My Homeless Friend

Melanie wasn’t always homeless. She lived with her feeble grandmother across the street from the upstairs apartment I rented in the Glencliff neighborhood. I first met her when she walked up my gravel driveway to introduce herself. She was heavy-set, with a somewhat disheveled and impoverished appearance, but had a kindhearted manner to her. After a short, somewhat socially-awkward introduction, she promptly asked me for money to supposedly buy her grandmother’s prescription medication. I offered to go buy it at the pharmacy as opposed to giving her the money, but she fumbled through reasons to decline that offer; and since I was rushing off somewhere anyways, I handed over some cash. I felt upset with myself later for giving in to a scam—afraid I’d set a precedent for future asking and for potentially difficult refusals. That was indeed the first in a long line of Melanie-encounters, most of which involved a request for money, but little did I know that she would also become a friend to me over the next 6 years to come.

I’d often see her out in their front yard when I went for my morning or afternoon walks and would stop and talk. She had 3 daughters that were each in foster care and were the delight of Melanie’s life. Her face lit up as she would talk about them and she always asked me to pray for them. She would also drop by at my apartment from time to time, and although I had to ask her not to knock on my door at late or early hours, it still managed to make me jump each time I heard the tap, tap on my glass door regardless of the hour. (I lived at the top of a rusty flight of stairs along the side of the brick home—not a door that salesmen or Jehovah’s Witnesses would even notice to come to. So although I presumed it was Melanie each time, I still startled easily living alone). On her birthday that first year, I left her cupcakes and a card on her front porch and her genuine joy from that simple gesture was almost childlike.

Then her grandmother passed away and Melanie’s grief was palpable. It seemed her grandmother was the one family member who hadn’t given up on loving her. Melanie lost someone she dearly loved, but even more tragically it seemed, she lost the one person who loved her back. After the estate was settled, and the house sold, Melanie found herself with no place to live. Her only possessions seemed to be a few clothes, photos of her girls, and a cherished locket necklace with her grandmother’s ashes in it. She had told me stories of being estranged from her mom and siblings and other relatives. It seemed a hard past with abuse and mental illness had left her with a loving heart, but with an inability to hold a job or to make wise decisions that would get her ahead in life. Her visits to my house increased in frequency and needs after finding herself without a home. But she always came with a smile and a naturally grateful attitude for any small amount of dollars, food or coffee given. Sometimes I would say no—I had no cash or it seemed too close to the last time I’d given her some; and she always graciously accepted no too. She might try to push if she really felt she needed it, but she ultimately accepted no with a smile as she walked away. She once told me she thought she was pregnant and asked if I’d be willing to take the baby, knowing that the State wouldn’t let her keep it. I told her that was a big decision and we should both pray about it, but the pregnancy apparently ended up being a false alarm.

The next few years Melanie was in and out of shelters, or occasionally rented a room for a few dollars a night, or slept on the streets. She had a car a couple of times that she slept in, but was unable to afford the maintenance and upkeep for them; and one got infested with bedbugs, leaving her sun-scorched skin covered with infected bites. She had medical insurance that covered her when she got sick, or if she got off balance with her psychiatric meds. She had a case manager that was trying to help her get into permanent housing. But the odds just seemed stacked against this poor soul. (I had moved to a different neighborhood by that point and chose not to give her my new address; and bless her sweet heart, she respected that boundary and never asked me for it). She rarely had her own phone, but I used to suppose she had my phone number tattooed somewhere on her body, because she borrowed multiple phones across Nashville to call me. Sometimes she was in crisis mode and I couldn’t always respond. Sometimes she needed gloves or a coat or some new shoes and dry socks (her size men’s 11W was difficult to find sometimes, but thankfully Walmart usually carried Dr Scholl’s in that size!). Sometimes I think she just wanted a hug and someone to pray for her and her girls, and to just remember that someone knew her name.

For her inability to make wise decisions, she still had a very real faith and would often quote Scriptures and remind me of Spiritual truths that seemed timely and divinely inspired to encourage me. She often told me she was praying for my future husband and that I would be able to adopt one day—she seemed to want that for me even more than I did for myself :)). She often asked about updates about guys I was dating. I always thought that if I did get married, I would invite her to my wedding, seated at a place of honor (with an opportunity to get a new dress and her hair fixed beforehand if she wanted to :)).

Once I didn’t hear anything from her for about 3 months; since there was no way for me to find her, I just continued praying for her and hoping she was ok. Then one day I drove past her on Haywood Lane holding up a sign asking for help. I stopped and hugged her and took her to get some dinner (she had lost her current phone and had actually forgotten my number, but she quickly re-memorized it :)). I often struggled with guilt in my friendship with her; the depths of her needs were beyond my ability to fulfill, and yet I often wondered if there was more I should be doing. It was easy in reality to hand her $10 or $20, a hot fast-food meal, to say a quick prayer with her and be on my way. It didn’t inconvenience me much. But I often found myself wondering if I should help her find odd jobs, apart from just selling The Contributor papers, or if there was a way to get her into a garage apartment. Last year she was somehow part of an altercation and almost lost one of her legs. I visited her in the hospital, which she wanted to leave AMA (against medical advice) since they wouldn’t let her smoke (one of her few joys in life). After being discharged, she went for wound changes at a local clinic, but I’m not sure the wound truly ever healed well.

I can’t recall for sure the last time I saw Melanie. I believe it was in the Circle K parking lot off Nolensville and 440 late last summer. I believe I took her some cash and food, and said a prayer with her, with hands held and heads bowed as the busy traffic rushed by. And then I was probably on my way, telling her to call if she needed anything. Several weeks went by and I didn’t hear from her. I had size 11W winter boots on my shopping list as the months got colder, knowing full well she’d be calling me for them soon. But the cold months came and went and I never heard from her. I prayed for her. I assumed I’d hear eventually or maybe see her on a street corner somewhere. But as time passed with no word, a friend recommended I check the obituaries. So last month I looked and quickly found hers through a Google search. Hit and killed by a car on Nolensville Rd in August of last year. My heart felt heavy as I walked into work that morning. I wish I had known so I could have attended her funeral. I wish I could have told her goodbye. I wish now that I had sat down and shared meals with her instead of just delivering them to her. I miss her toothless smile and her relentless courage to face each new day with none of the luxuries of life that I routinely enjoy.

But I know she had a trusting faith in Jesus. And I know that she’s not suffering anymore. Her wounds are healed, her mind is sound, her needs are met, her bed is soft and warm; she is safe from all harm. Now she can watch from above and see her precious daughters as they grow. Her joy is complete, and she knows no more sorrow. She now has a home, and she is home. I am grateful that God let me know her; and one day Melanie, I’ll see you again 🙂

Author: iloveallyallnashville

I know life is far from perfect, but I love living it. Our lives are often a mixture of beauty and pain, but I want to be intentional about experiencing what makes life beautiful. I love being from and living in Nashville; and in this season of life, I'm finding a lot of beauty in my own hometown--and I just love to share about it all :) View all posts by iloveallyallnashville