More Right

I was sick of folding napkins. My fingers were sore from attempting to construct the artistic creation my mom had found online. I could not wrap my head around the concept of making something aesthetically pleasing only for people to wipe their dirty hands with. Despite this, it was the day of my little sister’s senior recital and I knew asking my mom pointless questions just to challenge her judgment was not a good life decision.

This day was the culmination of years of piano and vocal lessons, and my parents wanted the recital to progress flawlessly. My sister had wanted to play a duet with me as the final number; a rendition of Amazing Grace we had played together at my grandpa’s funeral the previous fall. I was a pretty decent cellist throughout high school, but my main goal for today was to, as my sister frankly put it, “not make her look bad”. In order to set up a small reception and make sure the sanctuary was set up correctly, my family had arrived at the church almost two hours before the recital was scheduled to begin. The sanctuary was a familiar place. My parents had brought us to this church our entire lives and it had always felt like a home away from home. The old pews and stained glass windows behind the pulpit were comfortable images of our childhood.

There was a narthex, or small entryway, right outside the sanctuary  where my parents and I were setting up a small reception for the guests who attended. I was scarring my hands with napkins while my parents were arranging a fruit tray when a man threw open the doors and stumbled inside. His black shirt and jeans were torn, and it seemed like the weight of the world was relieved from his shoulder as he placed his backpack on the ground. The mood in the room had immediately changed. My mom was openly apprehensive and asked my dad to talk to him. The man removed his beanie and scratched his head as my dad approached.

“I’m sick. Can I talk to the pastor?”, the man asked. My dad responded by informing him that the pastor was not in at the time and that the Salvation Army was right down the street.

“They don’t do nothin’”, he responded.

“Look”, said my dad, “there are about to be  a lot of teenage girls here for my daughter’s senior recital. I think you should leave.” The ensuing argument lasted the better part of ten minutes. The man yelled at my dad that his daughter had been killed in Afghanistan fighting for my family’s life. My father just continued to tell him that he needed to leave. The man picked up his bag and as he stormed out the door, yelled out, “My daughter died fighting to save yours!”.

It was one of those mentally scarring moments that I don’t think I will ever forget. I was furious with my dad. The man was obviously homeless and he had come to a church for respite, only to be thrown back outside. My faith isn’t in a great place, but throwing a homeless man from a church just did not sit right with me. My sister was practicing inside the sanctuary and never even knew the confrontation took place. Her recital was amazing, and our finale was perfect. But whenever I think back to that day, I always remember the homeless man’s frustration more than my sister’s recital.

My dad and I talked about this experience a lot in the next couple of days. It was obvious I disagreed with how he handled the situation, and I let him know it. He expressed that there was nothing the church could have done for him since the pastor wasn’t there, and that he just wanted to eliminate the potential for the man to harm anyone or take away from the recital. My dad was convinced that the homeless man’s daughter was a fictitious character constructed to create sympathy in those who had food or money. I told my dad that he may be right, but I didn’t feel like either of us should have to be the one’s who make that judgment. That decision is for someone who is much more omnipotent than us. I could see where my dad was coming from. He wanted a memory with his daughter before she left for college, and, for the people there to witness it, a comfortable experience. However, that doesn’t make the way these events played out any more right.