He Died in Our Parking Lot

I used to make a habit of carrying an extra $20 in the secret compartment in my wallet just in case I saw someone who needed it. And that Sunday morning I saw one of those people. He was sitting in his white van, nearly buried in what turned out to be all the accumulated dentritus of his life. I knocked on the window and he tentatively cranked it down far enough that we could talk. I told him that I had something for him and passed the folded bill through the opening. He pushed it back saying that he didn't need it. I said that was OK but that he should take it and give it to someone who might need it. Reluctantly, he laid in among the clutter on the front seat. 

It had been a short conversation, but one that commenced anew the next Sunday when I was again taking my breakfast at that same McDonalds down the street from our church. Karen was on the worship team, so I would drop her off early for practice and then pick up a healthy, McGriddle sandwich for $1.39. Again, I noticed the white van parked in the same parking spot. This time when I knocked on the window, he eagerly rolled it down. I asked if I could buy him coffee. He pushed aside the enveloping litter, crawled out of the van and walked in to the counter with me. 

And so began a long series of Sunday morning meetings with Randy. He turned out to be a very interesting individual, enthusiastically talking about his interest in gardening and his deep insights into the energy industry. He was well read and listened to radio talk shows all the time. He was quite a conversationalist. He lived in his van in the adjacent parking lot beside the Weis Market. Every Sunday when I showed up, Randy would be there in the same parking spot waiting for me. This went on for more than a year. He never shared many intimate details about his past life or his current situation. He was just glad to have someone show genuine interest in him. And I found that to be an easy need to fill. 

Then one day we had some vandalism at the church. Apparently, some of the local kids, wandering in the woods behind the church, were using rocks to target the windows of the church building. As I sat munching on my McGriddle with Randy, an idea occurred to me. Why not ask Randy to move his "residence" from the Weis parking lot to our parking lot. I told him that if he did that, he could keep an eye on our church and hopefully prevent the vandalism.


The idea must have resonated with him. By the time I walked out of church that day at noontime, the white van was parked at the far corner of the lot. I told the apprehensive neighbors that he had our permission to park there and that he was harmless. And I told him he was welcome to come in and attend our services. He never did. But the vandalism stopped and our church members made friends with him. Even the local police checked in with him time to time. I think he was able to feel appreciated and welcome in a way that he had not felt before. And that was really all he was looking for in life.

Randy stayed in that van in the far corner of the lot for more than a year. He died in that van one night. The police found him unresponsive behind the wheel. It had been a peaceful death. I am sure that is how Randy would have wanted it -- parked on the only plot of land he was able to call home.