Lighting the First Candle
Today I took part in what has become a holiday tradition over the past six years: The Annual Homeless Persons’ Memorial Service. This may not sounds like a very pleasant tradition, but it has become something I look forward to year after year.
This one was just a little different.
I arrived early to the sanctuary I have walked into hundreds of times. In fact, I was married in this same spot. A friendly face asks if I would like to light a candle during the service to remember one of those who passed away this year living on our streets. Per tradition, I say yes and walk to my seat.
As the service begins, movers and shakers from all over town enter the room. Even some of our local elected officials make their way to their seats, some holding a candle just like me. I remember the first Homeless Person’s Memorial Service I ever went to. There were maybe 25 of us there and I had to hold two candles, one of which was John Doe. Today there are more that 200 people filling the space and every name is known.
The service begins and several pastors take to the podium to share a blessing, a passage of scripture, or a prayer. We all turn to our bulletin to read the names, ringing a bell in remembrance as a representative from the gathered attendees is to walk up, light a candle, and stand up front. I scramble to find my candle as I realize the name assigned is the first one on the list. As the name is read, I begin my walk from the back row to light the first of many candles. I did not know this person I was representing, but they were a part of our history, someone’s friend or family member, and a neighbor in my community.
In that moment, this felt like no big deal. I stand in a corner, behind a giant Christmas Tree that decorates the sanctuary. But as I am listening to the names being remembered, I hear a familiar name. It is someone I have known for 4 years and whom I haven’t seen in at least 8 months.
A sudden wave of shock flows over me and I am ashamed.
This is someone who was homeless, from a family that no longer trusted him, who struggled with addiction every day. He loved to tell jokes, often inappropriate ones, and laugh. Even if you didn’t understand the joke. He always wore the same blue hat as he told stories of growing up in the deep south. He shared whatever he had with anyone in need. And he was gone.
Ashamed. I had been so wrapped up in my life I didn’t even know he had passed. Someone whom I used to talk to more frequently than I talk to my family was gone and I would never here that laugh again.
As names are being read, there are others I recognize. Some I know well, others by reputation, others I met only once, and many whom I will never know. At this point I am biting the inside of my lip trying to hold back any sign I might cry. I focus on things around me to help: the heat of the candle on my face, the sound of shuffling feet, the creaking of the floor, the ringing bell, the crowd of people that suddenly filled the front of the room. That helps a little and tides me over until we are finished going through the very long list.
I have one thought at this point: I could have done better.
Better for my homeless friend who passed away. Better for those names I didn’t even know. Better for my neighbors. Better for my friends. Better for my family. And better for myself.
I’m not sure what being better looks like. But one thing I know is our homeless neighbors and friends deserve better than to be remembered and recognized just once a year. We have made great strides as a community to combat homelessness, to make sure that everyone is cared for in a unique way. But we are not there yet. There is still work to do.
We could have all done better.
