Once upon a time, Anthony, with bulging grocery bag full of clothes under one brown arm and faded pink, one-eyed "teddy dog" under the other, came to live with eight Sojourners grownups. Ant was used to living with a lot of people; after all, he did have 10 brothers and sisters, not to mention his Mama. But because their house had recently burned down, his family had no place where they could all stay together. The eight Sojourners said, with some reluctance, "Come live with us."
Ant came. He moved into Mernie's bedroom and had a bed all to himself. Well, not all to himself. One could always find the one-eyed dog amid his three blankets; a dilapidated football at his side; and a deck of blue, green, and pink "Go Fish" cards strewn under his pillow.
Even with familiar objects around him, the darkness of night still held a mysterious terror. Sometimes Anthony would wake up with an anguished yell. What sorts of dreams haunt little boys separated from their families?
Ant sometimes found listening to eight grownups talk at the dinner table about Reaganomics, the M-X, and El Salvador a bit difficult. He'd be so quiet that everyone would forget his presence--unless to remind him to eat his crusty soybean bake or lentil loaf. What strange foods for a young one used to Mama's fried chicken and mashed potatoes. When encouraged (or did we nag?) to eat, Anthony would look at us askance, fork up a minuscule bite, and when no one was looking carefully scoot what he could under the rim of his plate. When alternative food was placed before him, alternative ways of disposal had to be found. All in all, though, he did seem to put a few pounds on his less than slender frame.
He was always ready to help with cooking. So what if the cornbread was unevenly cut into 17 different serving sizes? Danny chose the bigger pieces and Robin the smaller. So what if the salad's celery was bigger than bite size, or the apple slices somewhat ragged? When Anthony began playing pretend basketball with Monday night's as yet unsliced nine-inch squash, my heart stopped. In slow motion I saw the squash ball split as it hit the floor. In fast motion Anthony got ordered out of the kitchen.
He was always eager to ride in the car, particularly if the destination was the store. I often wished I could afford to buy him half the toys his eyes hungered for. We set out to a nearby thrift store one day in search of one toy of his choice. He hugged a second-hand skateboard all the way home and lugged it everywhere for the next three days, including into his bed.
Anthony's gone now. The city government found a six-bedroom house in southeast Washington, D.C., where he and his family all live together again. Great! Sad. Hard to have him go.
Anthony needed a substitute family. We had space in our home, and he worked his way into spaces in our hearts. Little by little, our abstract, theological love for him became personal. He badly needed our consistent love, our playfulness, our fairness in discipline. We badly needed what he had to teach us eight, busy, single individuals about loving through the inconveniences of age and cultural differences. Anthony lived with our values and perspective on the world. Did we pay enough attention to his?
His homemade January and February calendars, featuring Donald Duck, awkwardly grace the part of Mernie's wall under which was Anthony's bed. The other day we found some of his toys in a secret hiding place under a loose floorboard in Dana's old room. In these transient, insecure times, everyone, including an 8-year-old boy, needs to have a private place he can call his own.
In light of even harsher times ahead for the poor, we will continue to confront those places in ourselves that are still reluctant to give, to be inconvenienced, to warmly receive whatever needs come our way.
Anthony opened up some spaces. I continue to pray for God's protection of him, while I pray for a deepening spirit of hospitality to grace our busy life.
Dolly Arroyo was an occupational therapist and a member of Sojourners Fellowship when this article appeared.
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