At the exact same time the Denver City Council approved a homeless-camping ban Monday night, I was faced with the sobering reminder that two-thirds of those who are homeless are kids.
Last night was just like any night–we were busy juggling homework, sick Bode, planting flowers, addressing Haddie’s baptism invitations, laundry and the general chaos we’ve come to (mostly) love when I received a phone call.
“My friend needs your help,” pleaded my friend Diane. “Her 18-month-old son is very sick and they need a ride to the hospital.”
Though I didn’t know the woman, I instinctively said “yes,” but with a condition: “I can drive her but she’ll need another ride back.” It was getting late, I was tired and feeling a bit sick myself. My friend agreed and gave me the contact information for this woman who was living in a ramshackle hotel. A single mom, she had recently been evicted for being unable to pay her rent.
As I drove to get her, I thought of my massive to-do list and said a silent prayer to not be resentful of this woman so desperately in need. It didn’t take long for me to have a change of heart. When I pulled up to the motel, I instantly recognized something on her son. Earlier this year, Diane had told me she had a friend (this woman) in dire need of some clothes for her baby so I gutted out Bode’s closet.
This dear, feverish boy who was on the verge of yet another seizure was wearing my sweet Bode’s old PJs.
Instantly, a wave of compassion washed over me as this mom told me about her plight. How her son has had these seizures for over a year, but with a recent illness they would spike to the point he wasn’t functional even when lucid. They had spent the previous night at the Children’s Hospital, gone back to the motel, only to be faced with what was likely appendicitis.
When we arrived at the hospital, she admonished me to just drop her off at the curb but I parked and led her inside. After she was checked in, she turned to thank me. I handed her my phone number. “Call me and I’ll come back to pick you up tonight. It doesn’t matter what time.”
All my concerns were trite in comparison; my good night’s sleep seemed like a small molehill compared to the mountain she was climbing. I didn’t know what circumstances drove this woman to her destitute circumstances where she had to rely upon a stranger for a ride in a potentially life-or-death situation. I didn’t even know if she was legal.
But it didn’t matter. As one mom to another, I profoundly felt her fears and sorrows. What a humbling experience for me to look beyond my own comfortable Glass House to see there are so many around us whose lives are broken.
And that I need to do a better job of doing something about it.
