Tim Conover has a book, Rolling Nowhere: Riding the Rails with America’s Hoboes about the life of a hobo-Conover is famous for his “immersion journalism,” in this case he became a hobo for about eight months, actually riding the rails with other hobos.  In one section he tells about meeting another hobo named Monty who regaled him with stories of his service for the 101st airborne during the Korean war.

After Monty had been telling the story for a while he arrived at the point about the death of his best friend.  He began to sob.  “I’m a killer.  I’m not a killer. They made me a killer. . . . I got medals.  For killin’.  But you know what? It didn’t sit too good with my heart.”

Conover later found out that the 101st had not been in the Korean war, but there was no disputing the fact that in the war or out, Monty had been wounded.

After his breaking down crying he began to apologize to Conover.  “I’m sorry.  I wasn’t brought up this way.”

Four or five hours later, Monty left.  “I’m goin into town to get something to eat.  Will you be here later?” he said.  Conover nodded.  “Well, I’ll be back then.”

Conover says “But I knew that he wouldn’t be back; he was just avoiding a good-bye.  One reason he wouldn’t come back was that , in his grief he had told me too much and would be embarrassed to see me again.  But the more important reason perhaps lay in the words he had spoken, some of the most meaningful I had heard from a tramp.  If tramps avoided using names, didn’t do each other favors, seldom inquired after another’s well-being, and chose to make theirs a world without good-byes, perhaps it was because they had been hurt.  Perhaps, like Monty, they were scared of making friends because they were scared of losing them.  When you lost a good friend, you lost a part of yourself.  When you lost too many good friends, maybe there stopped being a part of you that could be shared; you just got used up.

I looked out over the figures in the grass at Wino Park.  Among the tramps were some real bruisers, that was certain, but there were also men who had been badly bruised.”

The world is filled with bruised people.  The only balm is found in Gilead.  It is easy to look at those who are less fortunate than we are and speak about how they should “work harder, be better people, or turn their lives around.” It is much more difficult to look at them and know, really know, that we are just like them except for the grace of God.  What can we do to ease the bruises of someone today?

DSL