France. It's the word written at the top of my Adventist Colleges Abroad application. It's a nice word. People really like that word... France. It's a favorite vacation spot, it's rich in culture, it's beautiful, and its language is supposed to be the most beautiful and romantic in the world. Who wouldn't want to travel to France? Who wouldn't want to study for an entire year in France? I've been thinking about these questions since the beginning of fall quarter. The ACA application has sat on my desk since the beginning of fall quarter. Why would I ever regret a year in France? Oddly enough, I have had many fears holding me back. Yes, I LOVE to travel. A lot. But I wanted to make sure that, if I went, next year wasn't going to be just another trip to France; just another trip around the world for the sake of cultural diversity. I need a purpose. And I need a purpose bigger than learning French or cultural exposure or even education. I need a Jesus purpose.
Purpose is an interesting thing. I've been thinking a lot about it. I have no idea what I want to do when I grow up, and I am constantly thinking about where God might ask me to go. Options come to the table, and people want me to work, study, and play all around the world. But I refuse to go anywhere I don't feel is "purposeful." That word is so vague so often. There are so many "purposes" in life. Everyone has a different purpose, and most of our time is spent knocking heads with each other over this issue. Very few people even get to choose their purpose. It's all too often just handed to us by our circumstances, or our social structure. The purpose in life I choose to focus on is a spiritual one. My purpose is helping to bring the Kingdom of Heaven to earth, and I won't go somewhere if I don't feel like it's specifically in line with that purpose. But this can get ambiguous. Choices like France can get confusing. Where am I supposed to be? What am I supposed to be? What should I be doing? And why can't I figure this out?
I can see myself, standing on the streets of downtown Portland with a group of 30 other people. I'm on the Portland Mission Trip. The grime of oatmeal, maple syrup, and French toast that was breakfast for 142 homeless people an hour ago is now nothing but a sticky residue on my fingers. We've barely made a divot in the staggering homeless population in Portland. Now I'm standing on the edge of a curb grabbing as many mittens, scarves, blankets, and lunch bags as I can fit in my hands. I am in a group of five people. Five people who just want to be used... Five hearts that want to love these people... Five people who desire to change lives, but are more likely to have their lives changed.
The streets of Portland are cold this time of year. Some sun peaks over the edges of the old buildings, but it's barely enough to penetrate the cold wind tingling against my skin. But I'm thankful for the sun. I carry blankets and food in plastic bags at my side. An old man on a bike stops beside us and asks me if he can have a blanket. I hand it over and watch him awkwardly pedal away with his new blanket in hand - smiling. I can't remember his name. It's even hard to remember his face. But I'll never forget his heart.
Another man walks up to us at a crosswalk. Yes, of course he would love a blanket. And he offers to take us to a women's shelter where more than one person is in need of warmth. We walk with him for what could have been hours as he talks to us about his life so far. He's lived 20 years on the streets. Somehow he can still say this with a smile in his eyes. The blanket that we gave him is slipping from his hand, so I offer to carry it. He says thank you and tells me how hard it is to do so many things with one hand. With his left hand he finishes sipping on the coffee some dear heart had given him earlier that morning, and then he moves quickly to the nearest garbage can to throw away the dingy paper cup.
The street cars are loud, the stench from the gutters is slowly overwhelming my nostrils along with the smell of his coffee breath. The large bags of blankets and food are slipping out of my hands and the straps are starting to dig into my skin. I am forced to lean in close to his rough, unshaven face so that I can make out the words he's mumbling to us in a voice dripping with years of casual pain. He is telling me a story. Part of his story. He's lost all use of his right hand. It's limp and dead-looking, hanging dormant at his side. He explains that he fell asleep on the street one night and then woke up in a hospital bed. His body temperature was well below hypothermic when someone found him. He looks in my eyes, holding up his dead hand, and says, "I should be dead. I was dead." He means what he's saying. One look in his eyes and you feel like an entire world of cold nights and food-less days has trickled into your own system. He is homeless. He surprises me as he continues his thought, "I know that God needed me to be alive still. It's a miracle that I'm here. I must be here for a reason." I didn't know how to respond to this. If this man had been a friend or one of the high school girls in my youth group, I would have known exactly how to respond. I would have encouraged them, poured into them, explained to them how every thing they were doing was beautiful to God and that He had a special purpose for them. I would focus on their strengths and their great love for people, I would push them one step closer to grace. But I had no response for this man. I opened my mouth to encourage him, and nothing came out. I had no words. In all honesty, I had no idea why God still needed him alive. I had no idea why God would save this homeless man on the streets of Portland. I didn't have a clue what kind of purpose he could serve in life. I had no words.
What was his purpose? What was my purpose? It's difficult for me to answer either of those questions.
Everyone is going to have a different purpose in life. Was my purpose in life somehow better than the man lying on the street, just trying to survive until tomorrow? I have no idea. I have no idea where my purpose is taking me, I have no idea why my purpose is different from the person next to me. I wish that I could end this column with some resolute sentence of surety. But I can't. I have just as many questions now as I did at the beginning of fall quarter.
France. It's a nice word. Homeless. It's a hard word. Purpose... that's the confusing one...
