Cybercolumn for 3/01 by Brett Younger: A day out in the snow_22304
Posted: 3/01/04
CYBERCOLUMN:
A day out in the snow
By Brett Younger
On Saturday, Feb. 14, we had the best snow in Fort Worth in years, so our family decided to take a long walk. I assumed I would end up catching snowballs with my back and wore old clothes—a pair of jeans that Carol doesn’t allow me to wear in public because they’re holy in a bad way, tennis shoes, sweatshirt and an overcoat. The only thing I took with me was my keys, which I carefully put in my pocket.
The snow was gorgeous. The kids on our block were making anorexic snowmen. Years of living in Fort Worth have kept them from any understanding of how to make a proper snowman. We had a street full of snow pillars that would embarrass Frosty.
| Brett Younger |
It was such big fun. When it snows, neighbors talk more. You can’t pass someone walking in the snow without speaking. Our family threw snowballs, which is fun until you get hit above the shoulders and fun until it melts and you’re wet as well as freezing.
It was nippy by the time we got back to our house after, I’d guess, a 45-minute walk. I got out my keys, but the storm door at the front was inexplicably locked. I walked around to the garage. There’s a door into the garage that we never lock, but for reasons beyond imagining, it was locked, and we’ve never had a key to that door. We’re still OK. There’s a back door, but then, and you’re not going to believe this, that storm door was also locked.
I’m locked out and I have my keys, but I wasn’t worried. We went next door to the Russells’, explained the bizarre turn of events in detail so they would know there was nothing for us to feel dumb about, and I borrowed a Philips screwdriver. Carol and Caleb, our 10-year-old, chose to stay and get warm. Graham, our 14-year-old, inspiringly, foolishly chose to believe in his father. He and I took one side of the frame around the back door off and were able to open the outside door. I was so happy with myself. Then I got out my key to open the inside door. I had forgotten that there are two looks on that door, and the push lock was mysteriously, incomprehensibly, unfathomably locked also.
Carol called A-1 Locksmith on the theory that if they’re first in the alphabet, they must be good. They immediately asked, “Are we the only locksmith you called?” I took this to mean that when snow falls, lots of people, many of whom are quite intelligent, lock themselves out of their houses.
He said he would be there in 30 minutes. He lied. We found a football in the backyard and tried to play horse on the basketball goal. It doesn’t work. Several times, I thought about throwing a brick through the window, but it just didn’t seem right.
We were huddling close to each other trying to get warm when a neighbor walked by. She said “hi.” We said “hi.” She stared. She still hasn’t figured out why we were just standing there.
Then Matt Menger, one of our church members, drove up. Matt was picking up cans for a Boy Scout food drive. We explained that our food was in a bag inside the house that was now locked. Matt was kind. He told us about almost locking his keys in the car. It was pity. Lots of people lock their keys in their car. It takes someone special to lock themselves out of their house with their keys in their pocket.
His son, John Edward, cheerfully offered a helpful suggestion, “Have you checked all the doors?”
The snow that had recently been so beautiful now seemed miserable. I know this wasn’t the Iditarod or a trip up Mount Everest, but after being outside for two hours in wet jeans with holes I was feeling cold and tired and wanted to sit down. I climbed the tree in our front yard and found a limb on which to sit. My toes were cold and wet enough to hurt. I should have worn boots. I wished we had skipped the snowballs.
When the locksmith finally, mercifully arrived, the first thing he said was, “It will be $65 for the service call and $25 for opening the door.” Does that mean that if he didn’t get the door open I would still owe him $65 just for trying? It seemed high, but I couldn’t see myself telling Carol that I sent the locksmith away because given time and a bigger screwdriver I could open the door myself.
I’d imagined that when the locksmith got there it would be like in the movies. He would pull out a James Bond-looking instrument and open the door in five seconds. It was with horror that I watched our locksmith look at each of our three locked doors with the same quizzical expression I had used. He started with the storm door at the front. Then he went to the garage door, the one for which we don’t have a key. Then he went to the back door, two locks one key. He pulled out a credit card and tried to open it.
He and I had plenty of time to talk. He told me that he’s not really a locksmith, but an engineer, who’s only doing this for a few months. This was not reassuring. He grew up in Morocco, Israel and Mexico, where I assume they have much different locks than in this country.
The locksmith said, “I could drill out the door knob at the back of the garage, but you’ll have to buy a new doorknob, which I can sell to you for an extra $20.” My brain was frozen, “Sure.”
This whole arctic event would be amusing to me, except for the last hour or so I couldn’t get a couple of people out of my mind.
On Thursday night, I had been at the Agape meal, a dinner our church shares with the homeless. My table included two men there for the first time who had just gotten out of prison. We ate chicken spaghetti and talked sports. We agreed that the Mavericks aren’t going to win until they get a big man and that the Rangers should not trade A-Rod—they didn’t listen to us. We talked about how mean churches can be and how kind churches can be. They both said they would try to come to Broadway for worship on Sunday, but they didn’t make it. We talked about their job prospects. The older man, who looked about 60, is a computer programmer. He’d gotten a government job downtown that lasted for 18 hours. He was honest about his record on his application. After he was hired, his new boss called the police to make sure it was OK, but the police said he couldn’t work there. Then we talked about where they would spend the night. The young guy had spent the previous night at the Presbyterian Night Shelter. The old one had slept on the street. The young one said: “It’s going to get cold. You better go with me.”
The Presbyterian Night Shelter is a godsend for a lot of people. On a normal night, the shelter houses about 500 people. On Thursday night, they had more than 700. On Friday night, they had more than 800. The shelter has strict rules, but the number of people and the size of the place make the rules hard to enforce. Homeless people who struggle with addictions stay away from the shelter because alcohol and drugs are prevalent. They sleep outside.
When you sleep outside in the winter, you need to avoid two elements—wind and water. You try to stay out of the wind by sleeping next to buildings on the south side, an alcove or the porch of a vacant building. You can warm up by lying on a steam grate, but they’re out in the open, so it’s hard to sleep there.
During the prayer time on Thursday, my friend mentioned that he needed a job. After the service, Ellen Swift-Wilson handed him a business card. Ellen is a member of our church who works for an AARP foundation employment program. She said: “Call me. I can get you a job.”
On Saturday morning, sitting in a tree in my front yard, I tried to imagine what it’s like to be homeless in the winter, but I can’t. I was miserable waiting for a couple of hours for someone to let me into my house. What must it be like not to have a house to be let into?
Many of the things we do as churches are good. We get together and enjoy one another’s company. We discuss. We plan. We learn. Only a few things we do are urgent. Getting people in out of the cold is urgent.
Brett Younger is pastor of Broadway Baptist Church in Fort Worth, Texas, and the author of Who Moved My Pulpit? An Amusing Look at Ministerial Life (available in late March from Smyth & Helwys Publishing).