15 minutes late

Lesson #1: If it's 2:00 in the morning, it's stupid to try to set an alarm clock (especially if you've already slept for an hour and a half) because you'll probably be so disoriented that you'll set it for the wrong time regardless of how confident you are that you did it right.

This morning, my alarm went off at 6:30, and I felt very confused; wasn't I supposed to be leaving at 6:30? Oh yeah, I was. My brain knew that "6:30" was an important time, so it's the time I set my alarm for when I temporarily woke up at 2am. Great. Late again.

Lesson #2: There's a very thin line that separates us from homelessness. I'm not being jovial now. I'm serious. I think we live day to day quite unaware of this line, yet there it is. I suppose for some it's a bit thicker than for others, but for everyone, it's still only a line.

I got to the homeless shelter 15 minutes late, due to my poor judgment with the alarm clock last night. I was supposed to carpool with some folks in my apartment complex, but because of my tardiness, I drove alone. We were going to be preparing breakfast to serve when the shelter opened in a couple of hours, something I had never done before. I pulled up next to a red brick building and glared at the clock. It was telling me how many minutes I was inadequate. 15. I shifted my gaze to my rear-view mirror and watched the door of the shelter open. One by one, people trickled out and scattered onto the sidewalk to face the day. I'm so naive that I locked myself into my car as I watched. I feel pathetic thinking about it now. I felt such a giant gap between me and these people who were leaving this building.

I have this thing about being late where I'd rather not show up at all than show up 15 minutes late. I'm pretty sure I inherited this particular neurosis from my dad. In any event, I sat there and watched myself become 22 minutes late. I shifted the car into gear and drove away. Guilt surfaced, and so I drove back.

I didn't know where I was supposed to go, or whom I was supposed to be with, but I had to at least try. I paced across the street to that red brick building, trying to look like I knew what I was doing... though I felt completely unsure of myself. Caught up in my own naivety once again, I glanced back at my car to see if anyone was breaking in. No one was. I tried door after door on that side of the shelter. Locked, locked, locked. I walked around the corner to the other side, passing through a few clusters of people who were beginning to congregate outside (which admittedly made me a little nervous), but every door I tugged on wouldn't open. At the foot of the last door sat a beautiful woman in a weathered green sweater. She looked up at me as I pulled on the handle. She didn't say anything. She didn't even look very curious about why I was trying to get into this locked building. I was simply something else that she would look at today. I suddenly felt a little less awkward and and little more like the gap I first sensed between her and me was gone... it was a gap that existed mostly in my mind.

But I couldn't get into the building. Thwarted, and now almost forty minutes late, I walked back across the street and down the sidewalk towards my car. A man was sorting through some things in a shopping cart. As I passed him, he called out to a woman a few paces down the road. "Jackie! Come back! I found a size six here!" She ignored him and pulled a blanket up over her shoulders as she walked away. He shouted her name again, to which she turned around and yelled, "Leave me alone!" As I neared her, I noticed thick socks on her feet. She had no shoes. The man called out her name again and again. "Wait! Size six shoes! Come back!" but she didn't slow. I don't know why she refused his shopping-cart shoes, but at that moment, I felt very aware of the shoes on my feet. I felt very aware of the sound my key made as I unlocked the door. I was standing there between this car I hadn't really earned and this woman who had a blanket but no shoes. Juxtaposition stung. I piled into the car, and through the passenger window I saw her feet shuffle down the sidewalk. As I drove off, the man walked purposefully down the road, a pair of once-white sneakers in hand. He continued to call out to her as he walked.

I don't know if he ever got Jackie to put on those shoes, but I thought about it the rest of the way home. Walking up the stairs to my apartment door and welcome mat felt very different this time.

The line felt thin.