I hope it is as unforgettable to you as it is to me.
Dear Mr. Jackson,
Please find the article you requested below. Thank you for your interest.
Whom do we see when we see the homeless? In our August 1989 issue Donna Tesh found a heartbreaking answer to that question
They Are Billy
November 1995
Subject: Homeless: Helping others: Sibling relationships: Death and dying
Abstract: sister learns about helping others after she realizes her own brother lived as a homeless man
by Donna Tesh, Garner, North Carolina
“Billy’s dead.”
The soft, shaky voice on the other end of the line belonged to my mother—our mother, mine and Billy’s. There had been three of us children: Billy; my sister, Twila; and me. We had grown up in Florida, but now, in the summer of 1987, my minister husband and I lived in Wilson, N.C., and my mother lived in an apartment only 10 minutes away. Twila had moved to Georgia, and Billy—well, the last address we had for him was in Phoenix, Ariz.
It had been 10 years since Billy went west. There had been a broken marriage, a period of drinking, and when his little boy died soon after his first birthday, Billy just picked up and left. After Mom dropped him at the bus station that day in 1977, we were never sure of his whereabouts or how he was getting along. We sent letters and cards, and one Christmas we even mailed a box with gifts and a small artificial tree complete with tinsel and lights. It was always the same story, though—no reply.
Holidays were difficult. Mother’s Day was especially so. That day was always hard for Mom, and Billy’s thoughtlessness would get me riled. Then I would turn around and worry about him, wondering if he was all right or if he was still alive. But our letters were never returned; we found a glimmer of hope in that. Sometimes I would wonder if he knew that he had another nephew. Sammy, my second son, was now 10 and had only heard about his uncle Billy. Sammy included Billy in his prayers at night. We all prayed for Billy.
Mom was drinking tea in the kitchen when I got to her apartment. I wrapped my arms around her. “Mom, are they sure?” I clung to some dim hope that this was all a case of mistaken identity.
“Yes, they’re sure,” she whispered. The police had been able to identify him from a large scar down the center of his chest, from when he had open heart surgery as a child to correct a congenital defect. They also had his fingerprints on file. Apparently Billy had a police record.
Mom looked frailer than I had ever seen her. She was recovering from cataract surgery and had just begun feeling stronger, but the bad news seemed to sap whatever strength she had regained. I called Twila in Georgia and we arranged to meet in Atlanta and fly together to Phoenix. Mom would remain at home.
During the long flight, my sister and I reminisced about our brother. I recalled how Billy and I would go rowing on the canal behind our house when we were kids. Billy never talked much, but I was always impressed with how easily and steadily he rowed. Twila remembered how bright and handsome he was, with an easy smile and a twinkle in his eye.
But as we made the descent into Phoenix, we grew silent, bracing ourselves for what lay ahead. We would have to dispose of his belongings—furniture, clothes, books. Billy loved to read, so I knew there would be lots of books. We had brought along a box of heavy-duty plastic garbage sacks. It would be best, we decided, to give most of his things to the Salvation Army. Any personal mementos we would bring back home for Mom. We were organized, Twila and I.
I watched the other passengers filing through the arrival gate to be greeted by friends and hugs. Everywhere, hugs. My heart ached trying to conjure up an image of a pleasant-faced man waiting to show his sisters the town.
Armed with a rental car and a city map, we set out for police headquarters downtown. The detective who ushered us into his small office was matter-of-fact, but not unfeeling. He seemed to sense how difficult this was for us and wanted to make it as businesslike as possible. He got us some coffee, then sat down to tell us what had happened.
Billy, working as an itinerant laborer, had been hired by a landscaper to do a day’s work. He no sooner put on the new work gloves they had given him than he dropped dead from a massive coronary.
“What about the police record?” I inquired with some trepidation. Nothing major, we were assured. Maybe just the sort of thing a man does when he’s desperate for his next meal. We decided not to pry any further.
The detective then reached for a small glassine bag that contained Billy’s personal effects. He spread the contents neatly on the desk: a dull comb; the stiff new work gloves Billy never had a chance to dirty; a beat-up old wallet; an old grimy, tattered, doubled-over Christmas card with some writing in Mom’s neat hand.
“That’s how we knew where to get in touch with you,” remarked the detective, pointing to the card. “Looks like he carried it with him everywhere.”
A lump grew in my throat.
“Nothing much else here,” he continued, almost clinically. “These are receipts from a plasma center where he had been selling his blood. A punch card from a soup kitchen. Oh, yeah . . . some pictures.”
There, spilling out from the ragged billfold, was my Sammy’s first-grade picture. And one of my oldest son, David, along with some other family shots.
I grasped Twila’s hand. “He knew,” I said.
But that was it. When we asked about seeing Billy’s apartment, the detective stared at us for a moment, a pained look in his eyes. There was no apartment. No furniture, no books, no possessions. Nothing to give away. Even the work shirt and jeans Billy wore that day were borrowed. “Home” was some cot in a shelter, or the street.
“Your brother was one of our homeless,” explained the detective blankly, looking away.
Billy . . . homeless? All the evidence was there, but it was simply so hard to grasp. What did that mean, homeless? That Billy was one of those people you see with such numbing regularity on the nightly news, people without names, people you never dreamed you might know? Something had happened to our brother.
In the following couple of days, as we arranged a burial for Billy, Twila and I retraced the life he had led. We saw the soup kitchen where he had taken his meals. We saw the labor pool where he went to find menial work. We saw his last apartment, which was mean and dirty. He hadn’t even been able to hang on to that.
We saw the YMCA where he sometimes went for a shower. A woman there said that several months before, Billy had been coming regularly and using the gym equipment. He had appeared to be shaping himself up, getting ready for another go at life. But then he stopped. Something, something we just couldn’t understand, made him slip back, drinking again perhaps, living on the streets. “It’s a shame, really,” she said quietly.
We wanted to see Billy one last time. The funeral director the detective had recommended led us into a small chapel. We walked past rows of empty chairs to the far end, where the body had been placed on a stretcher and covered with a white sheet pulled up to the chest.
He looked much older than his 43 years, thinner than we remembered him, practically gaunt. There were some unfamiliar scars on his chest and arms. His hairline had receded. But there was no mistaking that face, that soft, gentle look he wore even in death. No one else was around, and we were grateful for the solitude. Twila and I stood there for some time, crying softly. And then we prayed.
We prayed for Billy. But we also found ourselves praying for the others we had seen, for the people standing in line for food, for the men at the labor pool, the children playing between the cots at the shelter. Somewhere they must have loved ones like us, wondering and worrying about them, asking God to keep them safe.
I bent over and kissed Billy’s brow. Mom always referred to it as his sweet spot. All her children had them, she asserted, and that’s where she kissed us when she tucked us in. “That’s from Mom,” I whispered.
Neither Twila nor I will ever forget our experience in Phoenix. It’s made an impression on our lives. We look at the poor and the homeless, and no longer are they nameless people. They are Billy.
These days, since Twila sold her beauty shop, she helps out by giving haircuts in the local shelters. Near one of the shelters they’re creating a chapel for the homeless to worship in. Twila and her husband are going to buy a pew in Billy’s name.
As a minister’s wife I’ve always been asked to do my share for the poor. Now it’s taken on a personal meaning. Why Billy didn’t come to us for help we’ll never know, but he needed it, and there are so many more like him out there. They may be afraid or ashamed or just too confused to know where to turn. They need us. “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren,” Jesus teaches us, “ye have done it unto me.”
Yes, I do it for someone else’s Billy—and for you, Lord.
The soft, shaky voice on the other end of the line belonged to my mother—our mother, mine and Billy’s. There had been three of us children: Billy; my sister, Twila; and me. We had grown up in Florida, but now, in the summer of 1987, my minister husband and I lived in Wilson, N.C., and my mother lived in an apartment only 10 minutes away. Twila had moved to Georgia, and Billy—well, the last address we had for him was in Phoenix, Ariz.
It had been 10 years since Billy went west. There had been a broken marriage, a period of drinking, and when his little boy died soon after his first birthday, Billy just picked up and left. After Mom dropped him at the bus station that day in 1977, we were never sure of his whereabouts or how he was getting along. We sent letters and cards, and one Christmas we even mailed a box with gifts and a small artificial tree complete with tinsel and lights. It was always the same story, though—no reply.
Holidays were difficult. Mother’s Day was especially so. That day was always hard for Mom, and Billy’s thoughtlessness would get me riled. Then I would turn around and worry about him, wondering if he was all right or if he was still alive. But our letters were never returned; we found a glimmer of hope in that. Sometimes I would wonder if he knew that he had another nephew. Sammy, my second son, was now 10 and had only heard about his uncle Billy. Sammy included Billy in his prayers at night. We all prayed for Billy.
Mom was drinking tea in the kitchen when I got to her apartment. I wrapped my arms around her. “Mom, are they sure?” I clung to some dim hope that this was all a case of mistaken identity.
“Yes, they’re sure,” she whispered. The police had been able to identify him from a large scar down the center of his chest, from when he had open heart surgery as a child to correct a congenital defect. They also had his fingerprints on file. Apparently Billy had a police record.
Mom looked frailer than I had ever seen her. She was recovering from cataract surgery and had just begun feeling stronger, but the bad news seemed to sap whatever strength she had regained. I called Twila in Georgia and we arranged to meet in Atlanta and fly together to Phoenix. Mom would remain at home.
During the long flight, my sister and I reminisced about our brother. I recalled how Billy and I would go rowing on the canal behind our house when we were kids. Billy never talked much, but I was always impressed with how easily and steadily he rowed. Twila remembered how bright and handsome he was, with an easy smile and a twinkle in his eye.
But as we made the descent into Phoenix, we grew silent, bracing ourselves for what lay ahead. We would have to dispose of his belongings—furniture, clothes, books. Billy loved to read, so I knew there would be lots of books. We had brought along a box of heavy-duty plastic garbage sacks. It would be best, we decided, to give most of his things to the Salvation Army. Any personal mementos we would bring back home for Mom. We were organized, Twila and I.
I watched the other passengers filing through the arrival gate to be greeted by friends and hugs. Everywhere, hugs. My heart ached trying to conjure up an image of a pleasant-faced man waiting to show his sisters the town.
Armed with a rental car and a city map, we set out for police headquarters downtown. The detective who ushered us into his small office was matter-of-fact, but not unfeeling. He seemed to sense how difficult this was for us and wanted to make it as businesslike as possible. He got us some coffee, then sat down to tell us what had happened.
Billy, working as an itinerant laborer, had been hired by a landscaper to do a day’s work. He no sooner put on the new work gloves they had given him than he dropped dead from a massive coronary.
“What about the police record?” I inquired with some trepidation. Nothing major, we were assured. Maybe just the sort of thing a man does when he’s desperate for his next meal. We decided not to pry any further.
The detective then reached for a small glassine bag that contained Billy’s personal effects. He spread the contents neatly on the desk: a dull comb; the stiff new work gloves Billy never had a chance to dirty; a beat-up old wallet; an old grimy, tattered, doubled-over Christmas card with some writing in Mom’s neat hand.
“That’s how we knew where to get in touch with you,” remarked the detective, pointing to the card. “Looks like he carried it with him everywhere.”
A lump grew in my throat.
“Nothing much else here,” he continued, almost clinically. “These are receipts from a plasma center where he had been selling his blood. A punch card from a soup kitchen. Oh, yeah . . . some pictures.”
There, spilling out from the ragged billfold, was my Sammy’s first-grade picture. And one of my oldest son, David, along with some other family shots.
I grasped Twila’s hand. “He knew,” I said.
But that was it. When we asked about seeing Billy’s apartment, the detective stared at us for a moment, a pained look in his eyes. There was no apartment. No furniture, no books, no possessions. Nothing to give away. Even the work shirt and jeans Billy wore that day were borrowed. “Home” was some cot in a shelter, or the street.
“Your brother was one of our homeless,” explained the detective blankly, looking away.
Billy . . . homeless? All the evidence was there, but it was simply so hard to grasp. What did that mean, homeless? That Billy was one of those people you see with such numbing regularity on the nightly news, people without names, people you never dreamed you might know? Something had happened to our brother.
In the following couple of days, as we arranged a burial for Billy, Twila and I retraced the life he had led. We saw the soup kitchen where he had taken his meals. We saw the labor pool where he went to find menial work. We saw his last apartment, which was mean and dirty. He hadn’t even been able to hang on to that.
We saw the YMCA where he sometimes went for a shower. A woman there said that several months before, Billy had been coming regularly and using the gym equipment. He had appeared to be shaping himself up, getting ready for another go at life. But then he stopped. Something, something we just couldn’t understand, made him slip back, drinking again perhaps, living on the streets. “It’s a shame, really,” she said quietly.
We wanted to see Billy one last time. The funeral director the detective had recommended led us into a small chapel. We walked past rows of empty chairs to the far end, where the body had been placed on a stretcher and covered with a white sheet pulled up to the chest.
He looked much older than his 43 years, thinner than we remembered him, practically gaunt. There were some unfamiliar scars on his chest and arms. His hairline had receded. But there was no mistaking that face, that soft, gentle look he wore even in death. No one else was around, and we were grateful for the solitude. Twila and I stood there for some time, crying softly. And then we prayed.
We prayed for Billy. But we also found ourselves praying for the others we had seen, for the people standing in line for food, for the men at the labor pool, the children playing between the cots at the shelter. Somewhere they must have loved ones like us, wondering and worrying about them, asking God to keep them safe.
I bent over and kissed Billy’s brow. Mom always referred to it as his sweet spot. All her children had them, she asserted, and that’s where she kissed us when she tucked us in. “That’s from Mom,” I whispered.
Neither Twila nor I will ever forget our experience in Phoenix. It’s made an impression on our lives. We look at the poor and the homeless, and no longer are they nameless people. They are Billy.
These days, since Twila sold her beauty shop, she helps out by giving haircuts in the local shelters. Near one of the shelters they’re creating a chapel for the homeless to worship in. Twila and her husband are going to buy a pew in Billy’s name.
As a minister’s wife I’ve always been asked to do my share for the poor. Now it’s taken on a personal meaning. Why Billy didn’t come to us for help we’ll never know, but he needed it, and there are so many more like him out there. They may be afraid or ashamed or just too confused to know where to turn. They need us. “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren,” Jesus teaches us, “ye have done it unto me.”
Yes, I do it for someone else’s Billy—and for you, Lord.
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