Leather Lady

            I saw her walking, well, make that staggering, down the street the other day.  It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her, but it was the first time I’d actually thought about her. Every summer without fail she appears on 41^st Street, walking back and forth, up and down, as constant as the traffic that rushes frantically past her. I’m really not sure either party notices the other. She is either seemingly utterly absorbed in a book or so drunk her focus is entirely on putting one foot in front of the other in a semi-straight pattern. Those that pass her in their cars have a thousand things on their minds, but she is not one of them.

            They call her leather lady. I’m not entirely sure who they is, but that’s what I’ve heard her called. From summer immemorial she has held her lonely course in shorts and a bikini top, her skin baked into the mess of tan wrinkles that earns her her title. I couldn’t tell you how old she is. I would guess mid-sixties, but really who knows? And, if we were to be honest, who actually cares?

            I know, I know, it’s a downer of a question. But it must be asked. Even as I write this, I’m not sure I can say I do. Let’s just keep that in the back of our minds, shall we?

            I wonder sometimes what she does when she’s not walking those streets. Does she have a home? Does she at least have a house? Because let’s be honest, she probably doesn’t have much of a family around. Maybe she has some, but they just don’t talk. Maybe she has friends, some drinking buddies. Who knows? Who cares?

            To be frank, she’s probably kind of a bitch old lady. Either that or straight up bat-shit crazy. I don’t think you can really get to a place of wandering 41^st street in a bikini top without at least one of those. But who knows? Maybe she was happy once. Maybe she fell in love once. Maybe he was a jerk. Maybe he abused her. Maybe we have more in common than I would care to think.

            Well that’s an uncomfortable thought. “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” John Bradford said that. And it’s the line has forced its way to the front of my brain and is currently knocking on my forehead saying, “Um, Esther, you might want to pay attention to me.” There, but for the grace of God, goes Esther Nissen.

            I had a bit of a breakdown the other day. I was at a worship service at Central Baptist and I was struck by how close I came to losing everything I treasure. Eight months ago I was two years into an abusive relationship. I had been cut off from most of the friends I’d made at school, basically stopped talking to my family about anything of any real importance at his “request,” and had all but lost my belief in a good and loving God. The relationship itself had reached a place of complete inevitability. I knew that it was unhealthy, I knew I was miserable, but I had lost hope that I would ever escape.

            Fast forward eight months and I am free, happy, and in a healthy relationship. The change in my life is stark and as I worshiped the One who rescued me from my past, I was overwhelmed by just how much He had saved me from. I sat and wept as my friend prayed for me, thanking Christ for His transforming power, begging His truth to saturate our lives.

            Which brings me back to leather lady. What if she was in such a situation once? Cut off from friends, from family, from faith. What if there was no one there to rescue her? What if she married him, hoping and praying it would get better, and it simply never did? What if it got worse? What if it escalated to physical abuse? What if she had kids? What if one day she was simply not strong enough anymore?

            What if that had been me?

            Maybe that’s a little dramatic. But maybe it’s not.

            I wrote recently that perhaps wonder is a lost virtue – that we must be constantly amazed by the human souls around us. Maybe I was just struck by wonder. Wonder at the grace of God, at the soul staggering down 41^st Street. Wonder that there, but for the grace of God, go I.

            A few weeks ago I woke up at an ungodly hour (or rather, was woken up by my friend stealing the blanket from my arms as I grumbled at her), drove sleepily downtown (or rather, sat in the passenger seat, still grumbling, while my friend drove downtown), and helped serve breakfast to about 200 people at The Banquet (that one’s actually accurate. To be more specific, I poured milk.)

            When I finished (well, after my nap), I reflected upon my experience. I was nervous going into it, simply because these people seemed so utterly different from me. I’m not 100% comfortable around people to begin with, at least until I get to know them. Consequently this whole serving milk to homeless people thing was a little foreign. I don’t know these people and I obviously don’t understand where they’re coming from. I appear to them to be a scared little white girl serving the less fortunate.

            I can’t imagine they’re a big fan of people like me. It’s not like they can’t tell that I’ve never known hunger, never had to wonder where I’m sleeping at night.

            After we were done, the lady in charge said that we were no longer servers and those served, we were just 219 people who had eaten breakfast that morning. I thought that was a nice sentiment. But now I think I understand a little better what she meant.

            As I listened to Mutemath this morning, a line stuck out to me – “I’m growing fond of broken people as I see that I am one of them.” This is another one of those lines that, like an annoying 2-year-old, refused to be ignored. And it struck me that we are all broken – our brokenness just manifests itself in various ways. Those at The Banquet have been broken in a visible, sometimes physical way. I have been broken in a far less tangible, but just as sincere way.

            And so serving these people is not a matter of fulfilling duty or of serving the less fortunate. It is a matter of one broken person showing another broken person where she found healing.

            I have no idea what leather lady’s real name is. I don’t know where she sleeps at night. I don’t know her story. But I care. In a real way, I have no choice but to care. Because, well, I grow fond of broken people as I see that I am one of them.