On a recent Saturday evening, we went to Office Depot to replenish LeAnn’s supply of name tags for her preschool Sunday school class. The tags are a common style with a color border and plenty of white space to write a child’s first name. They’re perfect for the children’s friends, teachers and worship-hour volunteers to know who they are and call them by name.
My little job on Sunday mornings – before I go to the third floor to play with the grownups – is to tape the name tags at a kid’s-eye level on both sides of the door frame in alphabetical order. That way they get to find their own name tag and proudly identify themselves when they enter the room.
It’s a good system, but as I was taping the new name tags to the doorway that Sunday morning, I suddenly realized the sad irony in the shopping trip the night before. As we came out of the store, there was a man sitting on the curb maybe 20 feet away. He called out in a weary kind of way, “Excuse me, do you have some money for the bus?” I nudged my wallet out of my back pocket and pulled out a dollar bill I’d found in our yard. I handed it to him and he thanked me and then looked away across the parking lot as I walked back toward LeAnn and the car.
Yes, he thanked me, and what did I say in return? Something dismissive such as “sure” or “yep.” But more than that, I realize now what I didn’t say: “You’re welcome” or “Have a nice day” or “What’s your name?”
And why the snub? It might be I was just lazy or busy or disinterested. Or it might be because I know what happens when you engage someone and learn their name. It can lead to knowing too much; it can be the beginning of a relationship, and that can lead to messy feelings such as caring and compassion.
I made that mistake years ago with Dane Clark, a man a little older than me who I met on the street in downtown Dallas. A little one-time help from me and a conversation that included sharing both our names and my phone number turned into a chaotic and frustrating relationship spanning several years.
Dane was friendly and a good talker and I learned he was born and raised in East Texas not far from my grandmother’s birthplace. Childhood polio put him in a wheelchair, but somehow he’d found his way to Dallas to make his own way as an adult.
It didn’t take long to learn Dane was in constant financial need, exacerbated by bad people and poor decisions. Much of the material aid I gave him was squandered by him or stolen from him. Wanting to help him and perhaps end the cycle, I offered to drive him home to his parents in East Texas, but he declined, saying he preferred the independence of living on the streets or in shelters and cheap motels. With the help of a social worker at one of the shelters, we got him into a subsidized apartment, but when he needed food and I learned he’d spent his social security check on a huge TV that even I couldn’t afford, I’d had enough. I cut him off, helped by a move of my own and a new phone number I didn’t share.
Thinking about all that again in light of the man on the curb, and using online search tools unavailable years ago, I learned Dane Philip Clark was one of eight children born to a father who was a logger and a mother who likely was a homemaker tending to that big family. I got much of that detail from the obituary of one of his brothers who passed away earlier this year. It said that same brother took care of Dane in East Texas, which means Dane did move back to live with his family. Sadly, it revealed Dane himself passed away in 2005 at age 50.
Realistically, there was no reason or requirement for me to get as involved with the man on the curb as I had with Dane. But I could have at least been kinder and maybe asked his name. We know it’s important that children be able to identify themselves to each other. It’s part of the development of their personality, and with it, their self-esteem, confidence, pride, and later, their drive and ambition.
Being called by name is equally important to adults, but unless someone is dressed like us and looks like us, we tend to discount the value that has to their well-being and sense of worth and belonging. It’s unfortunate that in our world of social media, we will easily and dangerously have conversations with strangers online, but we hesitate to do the same with people we encounter face to face.
I’ll never know the name of the man on the curb, but God knows his name. Yes, the God who “created (him) in love and grace and dirt from the ground, the God who took (him) and molded (him) and formed (him) and breathed into (his) life hope, justice, identity and resurrection,” as Timothy reminds us each Sunday, knows each of us by name.