Ode to Mitch Snyder



"Only the chosen ones have eyes that really see
and ears that hear"

by Judy Jones


Ode to Mitch Snyder

It's alright baby Mama has you now
cuddled close to her breast where
you can finally finally rest

hadn't a moment's peace on earth
did ya hon
Oh Mitch Snyder
chosen driven haunted one

You shed your blood so others could live
taking in by the thousands to your
shelters' warm arms
the poor unwanted neglected on earth
they flocked to your door knowin
a night's peace could be had
with no questions asked

In the coldest darkest nights
thru blizzards rain sleet and snow
as we slept warmly in our
secure little beds
with dollar signs dancin thru
our empty little heads
you darlin were collectin the
remains of the no names
at the city morgue's door and
holdin em tight to your breast
for you were the orphans'
god on earth Mitch
the daddy mother brother all in one
for the millions without anyone

on this earth you walked
alone and abused
but your mission my friend
bears fruit
The homeless of this land have
one less tear one more meal
and a night's freedom
from the violent who
eat the weak on the streets

unconditional love you gave
24 hours a day
you took in what society throws away
the strays
yea child you walked in dem shoes of
prisoner tramp and thief
so you knew didn't ya hon how it felt
on dem cold filthy concrete streets

humbled yourself before mankind
and now your chosen soul child
has gone home to god for its final rest

Oh yeah sweetie pie
your time for wailing done done
and for the price you paid Mitch Snyder
the whole world's gonna honor and
pay homage to you thru eternity

don't need to shed your tears
no more child
it's time for the trumpets
and peace bells to ring out your
name to everyone on earth and
all the saints gather round
and place upon your precious head
the crown of the brave valiant
and those that persevered

in thy hands feet and brow
the stigmata do i see there
we we crucified thee mitch
with ignorance pride and
tightly closed eyes

and in your side with
your own hand
you placed the final wound
cause child you had given
all you came to earth to give
and winged your way back home
to god as angels do
as soon as their chosen works are thru

a saint's halo shall grace thee
of this i am certain

and now mr. snyder may i
this unknown poet wash
your holy feet with my teardrops
dotted here and there
and dry them with my hair

you died for love mitch snyder
and i / we love you

Note: Two thousand people sleep and eat in his shelter nightly who otherwise would be on the cold streets of Washington D.C. They have named a street near the shelter after Mitch Snyder.

Six months after I met him, he died by hanging himself.

I am forever grateful that Mitch gave his life for the poorest of the poor.— Judy Jones

This article first appeared at TCRNews.com
To visit Bones of the Homeless, a site with photos and articles by Judy Jones, click here.

Walking down the hill to the bus, with snow blowing in my face, hot tears ran down my freezing cheeks. I felt powerless to do anything but totally rely on God at that moment. Otherwise, I couldn't come back to this house in the morning. The suffering was too great inside those doors. Mother Teresa's deep love for the poorest of the poor is the only reason I went through them today.
"Can you paint?" asked the thin sister who opened the door the next morning. "Oh yeah," I said. "Would you be so kind as to paint some roses on the counter in the kitchen in the women's shelter?" God had seen my tears falling in the snow on the way home yesterday, I thought, and knew the way to my heart was to put paints and a brush in my hand! I had been given a special grace.
The two French volunteers were standing by the bedside of Shelly, weeping and praying. Shelly wasn't expected to make it through the night and these two strangers loved her more at that moment than even her own family could have. They were part of her heavenly family, of this I am certain.
When I arrived the following morning, walking down the stairs I felt a strange joy in the air. Rose was laid out in white with lit candles all around her bedside. At twenty-three years of age, Rose, a woman in our nation's capitol had died of AIDS, homeless. I glanced at her legs, the legs I had rubbed the cream on when I first got there. The Sisters' faces were filled with joy knowing Rose was home now, home with God and no longer in horrid pain. Rose not only had the pain of a disease which inflicts unimaginable suffering, but more importantly the pain of being homeless, with no one.
A man and woman came into the room and looking at Rose's body said, "We are her relatives." The man turned to Sister Emmanuel asking, "Did she have any money left from her welfare check?" I couldn't believe that would be their only concern. Their sister had just died and they wanted what little money she might have had. And then I knew. I was seeing stark poverty before my eyes. It rips through all known socially acceptable politeness. The poor don't have time for that. They have one thing on their mind, survival. Money affords us time. Time to mourn behind closed doors, time to heal and the ability to "present a happy face" in society. The poor only have time to think about the next meal, about finding someplace warm to sleep, and about making it to the morning light without being mugged or worse. For a moment I had forgotten Rose was homeless. And her brother and sister standing over her body loved her deeply in the way they could, and I knew Rose would have wanted them to have any money she had. She had fought a hideous illness that ripped her life from her at the age of 23. Yes, she would have given them everything she had. The torch they carried was now for three.
"Judy, Judy! It's Jacob." Turning around, I said, "Jacob, what are you doing here?" We had both volunteered together at Mother Teresa's Gift of Love House in San Francisco, which is also for the homeless with AIDS. Jacob had moved to Washington D.C. when he heard the Sisters needed help lifting the men, giving them baths, etc.
"I was really angry with the Catholic Church," Jacob told me once. "I had been very faithful to them for years but felt they weren't helping others as they should be. One day I saw a group of tiny nuns in the park outside of city hall feeding the homeless. I found out they were Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity Sisters and I've been volunteering with them ever since. That was ten years ago. And you know something? I don't have time to be angry at the Church anymore. Mother Teresa's unselfish giving to the poor opened my heart and offered me a way to be of service in my retirement years."
Jacob died recently of cancer. How many diseased bodies he fed, held and bathed, and how many tears he dried in the early morning hours, as he sat patiently by one bed after another, will never be known. Nor will we ever know how many huge pots of soup Jacob lifted with the Sisters into trucks to take to the starving in the parks. If there is any work to be done in heaven, I know Jacob is there offering his strong arms and huge heart.
"Hello," said a very young woman in a wheelchair as I walked in the women's bedroom the next morning. "I'm Regina," she said, offering her hand to me. Regina was in her twenties and was also found dying in the snow by the Sisters. She has the mind of an eleven year old, has cerebral palsy, and AIDS. "I'm going into the hospital in the morning to be operated on," said Regina. "They are going to remove some of my toes that were frostbitten when I was in the snow." "I'll come visit you if you like," I told her. I took her huge grin for a "yes."
Regina was in bed in the charity ward of the hospital being prepared for surgery when I walked into her room. Her face glowed. "Oh, I'm so happy you came," she said. "Would you go get me some cigarettes?"
"This is John," said Regina when I came back, handing her the cigarettes. A well built young man sat by her bedside, also in a hospital gown. "I was shot by a gang member," John said to me. Regina teased him saying, "Oh, John, sure. Come on, you know you were out pulling a hold-up and some guard shot you." John adamantly shook his head. She threw back her head laughing.
"Regina, I brought some clay. Could I do a small bust of you while we talk?" I asked. "Sure," she said. I sculpted and listened while Regina explained how she ended up in the snow where the Sisters had found her. "I was very sick and went to the emergency room at the hospital. The nurses gave me some pills and sent me on my way. They didn't know I couldn't read and that I had no home and had been staying in a shelter in downtown D.C. that lets you sleep on the floor, since they don't have enough beds."
"So I was walking to the bus stop and felt really bad and sleepy. I sat down in the snow under a tree and when I woke up the Sisters were smiling at me and asked if they could help me to their house. 'We have a bed for you,' they said.And that's how I got to Mother Teresa's house, high on the hill." Giggling she added, "Would you go get me a Coke and candy bar, please?" I did and heard the doctors telling her as I walked back in her room, "We can either remove two or three toes. One might get better in time. It is up to you." "Oh, take them all now. I can't walk very good anyway because of my cerebral palsy." But instead of pitying herself, Regina beamed with an inner light, her radiance more pronounced as her outer situation grew more dim.
When I got to Mother Teresa's the next afternoon, there was Regina in her wheelchair with her feet bandaged, at the dining table with the elderly women surrounding her. Here was a young woman, half their age or more, in even worse condition than their own. Regina's sweetness and joy took their minds off themselves and their own intense suffering. God works in mysterious ways.
If I could offer a gift to everyone on earth, it would be to spend a day in any of Mother Teresa's houses for the homeless dying of AIDS. If heaven can actually be felt upon the face of the earth, it is here, in these rooms of Mother's, where the unwanted who seem thrown out of society have the great grace of dying in the arms of angels.

This article first appeared at TCRNews.com
To visit Bones of the Homeless, a site with photos and articles by Judy Jones, click here.


 

An Angel Appeared

by Judy Jones

By Judy Jones

Dear Jesus, help me to spread thy fragrance everywhere I go. Flood my soul with thy spirit and love. Penetrate and possess my whole being so utterly that all my life may only be a radiance of thine. Shine through me and be so in me that every soul I come in contact with may feel thy presence in my soul. Let them look up and see no longer me but only Jesus. Stay with me and then I shall begin to shine as you shine, so to shine as to be a light to others.—Blessed Mother Teresa, 1910-1997

"I want to be a Missionary of Charity
so I can lead the poorest of the poor
straight to heaven's doors
where they will suffer
no more"