Good Friday: The Best Birthday Ever

So I asked my birthday girl (14 years old today!) what she wanted to do to celebrate. It was a tough call since it fell on Good Friday this year. “Let’s go to Canal Street and pray with the homeless people,” she replied.

This didn’t come out of the blue, mind you. Our family had been walking down Canal Street in downtown New Orleans months earlier—on Christmas Eve, in fact—on our way to brunch at the Palace Café and then to see White Christmas at the Saenger. I was admiring the beautiful decorations and the cloudless blue sky on our walk, oblivious to the people around me.

Stopping at a street corner, she asked, “Mom, why didn’t you help that woman sitting on the ground? She didn’t have a sign or anything, but she looked like she needed some help. Can we go back?”

In my rush to get to our destination and my husband back to the pit in time for downbeat, I told her we would return when we had more time, my heart sinking in my chest. Now three months later, she said she was ready to go back for her birthday.

I was both super proud of her and anxious about what lay ahead of us. What would we say? How would we know who to pick? Would anyone try to hurt her?

As I prayed for guidance, we packed up gallon-size Ziplock bags with snacks, old Magnificat booklets, juice boxes, miraculous medals on chains, rosaries, “Remember you are loved” wristbands, etc., and we headed out on our adventure with four special friends: Mary Bielski, a youth evangelist from Indiana living in New Orleans; Paola Doria, Mary’s friend and a former FOCUS missionary; Leila Benoit, the principal of Archbishop Chapelle High School; and Fr. Chris DeLerno, pastor of St. Mary Magdalene Church in Metairie, LA—a truly gifted group of humans.

Our first encounter was with Charles. He was an African American man with a gentle spirit and the most beautiful blue eyes—truly mesmerizing. Charles was sitting on “his corner” in front of the Ritz-Carlton enjoying some peanuts when Mary struck up a conversation in her casual, endearing way. Charles was in his late 50’s and out of work. He had been a porter and worked in engineering at the Ritz and at the Roosevelt, but he had “retired” and now missed the job.

He really wanted a job at the Roosevelt again, he said, so we prayed for that very thing. Mostly we just listened to him as we sat down next to him on the edge of the building and kept him company. After giving him a gallon-size goodie bag, we blessed him (“God bless you, Charles!” said my beaming daughter) and headed off to find someone else.

Before the next block Mary started musing, “What if we found him a job today? Couldn’t we just go see about that?” And off we went to the Roosevelt. Half an hour later, she had charmed most of the people at the concierge counter, engaged the Human Resources department, and gone back to find Charles.

Mary tracked him down a couple of blocks away and brought him back to the hotel, offering him a chair in the lobby as we set up an email account and filled out his application. He didn’t really know his address and didn’t have a phone number, but we did our best. The most beautiful moment came when Fr. Chris gave him a final blessing. When he placed his hand on Charles’ shoulder, he hung his head as tears began to fall. A heavy velvet silence fell over all of us in that moment of fraternal communion. It was beautiful.

Charles walked with us for a while down Canal street and then went his own way. At that point Leila asked if I had fed the parking meter (details…), so Fr. Chris, Leila and I went back to the car. It was great to hear his story and how God had called him into the priesthood—especially after his experience as a Nuclear Missile Launch Officer in the Air Force (what?!). We found my car with a big ugly neon orange parking ticket, but at least it was still there.

Then we met Almedra. She was sitting on the edge of Canal Street looking so very tired. We sat down on the sidewalk with her and asked if there was anything we might pray for with her.

“A healthy mind and an end to my bad habits,” she replied. So we prayed, and then I asked if I could put a miraculous medal around her neck with an image of the Virgin Mary on the front.

“Mary is everybody’s mother,” I explained, “and we all need a good mother looking out for us, don’t we?” She nodded as I spoke her to her about God’s personal love for her. “That’s a beautiful thing to say to someone,” she said, “that God loves them.”

I asked Almedra where she would be spending the night, and she said she would grab a few minutes here and there on the street, using her books for a pillow—but she doesn’t like sleeping in that homeless shelter. She’s been living this way for about a year, and she showed it.

Frustrated that I couldn’t do more for her I said, “I wish I had a bed to give you.” Almedra looked up at me with her tired eyes and said, “Well, you saying that is as good as you giving me a bed to sleep in—that you care about me having a bed or not.”

That statement was the highlight of the day for me, and it taught me a valuable lesson: We don’t need to solve everyone’s problems. We just need to love them and let them know that we care.

At this point we all took a break for a delicious birthday lunch in the French Quarter (seafood, of course), and then we headed back to the car.

There were others we encountered on the way—the schizoaffective guy wearing a cowboy hat, fishnets and fake breasts; the toothless drunk guy who sang to us and made bizarre bird call noises between scripture quotes; and the elderly woman with shingles who just wanted someone to call her a taxi to take her to Wal-Mart.

This last woman was named Mary, and Cecilia and I prayed a prayer of command for her healing right there on Canal Street. As we waited with her for an Uber driver to arrive (“You sure this is a taxi?”), her face lit up. “I feel so much better!” she said.

We got Mary comfortable in the back seat, paid the driver, and headed back to our car. All of us took a collective big breath and let out a sigh from a day well spent. Looking in the rear view mirror for my birthday girl, she smiled and said, “Best. Birthday. Ever.”

If she has her way, this will become an annual event. And if you are moved by this simple story, I hope you find the “Almedra” in your city who is just waiting for someone to care that she doesn’t have a bed.