Bands to Bandages

Matt and I were walking downtown the other night when we came across a band playing on the sidewalk in front of the Banana Leaf Pub. This was not unusual as it happens every Friday night. What made it memorable was that as we walked by they were playing reggae music which, if you don't know, is my favorite to hear especially live. There were also about two hundred people gathered in the street dancing and enjoying the band. Many of them were apparently on some substance or another. There were Asians and Europeans and possibly Americans getting sweaty to the groove that was substantially groovy. I, of course pushed up into the middle of the crowd and began to get my skank on. For those that don't know, skank is a term referring to the beat that is characteristic of a reggae tune. I had my camera and was taking many pictures and videos of the band and the people dancing. As usual, I was entertained by the exploits of various inebriated people surrounding me. You could tell that some of them were traveling to get away from who they are at home. The tell- tale sign is that they were trying to act as completely weird as they could. There were guys in nothing but shorts and a Vietnamese triangle hat and a Raccoon tail on their butts. This is not the action of a person who is acting himself, especially if he is alone. Anyway, Matt told me he was going home, and since I was having a good time dancing and enjoying the band and the show around me, I said I would stay. It was shaping up to be a pretty great night.


Fairly soon I realized that I had left my keys at home which meant that I should have gone home when Matt went because I would not be able to get into the coffee shop below my apartment. After this realization, I was not able to enjoy the band as much because I was trying to figure out how I would get it with no key or phone so I started walking home at a brisk clip. I was about a quarter of a mile down the road when I heard my name all of a sudden...

"Stephen, Wait up!" I turned to see Matt on his motorbike unwrapping a box of bandages.

"Matt, what in the world? You left ten minutes ago. I didn't bring my keys, I thought I was going to have to sleep outside tonight." I said laughing.

"Hey could you help me? This guy's head has a huge gash in it and I am trying to bandage it."

"Wha.." I looked over and I saw a bald Cambodian man with his left arm cut off as a nub just above the elbow and, sure enough, his wig was split wide open over his left eye and he had an equally gaping canoe dug through the back of his head. His whole face and head was covered in blood and he kept trying to shake Matt's and my hand with his bloody paw. His voice sounded like a more scratchy version of the manager in "Major League" and he was babbling on in virtually unintelligible and heavily accented English. It was easy to see that this man was tweaking on some substance or other and would not be very easy to communicate with.

"Yea I was on the way home and I saw this guy literally laying on his back in the middle of the street yelling his brains out. Apparently someone had bashed his head in."

Apparently. Apparent also was that this was not the first time this had happened to this man whose name turned out to be Tim Ho. There was a hospital literally one hundred feet from where we were field dressing this guy's noggin. A nurse from the hospital was standing on the curb near us and knew Tim Ho because he had been there several times with similar injuries and similar trips and they had not been able to help him. I asked the nurse to go get some rubber gloves and begged Matt not to touch this man until the gloves came. I had to run away several times when Tim Ho would come near and try to put his hands on me or shake my hand. I told him I didn't want to touch yet because of all of his blood and he said ok. I remember thinking that his quick and logical compliance with this request was odd. Finally, gloves came and we donned them.

"Stephen, could you keep him still somehow while I try to wrap his head up."

"Yea I'll try. I don't foresee this being very successful though." Despite my pessimism I asked Tim Ho to grab my hand and to sit down on the pavement. He would at times squeeze my hand and grimmace and then next moment he would stand up and start beating his chest and yelling how he is Tim Ho and these good white Mother F'ers are patching him up. I would yell at him and order him to sit down and he would immediately comply for a time before repeating the process. Sure enough, as soon as Matt finished the wrap, Tim Ho took it off immediately and started on another unintelligible rant. When he calmed back down, Matt said we would try again. So I took my station as Tim HO control while Matt started running the bandage around Tim Ho's melon.

"You speak English very well Tim Ho," I stated truthfully, "where did you learn?"

"I live in America for thirty years, in Columbus, Ohio." As I asked more questions he began to speak more clearly and reveal small tidbits to me such as he was married and has four children. This fact coupled with the drug use and the fact that he is not in America anymore allowed me to see a pretty sad story as I'm sure you can as well.

"Tim Ho, how did this happen to you?"

"I screwed up."

"What do you mean, How do you mean that Tim Ho?" I was wondering literally how he had got his dome smashed.

"I screwed up," He then laid back on the sidewalk which retarded Matt's efforts for a time.

"Tim Ho get up. We can't do anything if you are laying down."

"You have to pick me up man, I am very drunk." I sat him back up and Matt resumed his bandage laps. I tried to hold his hand again.

"You already helped me up, I don't want you Mother F'ing hand." I took my hand back quick to restore "calm."

"What were you saying Tim Ho? What did you mean you screwed up." I really wanted to know how he got hit.

"I mean I'm nothing. I'm a drunk, I take drugs, I am nobody." He was crying at this point.

At this point I did not know what to say. I didn't know how to share Jesus with a man who can't even understand the concept of staying still to be patched up. Matt was close to finishing the bandage a second time when Tim Ho began getting beligerant again. We both backed off to let him rage. He ran up and slapped Matt in the side of the head apparently demonstrating what happened to him. He went on for a few more seconds and then collapsed on his back on the side of the street again, breathing very heavily.

"Tim Ho you were in the States long enough to hear about Jesus," said Matt as he had his hand on Tim Ho's chest, "you need to know that he is the only one who can help you. You need to say out loud 'Jesus help me.'"

Tim Ho said it twice and then we got out of there because he got up again and we did not want to be in his path.

I have thought a lot about how I feel about that night. I have also known it would make it on here but I was not sure on what capacity. I am not sure now. It certainly is not the recounting of an adventure. It is not also a reassuring memory. The thing I ruminate on second most is the image of walking down the road of pleasure. I was laughing at many people earlier that night at this show who very well could be on the road to Tim Ho's mile marker. How sneaky sensuality is. I ponder most, however, on what was the right thing to do with and for Tim Ho. I would certainly walked right on past if Matt had not been there and asked for my help. I'm glad he did because it made me remember how many folks I walked past in the same state in Downtown Nashville. Go, homeless injured man. I wish you well. Keep warm and well fed.

Is that was we said to Tim Ho or did we attempt to dress his wound as much as we had the ability to help him? I am not sure. I don't think that our efforts were for nothing but I can't be sure. What did we really do? I have often wondered if we should have taken him to he hospital and paid for his stitches. The nurse said they have tried to help him several times to no avail though, so I don't think that would have been useful. If that were the case though, would that have been the sum of helping? I don't know, but I do believe that what could have been done at that moment was done for him, yet neither of us were left with any kind of warm fuzzy from helping someone. I, personally, was left feeling somewhat hollow. I guess it's not supposed to be about feeling good though. I have heard a lot that helping feels good... maybe that isn't always true though. I wonder if doing good is really hitting the right targets if it always feels good. More importantly, I think more and more since that night that feeling good is not the point. It seems like we are supposed to minister because, first, it is commanded us, and two, people need ministry. Yes it can minister to us as well, but if you are ministering where it is needed or chasing the right younglife kid then I think we will not always be left feeling so great. This is okay though because maybe that is part of sharing in the sufferings of Jesus. Losing our identity and our comfort so that others can gain a modicum of their own. We must also remember how much we ourselves reject help. I am also comforted in the thought that "some will sow and others will reap." We may not ever see the fruits of our labor in the lord, but that can't hinder our mission.

"Hey Stephen, do you mind if we say a little prayer for Tim Ho?"

"Oh yea, I did not even think of that." Matt went on to pray for protection and life for Tim Ho and then we went to bed wondering what he would do.