City of Brotherly Love? Part II

Carl is a heroin addict. I know this because he told me. Actually he told me he had just shot up about five or ten minutes ago. We were in a neighborhood called Somerset. According to the group we were working with that day it is the worst drug corner in Philadelphia. Police had a mobile unit set up and rode around on bikes. When the cop disappeared around the corner a flurry of activity picked up until a spotter saw the police coming again. We were there handing out sack lunches and listening to people's stories.

Carl was the first person I met as we piled out of the van. He was more than happy to take the lunch as he hadn't eaten that day. He wondered why we were there, in Somerset, at night, talking with heroin addicts. I just said we were there because God loved us and we wanted to spread a little bit of that love, if only with a pb&j and an open ear. At this point Carl started crying and asking God why He would love a heroin addict and a failed father like him. At first I wanted to say something to him, to help him understand that love a little more, but Carl had already clasped his hands, tucked them to his chin and through a sobbing voice thanked Jesus for that love. I've said thank you for your love. I think at times, very dark times, I've said it out of all sorts of desperation and craving, but Carl cried out from the bottom of a barrel surrounded by needles and self-hatred. I don't know that I've ever seen such genuine, raw, worship of God.

Carl started to sway back and forth as if losing his balance, then he started actually losing his balance. We helped him to the ground where his eyes rolled back into his head as he convulsed. A friend of his came over and told us he has these caesuras every so often and that we shouldn't call the ambulance, Carl wouldn't want that. After about thirty seconds of kneeling over Carl, feeling his shoulder's weight convulsing on my foot, he rolled over and vomited up the half sandwich he had eaten on the sidewalk. After a couple of minutes we helped him back up and started the conversation all over again, "Why are you here?" This time the question was more about disbelief than curiosity. I repeated my previous answer, which sent him into another bout of praises to God. As he hugged me and buried his head in my chest, in my incomplete love I was disgusted by the thought of his vomit rubbing off on my leather jacket. In the face of the urger to push him away I forced myself to embrace him more. Carl then asked who we were and why we were there. His short term memory and sense of reality was shot, which only makes me think of his praise as more genuine.

Allow me to explain.

The only surgery I ever had was the removal of my wisdom teeth. This being my first time going under, I was rather nervous about saying something stupid in my state of anestesia, especially because the nurse administering the drugs was rather stunning. She had freckles; I'm a sucker for freckles. As I counted backwards from ten I yelled at myself to keep my mouth shut. There is something unnerving about the prospect that your darkest thoughts might be unearthed.

After what felt like three minutes later, I started coming out of the fog. I was sitting in an office with my mother and the cute nurse with freckles. We were talking about after surgery items, like keeping mass amounts of gauze in my mouth and not chewing gum for a while lest it bust open my stitches or get stuck in the new holes in my head. And as the doctor rambled on I started regaining my memory and realized what happened as soon as I came to in the OR.

Freckles: "Hey there. How are you feeling?" *said with a voice that would sail a thousand ships*

Me: "Uh," yawn "Good. I didn't say anything stupid did I?"

Freckles: *adorable giggle* "No. No you didn't. Those were your first words."

Me: (Thinking to myself, but apparently out loud) "Good, I was afraid I was going to say something embarrassing. You know since your so hot."

Back in the room with my mother and Freckles I fought the urge to palm my face. I stopped looking her in the eyes. The point is, I think, that the things we establish in our sane moments are revealed in our delusions, which makes me think that what meant more than anything in the world to Carl was the outlandish idea that God loved his heroin pumping heart.

P.S.

It comforts me to know that there is a man named Harry who heads down to that corner with his wife every Friday night with a sack lunch and words of love for Carl. Harry has already helped Carl's sister get into rehab and he continues to encourage Carl to do the same. Harry, who formerly visited Somerset as a customer, works with a group called Inner City Missions (www.innercitymissions.org) which is run by people from that neighborhood who were once part of the drug problem but now desire to see people freed from the chains that once held them.