Tonight we took one of our routine trips downtown to distribute food and warm clothing to the homeless men and women who shelter themselves in boxes and tents on the sidewalks of Skid Row. Normally we distribute hot soup, snacks and bottled water along with donated clothes on these routes. During the past couple of months we have been asking our friends, co-workers, and fellow parishioners to donate blankets and warm sweaters for the cold winter nights ahead, and they answered our call with an overabundance of donations. We had so much to distribute during this trip that the blankets and clothes filled up two cars and a van - and many bags had to be left behind. Certainly a good problem to have. We managed to squeeze in bottled water and snacks as well.

I've written about my experience with caring for the homeless before, but no two trips are ever the same. Sadly, we see many faces we recognize and those who recognize us - their homeless situation remains unchanged; and even more sadly, there are new faces we come across. Tonight's story is about one of these new faces.

Around the 7th or 8th stop on our route, I am picking out clothes from the trunk of our car to see which one among a crowd of half-a-dozen would find the item a good fit with their needs. Standing beside the car is a man who has received several items of clothing. He asks me what my name is, and before I can answer, Haig, a member of our homeless feed team, tells the man "this is Suzie". The man then says "Nice to meet you Suzie, my name is Robert." I say likewise. We then pack up and drive forward to our next stop. Ten minutes later Robert appears again. He comes up and asks me "Do you remember my name?" I have to think, because in just 10 minutes, the name already skips my memory. He says "I'll help you, it begins with an 'R'"? I remember suddenly, and say "Robert?" He smiles and says, "Yes, my name is Robert". Next thing I realize he's handing me a piece of shiny metal. Even in the dark of the night I can distinctly make it out to be a broken half of a gold bracelet. I peer closer and sure enough there's a 14K stamp on it. I extend my arm back out and say "I don't want this, please take it back". My friend Haig even suggests that he can sell it to someone else. But Robert refuses, and insists that I keep it. He even tells me, "You know how to wash it right? Ketchup and cold water. Wash it with ketchup and cold water." Of course, we just think the whole senario is quite silly and laugh at the situation. But why would Robert, a homeless man with no property to call his own, give something that has monetary value to a stranger? I ask myself this question, and the answer is pretty clear to me.

Every human being wants to be acknowledged. We all want for someone to see us, to value us, to remember our name. We might think what's the big deal about remembering someones name? But it is an immense deal. The greatest hurt these homeless men and women suffer comes from their invisibility to society. We shove them in dark and damp corners and don't care about their existence, much else their name. But everyone wants to matter. Everyone wants to have a sense of self-worth. On these trips every experience is unique, but there's a reoccuring theme. I've come to realize that it's not always about the food and clothing we distribute - certainly these people are hungry and cold and these are practical ways of caring, but I've also felt how much our presence means to these people. The fact that we do remember them, we visit them and care for them, and in Robert's case as in so many others, we look them in the eye and call them by their name.