More Than A Concert

February 12, 2018

2:45 AM

Evansville, Indiana

Greyhound juts to a halt. I open my eyes. Gather my bags. 

Bone-jarring cold. It sears my skin as I step away from the door.

My eyes search the area for a place to hide. The welcome sight of an open bus station: no chance. It's dark inside. I descend the stairs, look for anything. Any place I can go. An empty bench. A dark corner. A bush. A low-hanging tree. I peer at the vacant parking lot. My heart sinks at the site before me. Nothing. 

My bus takes off for the next stop. Drives past me. 

I start walking. To where I don't know. I have to find somewhere. There has to be a place for me to rest my weary head. 

Through streets empty, houses silent, I creep. Everyone's snug inside their bed. Down a highway with few cars, my feet guide me. Headlights glare at me. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Grass breaks like glass underfoot.

Near a stream, across from a park, I find a tree with leaves that haven't fallen. Say hello to my bed. "Lucky me," I think. Thankful to find a place. 

I crouch down, shove the bags into the branches before diving inside. It's not much. I huddle inside, wrapped in a sweatshirt that keeps out the cold back home. But can't keep this wind from slicing through 5 layers of clothes. Temperature doesn't rise above 14 degrees all night. 

In despair, I scroll through the addresses of homeless shelters. Climb back out. Walk another mile. The first shelter I stumble too, Of Bread and Peace, turns me away. They're full. Before I get off their porch. I quietly ask, choked by emotion, "Do you have an extra blanket?"

The lady turns around. I'm almost afraid for her to leave. She rustles around inside. "Here," she hands one over. It's thin. Blue. I doubt it'll keep me warm. But I take it gratefully. She shuts the door before I can say a simple "Thank you."

"This wasn't how it was supposed to be," I think. "There's never an abundance. A hotel would have been nice. For once. I never stay in one. How could this have happened? Where did the work go?"

From there, I debate whether to try again. Resist that urge. My legs are numb. I have to warm them. I return to my spot. Claw my way back into the tree. Lay down. Use the branches around me as a pillow. Within minutes, the hard ground steals the last warmth from my body. I shiver. Toss. Turn. Sit up. Look up. Cry out. Write down how I'm feeling in my journal. Hands frozen. "I NEED A MIRACLE TOO," I cry. "Damn you, God. You couldn't give me a break." Curl into a ball. Know I won't sleep tonight. Pull the sweatshirt over my head. Blanket tighter. Wrap both so the warm air from my lungs can't escape.

There's a reason why I came. At the moment, it's hard to think past this situation. "What was I thinking coming here?" I chide myself. "This is crazy. I should be home. Warm in bed. Not here." By 4:30 AM I claw my way back out. Stand up. Head back up the highway. Climb inside a port-a-potty. Lock the door. Wait out the cold.

Breathe into my hands. Mutter under my breath. "Stupid. So stupid."

When the clock reads 6:30 AM, I open the door. Peer around it to make sure there are no cars coming. Dart under the orange fence enclosing someone's yard. Grab my stuff. Strike out for food. Find the nearest Mcdonald's. Laugh to myself because if I don't, I'll cry. "If my dad could see me now. I'm living the life alright. He'll never believe one of his daughters spent two hours in a port-a-potty. Except in my case, he might."

Why did I come?

In 2 months there have been 3 accidents in my family. Two in the week leading up to me flying out. That fact shook up my world. I need reassurance. People to lean on. Someone who understands that pain. Time. Maybe...if I can brave the cold: work. If I make it back home, there might not be any until the middle of March.  

What shakes me up the most: the second accident paralleled my sister's in 2007 when she'd flown off the road and hit her head. My sister ended up in a convalescent home. Round clock care because of a head injury. My brother walks away without a scratch. But he could have easily flipped the car. Hit his head also. These accidents remind me tomorrow's not guaranteed.   

Nothing's guaranteed. Not my health. My job. Money. Where I live. In a moment, it could be gone. My parent's house could burn down. Dad could lose his job. Mom could fly off the road delivering newspapers. Sister could have another seizure. Brother could crash again. Hurricane down in Florida could sweep my other brother's house away.

So I flew here, to Indiana. Wrote a letter to my favorite band. As the lead singer, John Cooper walked from one stage to another after playing my favorite song, "Stars," I took another chance. Those around me shooed me towards him with their words, "Just go. This is your chance." With them cheering me on, I pushed past the crowd in Indianapolis. Handed the letter to John. He saw me. At least, I believe he did. For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel so invisible.

Knowing that...I still don't have money for a hotel. Face 4 nights in the cold. If I decide to go to a hotel: I'll be walking back across the Cascade mountains in the middle of winter. And I'll have no food. I'm quite sure of that fact. Have asked for a ride too many times before. Have asked for help before. The church NEVER helps with transportation beyond bible studies. Services. Not when it's six hours drive roundtrip. In winter. It'd cost them too much. I'm not worth that much.

Coming here, I risk losing everything.

I'm okay with that. I think. I don't know anymore. But I want more. More than what I have now. There has to be something here. Something I can cling too. A love. Someone who will find me. Wrap me in their arms. Let me be real. Let me cry on their shoulder. Won't condemn me if I do. I'm tired of holding my world together.