I am a Child of God

When I wanted to speak to my mother during the years she was on the street, I had to go and find her. I assure you that this was as painful as anything I have been through.

I knew where to look in the streets of Houston. Close to the missions – she didn’t like actually staying in them because of the rules. I tried once during this time, early on, to have her committed to the care of the state. In speaking to officials they explained to me that I would have to prove she was a danger to others or to herself. Mom was excellent at snapping into seeming sanity when the pressure was on! So, it was a losing battle. I was discouraged from trying to go further. She had made her choice. It really was her life.

I don’t remember what happened that made me decide this particualr December that I just had to tell my mother the surely inspirational message that she was loved by God, but there I was. I prepared to comb the ravaged back area of old South Main in Houston. Lots of poverty, drugs, criminal activity.


I knew she was in this area because the few times she would call and describe where she was staying for a few nights, it was somewhere in here. Also, when she was found injured or ailing, it was in this area. Additionally, this was where to find illegal substances and the people who could provide them. It was also, ironically, not far from the home we had shared together when I was growing up.

The day was as crisp and bright as Houston gets. I set off in the late morning, hoping she’d be up but not too far from where she was sleeping. We drove up and down for hours. We walked through areas where it looked like mattresses or clothes were gathered on the street. I stopped and got out to speak to people who I would normally run from. I asked them about my mother. Driving down the main section of Main street, I spotted her.

She was walking down that main drag, wearing an oversized coat. The sun was illuminating her wild reddish hair, and her yellowing, toughening skin. Her eyes, those huge almond shaped, brown eyes were focused. Mom! I called, Mom! I started to run toward her. She turned, dropped her jaw. Frowned a bit.

“What are you doing here?”
“Mom,” I said in my most authoritative, serious tone, “I just really wanted you to know one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Mom, God loves you.”
The expression on her face changed from concerned to bemused.
“Honey, I know that,” she assured me impatiently. “I’ve been a child of God since I was nine years old.”

I would like to be able to truthfully say that I understood at that moment that my mother had her faculties, was an adult, and had just put me in my place. I didn’t get it then, though, and had to speak with others to learn that. I also learned that I was so arrogant as to have decided without realizing it that my mom’s life was without value because she was homeless and addicted. I had to learn that that was inaccurate. I discounted her abilities and knowledge of God. She didn’t. I had to learn not to, either.