All I had to give was jelly beans. I could’ve given Twinkies, but jelly beans seemed more appropriate — more colorful and diverse, like love.
I didn’t give them to my wife, because I’m not a very big Valentine’s Day person, at least not since the days in grade school when we used to buy the bulk packs of He-Man cards and go around the classroom, putting them in decorated shoe boxes — because, of course, nothing says “I really like you” like the power of Grayskull!
And jelly beans.
The man I gave those to is a thin child of a man with a kind-looking face, if you are able to see past the fact that his eyes point in two different directions, eyes that I once saw filled with tears when he dropped by to tell me that his wife had left him, and taken the kids, because she had found someone who could provide for them. Oddly, even crushed and crying as he was, he seemed to understand.
Next time I saw him, those eyes were brighter. He had met someone else, someone he said that he could take care of; in fact, they seem to take care of each other, despite their limited resources — limited in resources, but not necessarily un-resourceful, for even now they live in a house — probably not their house, but one that has sat empty with a “for sale” sign in the front yard, with whose owner they either have some sort of deal that keeps them out of the cold, or in which they are merely squatting. Either way, on mornings such as this, I’m glad I know they have a roof over their head, but then again, it’s not my house — that would probably change things
I once dropped a box of food by that house, where they had been sitting on the porch waiting — a box provided by anonymous church members every year to provide a Christmas dinner to someone in need, and certainly well delivered in this case, for often times you only get a mumbled thank-you, and a quickly closed doors when these boxes are delivered. Sometimes you don’t even get a word. This past Christmas, she gave me a hug — and a novelty stuffed, flightless bird, which now sits on a shelf in my office.
The last time I saw him, he came by just to tell me how much they had appreciated that Christmas dinner, how they were doing okay — still together. Yes, they had their problems. Lots of problems. But he was helping her with the sores on her feet. She was helping him learn to take his drivers test. And all he wanted was something sweet to give her for Valentines Day. He had been to the church where they pass out the homeless buckets, but they didn’t have anything sweet for his sweet heart.
So I gave him jelly beans. Jelly beans that had sat on my desk, hopefully not for so long that they were stale. Jelly beans that I thought I liked more than eating had actually proved. Jelly beans that were sweet enough for him to make her happy on Valentines Day.
I was humbled by that, still am, especially when in the ministry you can grow so jaded in what people ask from you as the pastor of a church — almost demand, sometimes — so jaded that just the other day I had to hang up on someone asking for something, hung up because when it came down to it, they lied to me.
But I don’t think this man lies — oh sure, maybe about their living situation. But when he talks about how much he loves her, so much that he just wanted to get her something sweet for Valentines Day — that makes you believe, in this whole messed up world, where houses sit empty and people are forced to risk anything to stay off the street, that there is love, shown in simple ways.
Like jelly beans.
