South Coast Rock Tour
~ Day 25 ~
Austin…Spencer…Decatur Street…Floyd…Cowboy.
Having had such a beautifully busy day/night yesterday, I
slept in till 10am. Did my morning routine after my standard breakfast, and
wanted to find a library to do some writing. The power outlet in my truck that
keeps my laptop charged has been acting up and I was getting tired of changing
the 30am fuse that blows out every 30min. I love writing late at night while
chain-smoking in the comfort of Tumbler, but this change of writing in the
morning in a non-smoking building has been a good change, despite the shift
from the routine I had grown familiar with. When a library in New Orleans was
found, I spent 2hrs there writing about a day that had already passed, yet was
still so fresh in my heart and mind. That is a downfall about the library
setting, for now I am more prone to keep my feelings that arise from that day’s
post tucked in the deep pockets of my heart. In my truck, I could be
intentional to face the memories and emotions and then allow myself to feel
them… in the solitude of my truck. In the library setting, I write about that
day, yet don’t allow myself to fully feel the emotions of that day. I have had
to be mindful to create space each day to pull away and just sit still… and
feel. It’s something I’m still learning to do.
I drove downtown around 1pm and parked at the same high-rise
parking building. Patted Tumbler on the hood after strapping on my backpack and
hit the sidewalk with an excitement for whom God already had lined up to love
on today. Bourbon and Royal Street were walked for an hour… praying for both
the have-much and have-less people. I nodded at my street brothers and sisters,
and smiled at those whose eyes were full of such sadness. How my heart wanted
to stop so many times, but I was to keep walking and praying.
Finally got the greenlight to go to Decatur Street and my
hand reached into my pocket to rub 2 Sharpie markers together, knowing that
they and the others would soon be used. As soon as I rounded the corner of
Decatur, I saw Jamie, Peanut, Fish Tacos, and Smiley. “Hey Daisy!” Each of them
gave me a big hug. Love these guys so much. We talked for a while about us
hanging out together last night, how we stayed warm while sleeping in random spots,
that we all slept in, and how our afternoon was going thus far. For not having
anything in particular to do, each of these guys stay busy with their own
routines and slacked schedules of roaming the sidewalks each day. Even in the
freedom of being homeless, there are still responsibilities… first, to survive,
and second to find a way to thrive in a unique way for each individual. The
small group of myself and my 4 street brothers huddled on the sidewalk was part
of that surviving and thriving… a bond of togetherness. We “thrived” together
for a good while, and then after more long embraces, we all parted paths to
continue our day. This would be the last time I would see each of them.
Thinking I would be in New Orleans for a few more days, I might have spent more
time with each of them individually if I had known we were not just parting
paths for the day, but possibly for the last time ever. We never know when a
conversation may be our last with a person. I was grateful that all four of us
had shared deeper things about our stories in the last two days, and our short
time together had been purpose-full and intentionally beyond the surface level
friendships. We bonded. I am still carrying some of their pain days later.
There are these cool little pockets along Decatur where
local artists rent spaces in courtyards to display and sell their unique art. I
walked into some of them to admire and compliment the artists who stood beside
and behind their portable, pop-up galleries. It was at one of these courtyards,
that I met Spencer. He was a wire wrapping artist who primarily used amazingly
beautiful pieces of glass to twist, bend, and contort the wire around. His work
is amazing. We struck up a deeper conversation immediately. Spencer used to be
an electrician and that is where his love for wire was birthed. He taught
himself how to wrap objects and started going to a few music festivals on the
weekend to sell the necklaces. Years later, he quit his electrician job and
went full-time into wire wrapping at festivals and in artist venues like this
one in the New Orleans courtyard. Throughout Spencer sharing his story, the
word “Passion” was used as an adjective and noun often. Such a God thing that I
had made a “Passion” rock late last night. It’s not a word that commonly is
drawn on my rocks. I picked out a sweet green and blue glass necklace wrapped
with a dark copper wire and Spencer gave me a big discount on the price. The
“Passion” rock was handed to my new dreadlock friend whose hands and heart are
so full of pure passion. We locked eyes and smiled as our hands held new
treasures to remind us of each other. Spencer is one of those guys that if I
lived in New Orleans, we would be good friends.
A sidewalk spot was found and some rocks were scribed. Felt
the Spirit prompting me to get up and walk some more, and I wrestled with this
being that I hadn’t been sitting long. Begrudgingly put the Sharpies away,
minus the 2 that went back in my pocket and started walking. Came to a shop
that sold all different types and fashions of hats and caps. “Go inside” was
whispered. “Here? I have lots of hats. Why do you want me to go inside?” ---
“Go inside.” I wasn’t living on the streets, but I looked like I lived on the
streets. The “undercover homeless” was a believable costume. My hair was
curling out from under my favorite hat that my grandma Peggy knit (I have
around 20 hats from her and brought 4 with me on this trip) and my clothes were
soiled from kneeling and sitting on the soiled sidewalks for the last week. My
fragrance oils helped hid the smell of unwashed clothes and a long duration
since taking a full-body shower (one can only wash up partially in Walmart
bathrooms). I sheepishly walked into the fancy hat haven, wondering if the
store attendant would ask me for proof of a credit card before perusing the
store. Was pleasantly surprised to be welcomed by the young guy around my age.
His name was Austin. “Hey there! I like your hat. The colors are really cool.
You interested in buying a new hat?” --- “I love hats. My grandma made this
one. It’s too painful for her to make them anymore with her arthritis, but I
cherish the ones she made for me.” I walked over to a display of flat caps.
“Dude, I have surfer hair due to my travels, but would you mind if I tried on a
few of these caps?” --- “Not a problem. Some of those would look really cool
with your wavy hair.” I found one that did look cool and fit perfectly on my
big Hansen head. Spender rang it up and gave me a special discount. After it
was folded up and stuffed in my backpack, I asked Spender if he had a hobby
that he loved. “Yep, I love to write.” This opened up the beginning of a 20min
conversation that was the reason God had told me to “go inside.” With our
shared love for writing and our common passion for diving deep below the
shallow waters of life, Spencer and I connected in the hat shop. Gave him a
rock that said, “Your story is EPIC… keep writing with purpose” and would both
smiled at how perfect the message was to Spencer, the purpose-full writer.
I walked to Frenchman Street and kept walking for an unknown
number of blocks. Was lost in thought and thinking about some of the friends I
had met recently. Emotions started to come up and though I wanted to push them
back down where they came up from, I knew they needed to be felt. I walked with
the running emotions and as the pages of my past and present journey were
turned, the corners of the French Quarter were also turned. It was getting
later in the evening, and the sidewalks grew solitary and the streets grew
darker. Honestly don’t know how long I had been walking, for I was more focused
on sifting through the memories than the street signs. When I came out of the
clearing fog of feeling, I had no idea where I was… other than I was lost. Like
totally lost. I had walked myself out of the French Quarter and was somewhere
on the outskirts of a dimly-lit neighborhood. I pulled out my tourist map that
was picked up yesterday, and matched the tiled street signs on the sidewalks
with the colorful map. Dang, I was almost off the map! I had been warned about
the dangers of walking by myself in these neighborhoods late at night, but here
I was doing just that. There was no fear while walking the long trek back to
streets that were brighter and had people walking them, but there was
definitely a heightened sense of watchfulness and awareness of the alleys and
dark inlet juts along the sidewalks. A feeling of relief was felt when the more
well-traveled sidewalks came into view.
I went across the party streets to reach Decatur Street
again. Jeepers, that was a gnarly full circle to come back to the street I had
left well over an hour ago. Ran into my buddy Spider and joined him on the
closed shop concrete entrance. My heart was so bent to this well-weathered man
my age. I asked questions and he would use few words with more grunts to answer
them. We mostly sat in silence… the type that was loud with love for simply
being silent together with another person. I was super hungry and asked Spider
if he wanted some food. “Mmmmp, yea.” Told him I would be back soon to share a
PoBoy sandwich. I wrapped my arms around the leather trench coat that covered
his muscular, broad shoulders. His arms came up and reciprocated the embrace.
This was not common for Spider and I soaked up the seconds of warmth from my
brother who came across as cold-hearted, but deep down, had a heart that was wounded,
warm and tender. This was a special hug, not only because it is a rare thing
from Spider, but because it would be my last memory of him. When I returned
with the sandwich for us to share, Spider was gone. I walked around looking for
him but he wouldn’t be found again. I can hear him grunt as I write this
paragraph…. And I can smell his leather jacket with dread locks that laced the
collar. I can also feel his heart that housed pain so deep that words were
scarcely used. Spider was loved so deeply.
The Poboy sandwich still in my hand was making my empty
stomach rumble. I held on to it as Bourbon Street was reached and the zig-zag
meandering through the masses of people commenced. Halfway through the crowded
area, my eyes spotted a small girl sitting on a corner with 2 large dogs
sitting in front of her huge bags of belongings. I made my way over to her as
people bumped and collided with my backpack more than my body. When the skinny girl
with hands near black with dirt, was reached, I squatted down by her dogs and
gave them head rubs while introducing myself. “Hey, I’m Daisy. Just got this
PoBoy. You hungry?” --- “Dang girl, I’m so hungry. My name is Frenchie.” We sat
on the sidewalk and ate the still-warm shrimp and oyster sandwich. Her dogs,
Mama Girl and Ringo were fed every other shrimp I ate. Frenchie shared some of
her story with me and it won’t be shared, though it could fill a few pages. Left
her a rock and a hug as I picked up some of her pain as I walked away. Wanted
to do more for Frenchie, but had to trust that God would send others to love
this small, fragile girl whose eyes looked like they had seen a life-time’s
worth of wounds. I was grateful she had the company and comfort of her dogs.
They had been with her since they were puppies and had seen their own share of
living on the streets. They were more well-fed and cleaned up than Frenchie.
Such is often the case with homeless people’s animals. People often have more
compassion for the animals than the human being.
At 9pm, I was tired and in need of quiet stillness. My heavy
heart needed to sit down and be poured out at the Savior’s feet. We can do this
anywhere and at any time, though for me, it often produces moisture in my eyes
that I still struggle with being comfortable with. Solitude was needed, so I
went to the same Canal Street spot from the last two nights. But that solitude
would not be found in the next 3 hours, as God sent one person after another to
walk by and stop to connect with. There was some moisture in my eyes at many of
their stories, though I was collecting more pain in my heart rather than laying
the accumulation at the Jesus’ feet. This is something I really need to work
on: Carrying people’s pain and laying it down before it becomes too much to
bear. I often carry it too long… some of which I have never laid down, both
others and my own.
Despite the heaviness and growing exhaustion, the next three
hours were amazing. I could write so much about each of the people who merged
paths with me. Will share two of the beautiful people. The first is Floyd. He
stood out from the others because of his raw honestly that surprised him as he
began to open up more and more of his story. Floyd is a war veteran, who has
prevalent and persistent PTSD. He shared things with me that he has never told
anyone. I felt honored. He was shocked at his own opening up of the closed
doors of his past. When a “keep it simple” rock was placed in his hands,
Floyd’s eyes welled up with tears. This triggers my own eyes to fill with
moisture. We hugged several times during our conversation, and Floyd admitted
that it was hard for him to have physical contact with people. “Normally, I
don’t hug. I’m awkward with affection. But I also think I need it.” He did need
it. We all need it: Affection… true, genuine, pure human touch. With each hug
or touch on his arm, Floyd’s body grew from tensing up to relaxing. He needed
to put a voice to some of the things he had experienced, though he also just
needed to be hugged. Military PTSD is real and it’s often a silent struggle
that so many of our veterans are going through. Floyd was a sent to be a
reminder of this.
The second experience I want to share with you all is a man
named Cowboy. I first saw him while walking to the Canal spot earlier this
evening. I saw Cowboy and another guy sitting in the shadows of a dark alley.
Most would not have even noticed them, but I love looking for those who hide in
the shadow. Cowboy and I locked eyes and I smiled at him till the corner
building blocked our sight. Two hours later, Cowboy came walking by where I was
sitting. “Hey, you smiled at me a while ago. Your smile touched my heart. Thank
you for that. Would you mind if I sat with you?” I nodded and smiled at him
again. What I’m about to tell you is radical. And very real. As Cowboy crouched
down, he started crying. In seconds, he was full out weeping. He put one hand
down to steady his shaking body, and the other hand was by his face trying to
control the tears to no avail. I wanted to ask if he was okay, but that sounded
like a dumb question, and I sensed that Cowboy needed to keep weeping without a
question that was an undertone to “hey, I’m not comfortable, so could you try
to stop crying.” I sat in silence as Cowboy cried. He started talking through
his tears. “What is happening?” --- sobs --- “This is so real” --- sobs ---
“This love is making me cry” --- sobs --- “There is something so powerful here”
--- sobs ---“Who are you?” All I remember saying to Cowboy after he wept for a
very long time and unbeknownst to him, was feeling the overwhelming power of
the Holy Spirit, was that it wasn’t me that Cowboy was feeling, it was the King
of Kings and Lord or Lords, Jesus Christ, who was piercing his heart with a
love that is so real, you can feel it. The Spirit took over my voice and he
knew exactly what Cowboy needed to hear after experiencing this miracle. Even
Cowboy knew it was a miracle. His heart was forever changed that night. There
was no denying that the power of God had tangibly touched Cowboy… and it’s a
touch that changes your life. It was a humbling and awesome experience to
witness. My heart is leaping while writing about it now. I will never forget
that moment and I pray that Cowboy never forgets the night he wept at the
presence of the Holy Spirit.
At midnight, my rocks were placed in my pack, and the
journey back to Tumbler was walked. It had been a full afternoon and overflow
of an evening. I sat in my truck for a while before turning the key to start
the engine rumble that bounced off the building’s concrete walls. My own heart
was turning over with the rumble of reminiscence from this Saturday in New
Orleans. I sighed at the stories that had been shared, of the people who had
crawled into my heart, at the great need for love and compassion this city
deeply craved. And I sighed at the knowingness that this would be my last night
in downtown New Orleans. The Spirit was moving me on. It had only been two days
and three nights on this broad mission field, yet it had felt like each day was
a week, and each night was a month. I needed to pull out before I went in any
deeper. This lesson had been painfully learned in Austin, Texas… and this time
I would obey the leading to leave. As with Austin, it would be hard to move on
from New Orleans. But there were other cities, and other people to love on.
The power of human touch is an earthly treasure.
The power of the Holy Spirit’s touch is an eternal
transformation.
Unshakable Peace and Purpose
Cling to the Rock
Psalm 18:1-2
