Just Be a Raft

What Jennifer taught me about my divine connection to others vs. my ego’s need to fix them

I help serve lunch weekly now at the Women’s and Family Development Center where I volunteer. A few weeks back, after finishing my shift, I met Jennifer. I had pulled to a stop at the parking lot exit when I noticed a woman in a cotton candy pink t-shirt walk into the street. She stopped in the middle of the lane, sat criss-cross-applesauce and laid herself down. Well, that can’t be good. I didn’t even need to ask, What You would have me do? Do something, obviously.

I pulled into the street, blocking any oncoming traffic that might come down the road, and called out to her through my open window. “Sweetheart, are you ok?” She told me she was fine. “But you’re lying in the middle of the street.”

“I know,” she said matter of fact. “I want to die.” 

“Well …” I blanked, like getting caught not paying attention in a meeting. My tiny mental hamster scrambled for footing. I had no experience with this kind of situation, no words, profound or otherwise. I took a breath and went with the truth. “I honestly don’t know what to say to that so ... I’m just going to come over there.”

I parked in the turn space between the two sides of traffic and walked to her side. As I squatted down, she sat up and looked at me with big, brown eyes set in a pale face. Girlish voice, but probably in her late 20s or early 30s. Bruises covered her arms.

“What’s going on?” I asked. She launched into her story. “I’m a horrible person.” Well, that seemed ridiculous. “No, you’re not,” I said smiling. She insisted she was. I knew this wasn’t the time for long explanations about the inherent value we all have being one with our Creator and all, so I kept it short. “You can’t be. You’re of God.”

She stuck to her story of being horrible. I told her she could believe that, but it didn’t make it true. Our “conversation” started to feel like an argument with one of my boys. Nothing I say alters their mental position, but I keep talking anyway. This time, I shut myself up.

“Well, I’m not even a Christian,” she shouted at me. I laughed a little. “What does that have to do with anything?” We moved on to introductions, which is how I learned she goes by Jennifer. I asked if she lived in the residences at the Development Center, but she said they wouldn’t let her live there. She was homeless.

“I’m using you,” she blurted out. I didn’t even have to think about my reply. “You’re not. You can’t be.” She insisted she was. “You can only use me if I let you, and I’m here by my choice.” She didn’t seem to have a response to that. I gently touched her shoulder. “Jennifer, let’s get out of the street. This isn’t a productive place to be.”

“But I want to die,” she said again. Even as compassionate as I felt toward her, I couldn’t help thinking that lying in a street was a supremely inefficient way to achieve what she said she wanted. Out loud, however, I told her she could still feel that way. “But we going to get out of the street.”

Another driver stopped to ask if she’d been hurt in an accident. “Nope. We’re just moving out of the street,” I told him. Out of the street was my focus. Between my cajoling and the sight of another concerned driver stopping, she eventually struggled to her feet and moved to sit against a telephone pole on the sidewalk. 

“I’ll just stay here in the sun,” she said. “You can go.” I told her I was afraid if I left, she’d just lay back down in the street. “And I can’t have that.” 

I asked if someone had hurt her, pointing to her bruises. “Those just showed up. I don’t know how they got there,” she said. “I haven’t showered in three weeks, and my teeth are a mess.” She patted her hair and pointed to her missing front teeth, suddenly concerned with her appearance.

“It must be hard to shower if you don’t have a place to go,” I said. “You’re sure there’s no one you can call on? I don’t want to leave you here by yourself.” She insisted there was no one.

Well, what now? How can I solve this situation? Surely God does not want me to take this woman home with me? Thoughts of inadequacy and uncomfortableness whirled through my mind. I forced myself to stay still and silent, just looking in her eyes, trying to connect with love and care to the divine being within. Send her a miracle. Send me one too while You’re at it.

About that time, a gentleman from the development center’s parking lot pulled up and got out with 911 on the phone. It hadn’t even occurred to me to do that. I told him what happened, and he relayed it to 911. An EMT crew arrived from just down the street, and I explained things to them as well. “Her name is Jennifer.” They looked unconcerned – learning names was not a priority.

But it felt important for them to know her name if I was going to leave her. I walked back to Jennifer and squatted down one last time. “They’re here to help you. And I’m going to be praying for you.” I squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll be thinking about you.” She turned her attention to the EMTs, and I got back in my car. 

I didn’t question that I should stop and offer support, but I left feeling I didn’t do very much or anything very effective. Afterwards, I called a friend who’s a longtime fire fighter and rescue worker. I don’t expect to encounter more Jennifers in the street, but I wanted guidance from an expert just in case. He said 911 is the best number to call because regardless of what’s going on chemically and/or emotionally with her, Jennifer clearly was in crisis of some kind. In his experience, nothing I said in that moment would alter her mind about how that crisis was affecting her. Getting her out of immediate danger until more help could arrive was likely the best thing I could do. 

True to my word, I have thought about Jennifer every day since our encounter. I’ve shared the story multiple times, been asked what I thought it was for, been told she’ll come back to me someday. I even had one friend tell me that through her own experience with a different kind of addiction, she still remembers the “angel” who reached out when she hit her lowest point.

I don’t know about any of that, but what I have come to realize is that Jennifer’s life was not for me to change – and certainly not with a conversation and a shoulder squeeze. That’s my ego having delusions of grandeur, the me that wants to have all the answers, solve all the problems, be the savior. But I am of God, not am God. 

My function in that moment was to stop the car, talk to her, help get her out of danger. Be a raft for her to grab and find momentary rest from her own personal undertow. I do not pity her. I strive to see her. Aren’t we all doing the best we can at our level of awareness? I imagine I would struggle just as much if I experienced whatever drove her into the street.

My encounter with Jennifer reminds me that it’s much easier to lift others up when your life feels full of freedom, abundance, and purpose. If I felt chronically weak, fearful, and perceived the world was against me, how much harder would I have to work to walk a loving path? How much more miraculous would my faith in others be when I found it? 

I do not know what Jennifer’s path is for, but I know it’s hers. Only she can change what she wants to change. I hope my encounter gave her what she needed in that moment. I may never know. For now, I ask God to send Jennifer freedom from whatever she feels is holding her down – and rafts, lots of rafts to grab onto when the currents feel too strong. I picture her face and send her love and support every day. 

I told my friend who asked what this experience was for that I didn’t know. But I think now, it’s this. Jennifer is another side of me. Her problems are my problems, just dressed differently. I am grateful to be where I can stop and reach out a hand to her, feed the divine connection between us. I couldn’t save her, fix her, and at best, only moved her out of traffic. Looking back now, I think maybe Jennifer laid down in that street for me.

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