To See Snow

Searching for financial records from 2018 in the dungeon, the descriptive name given to a storage room at The Salvation Army in Canton, I came across a stack of 3x5 cards, carefully printed on both sides and each containing a brief snapshot of a life in crisis. In 1991, as Ronald was traveling from Boston to Denver as a stow-away, he was removed from the train in Canton. The next year, Henry was heading to the Carolinas in search of a good job. The next card noted that government agents were after Tim, and his erratic behavior required a referral for a mental health assessment. 

Nineteen year old Brandy was kicked out of her parents’ home and had nowhere to go. When asked his source of income, John indicated he sold his plasma. Darla, her husband, and five kids were traveling: no job, no money, no home. Jerry simply wanted to go home.

Some of the case notes had a touch of humor. Richard, from Kentucky, was heading to Erie, Pennsylvania because he heard it was a good welfare state. Tammy got stranded when she came to Canton to visit her boyfriend at the circus. And although not in this stack of cards, my favorite is recorded in my memory. Asked why he came to Canton from Florida without any plan to support himself, Jim answered, “I wanted to see snow.”

Along with the 3x5 cards used for transient clients, boxes and boxes of case files document the presenting needs of people who requested help with rent, utilities, clothing or food. Some paperwork dated back to the years we served at this very same Salvation Army center beginning in 1995. By policy, records more than seven years old can be destroyed, but like the boxes on the storage shelves in my basement and the dust bunnies under our beds, “out of sight, out of mind.” 

Sorting through a few boxes, I began recycling the file folders and shredding stacks of forms with self-identifying information. As I worked, my mind wandered. What a treasure trove these files could be to the anthropologist or sociologist who wanted to study human societies and cultures or even the scope of social problems and poverty. Contrary to popular assumption, very few of the case files showed “frequent fliers.” I’ve heard countless attacks on those who live in poverty, the stereotypical “welfare queens” who make a science out of milking the system. While I didn’t do any statistical analysis, the large majority of files had one, or maybe two notations. One month’s utility bill paid in2009, and then a month’s rent payment in 2013 when the car needed an $800 repair. 

That evening, my researcher brain started down the rabbit hole of the internet to gather information about poverty. One telling report is that less than a quarter of families in poverty actually receive cash assistance in the form of Temporary Assistance to Needy Families, and the monthly “welfare check” for a family of three is less than five hundred dollars. Kermit the Frog sings, “it’s not easy being green.” A modified refrain echoes :“It’s not easy being poor.”

Yet beyond the questions of both policy and statistical analysis, I’m drawn to the people and their stories. Did Ronald ever get to Denver? Did Jim open his mouth wide and let the first snowflakes melt on his tongue? Did it work out under the big top for Tammy and her circus boyfriend? Did Jerry ever get home? Where are these people today? Did the modest financial intervention or the gift of a listening ear or a guiding hand make a difference? 

As I washed my hands one more time at the end of a dusty day, my thoughts turned to those waiting to fill out a new generation of poverty-inspired paperwork, to plead their own stories of scarcity. As churches, social service practitioners, and government agencies, and yes, as neighbors and family, can we gently meet the cares of our brothers and sisters with grace and generosity? In these corona-tinged days, will their concerns be met with kindness, their dreams lifted up? These are the stories still to be written in 2020.