. Thoughtful, quiet tears.
Two days after Katrina’s assault on the deep south, Thomas spotted me coming up from the subway tunnel.
He ran towards me excitedly, “Tim, Tim, I need your help!”
At last! These are the words cherished most by me. Symbols of trust and signs of hope.
I nodded and shrugged my shoulders, “Sure!”
My mind began to race. Which shelter? Which contact? Maybe Evergreen’s Health Centre first? It’s the best. Maybe Covenant House next? A roof, a bed. I was readying my arsenal of help suggestions for baby step number one.
But before I could say a thing, he lifted his hand towards me. In it was a weathered old coffee cup. A Tim Horton’s coffee cup; the contemporary symbol of Canadiana from farm gates to skyscrapers, coast to coast. It was filled with change.
Dimes, pennies, nickels, quarters and the Canadian coins that make panhandling a tad more promising—one dollar “loonies” and two dollar “toonies.” They rattled and slid side-to-side just below the brim as he shook his hand proudly. I looked at him curiously as he waved the cup in front of me, gesturing for me to take it. He grinned wide, enjoying the suspense he held over me. His smile was toothy and bright, and his eyes were more alive than I had ever seen them.
Finally, with his other hand, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of ribbed cardboard, about the size of a shoebox top. He held it beside the coffee cup, only inches from my face.
With poetic beauty, in big scratchy letters created by the feverish dedication of scribbling a ballpoint back and forth over and over again, it read:
“For Katrina’s homeless, because it hurts to lose everything.”
The help he wanted? For me to take him to the bank. Just to make sure they would let him in so he could give it to the teller. That was it.
So I did. I took him. There was a long line. We waited for our turn, taking small steps every few minutes through the velvet-rope maze. The people in front of us and behind us kept a ridiculous distance away. Thomas pretended not to notice.
Finally we were next. He placed the cup on the counter in front of the teller. She looked down at it and wrinkled up her nose. Then looked up at him. Bewildered, she cocked her head and glanced at me. I tugged the sign out of Thomas’s back pocket and laid it on the counter beside the cup. The teller’s eyes welled up, and she smiled gently. She lifted the cup carefully with both hands and nodded.
“Can you add it to what’s been collected,” Thomas asked like a wide-eyed little boy.
“I will,” the teller promised softly. “Yes, I will.”
We turned. We walked away.
This is Thomas’s story. This is who Thomas is. Who he really is. This is who I need to be, who we all need to be. This is the personification of Kierkegaard’s brilliant and simple description of hope; a boy—a boy with nothing to his name—passionate about the possibility of making a difference. Regardless of the circumstances and obstacles.
The hot days grew cool, and the cool days grew cold. Thomas braved the change of seasons with a sense of newness. Something changed inside of him when his heart broke for others, regardless of his own plight. In his own brokenness he found his identity. Thomas found the best of who he was, and refused to ignore it. The best of who God had made him. An authentic, beautiful identity that people spend a lifetime looking for. One only ever found by sacrificing. No one needed the money in that coffee cup more than Thomas.
He took independent steps towards wellness. He began saying quirky and inspirational things like “God has a plan, y’know?” At first just to tease and appease me, for sure. But not much time passed before he said it with conviction. He secured a room all on his own. Then a better room and some financial assistance. Then some work. All without my help. God had led me to do but one important thing early in the process. That one thing was simply to be in the presence of Thomas’s astounding compassion and generosity. To receive the gift of knowing and being with Thomas. Ultimately, just to stand beside a poor boy in front of a total stranger while he gladly surrendered his tiny portion of wealth.
Thomas moved himself west just before Christmas. All with his own earned resources. He wanted to follow some hunches on his sister’s whereabouts.
But two weeks before he left I saw him sitting outside of Toronto’s world-class Hospital For Sick Children. I was surprised to see him there. It wasn’t his common turf, and he had not needed to wait on loose change for some time.
The snow was falling lightly, the moment fixed for Norman Rockwell. I stopped about two meters in front of Thomas when my eyes caught sight of the little sign resting beside the coffee cup in front of his crossed legs:
“Donations for Sick Kids. No one should ever lose a sister.”
It wasn’t about the money. He had his own. It was about giving other people the opportunity to participate in hope as he understood it. It was about Thomas’s own turnabout, what triggered it, and his wanting to make it contagious.
Some saw a beggar sitting outside the hospital that day. Some were sure they saw a scam. Many paid no mind as they trudged past a typical downtown object, a cityscape prop on par with a fire hydrant, park bench or trash can. Very few saw one made in the image of God. And none suspected a passion for what is possible.
Most people walking by, if they took notice at all,
