originally written January 22, 2005

My son . Almost eight years old, and sometimes I think he’s almost 40. He is concerned about the world around him. He worries. He plans. He sees how the world works, and he understand where he fits into it. I am reminded of a fight he was having with his younger sister. They were arguing about something or other, and some unpleasant words began to be exchanged. After a few minutes, Jocelyn snapped that she was done speaking to Ben forever. Ben paused, and then started to laugh. He walked over close to her and said, with full sincerity of heart, “Jocelyn, you know you’re going to speak to me again, and probably soon. Let’s just move past this fight. There’s no point in fighting. It just leaves less time for playing.”

He was 5 years old when he uttered those words. His sister was only 3.

Given the personality of this child, I should know to expect deep and profound things from him regularly, yet he continues to surprise me.

Today’s episode has been one of the deepest yet. Walking from the planetarium back to the light rail station in downtown Salt Lake City, we passed an older man, squatting on the ground, holding a sign pleaded for help. “Homeless. Please help. God bless.” Or something like that was scribbled in bold black letters on a worn piece of cardboard. He was shivering quite obviously in the cold January evening, and he looked as one would expect him to look ”“ worn, un-shorn, thin, and frail.

Twenty feet or so after passing this man, Don motioned to me, “What’s wrong with Ben?”

I looked. He was crying into his jacket, holding on to my hand. I stopped with him, yelling to Don that we would catch up to him in a minute. I, in my very thick headed manner, had no idea what had happened. I asked, he answered.

“That man. That man was shivering. His sign. He doesn’t have a home. He looks cold. Where will he sleep tonight? He was shivering, did you see him? I’m so sad mom.” He spoke in quiet, broken statements, the crying getting more intense as he spoke.

I stood there, staring at him, absolutely without words. We hugged, and after a few minutes I asked him what he wanted to do. “I don’t know. I feel helpless. I saw another man earlier today when we first got here. And there was one over by the planetarium. Why are there so many? How can I help them?”

What do I say? What could I have said? I said nothing, and told him we’d better hurry or we would miss the train back to our car. Once on the train, I asked him again what he wanted to do. After his second declaration of uncertainty, I told him about the Food and Care Coalition in our city. I explained how it worked, how they operated, and who funded them (us). We also talked about the community services our church undertook, and how we could donate to their efforts as well. He took all the information in, and was quiet for the drive home.

He asked the Lord tonight to please help those people. He asked to be able to help them too. He asked for it to be warm for them outside. Ben pled with the Lord for his mind to find ways to help all the people in the world who don’t have a home. He wants to change the world. He sees no reason he can’t do it.

Part of me wanted to tell him that even stellar and Godly efforts on his part would yield marginal returns on easing global homelessness. I wanted to prepare him for the inevitable frustration of trying to affect enormous change in the world. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be responsible for squashing his determination. The optimism and hope he holds will be necessary. He needs to hold on to something that gives him that hope. He needs to feel he can take that one cold, shivering man off the street and into a house where he can cook and play and be. I don’t doubt Ben holds the ability to accomplish these things. I want to find ways to help him and foster that feeling within him. I want to find a way to recapture that feeling in myself.

Postscript ”“ two weeks later.

So the rest of the homeless man story goes like this.

Sunday morning, on the way to church, Ben and I are talking about his plan to distribute flyers to the neighbors reminding them about the plight of the homeless, and urging them to be generous in their donations.

Ben, at some point, says, “I’m really excited about doing this. I really feel like I can make a difference.” I praise his efforts, and tell him I know he can make a difference.

To this, Ben states, with deadpan clarity: “I don’t even care if they name a holiday after me. I mean, that part doesn’t really matter.”

At this point, I almost land on my face on the sidewalk (mostly because my face is hidden in my hands). Ben looks at me, wondering what’s wrong, and says again, “Did Martin Luthor King Jr. get his holiday before or after he died?”