Ode to Mitch Snyder
 


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


Ode to Mitch Snyder
— Judy Jones

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.



another homeless person died
— Judy Jones

another homeless person jus died
another homeless person jus died
and not one person cried
not one person cried

cause its just another
homeless person that died
not people like you and me
like you and me

someones dyin
in the gutter somewhere
dyin the gutter somewhere
with nothin
but their soul laid bare
nothin but their soul laid bare

homeless chile
eatin from a garbage can
eatin from a garbage can
and not one person sees
not one person sees

old woman fell on the street
cause she'd nothing to eat
nothin to eat
old woman fell on the street

tonight i looked in the mirror
and cried
for i saw my own soul had died
my own soul had died



Holocaust Museum
for the Poorest of the Poor
— Judy Jones

In the holocaust museum
of the poorest of the poor
will lie all the tears fears
shrieks and moans
of the millions who died
on cold concrete streets

walking in the door
walls weep blood
coffin after coffin
of no name graves
will haunt each visitors face

no one can escape nor change
the holocaust
of the poorest of the poor
all over earths shores

each visitor may claim
a grave of their own
and their names will stand
for the no name that died

and before our eyes will be
pictures of those living on the streets
hands stretched out
for one tiny morsel of
human love

all their misery and pain
coming back to claim
those hardened hearts
that refused to see
the homeless person dying
on the streets
was, is, you and me



why god why
— Judy Jones

why god why
are there so many
dying on our streets
in horrid poverty

why do you
let the homeless
suffer day and night
without a bed
to lay their heads

why do you allow
people to die hungry
and alone
why god why

'you are my hands and feet'
a most tender voice said to me

'when you pass
a homeless man
dying on the street
tis me you see'

'when you reach out
to feed house and clothe
your brothers dying
before your eyes
you will no longer ask
               'why god why'

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

"BLOOD IS LIFE UNTIL ITS GIVEN, THEN IT'S LOVE"

by Judy Jones

Two people have changed the course of my life...One was working with Mother Teresa and the other was Father Clifford Norman who founded Santa Maria Orphanage in Mexico.

He houses over three hundred orphaned children mostly from the streets of Mexico City, takes care of twenty homeless elders and was starting a home for children dying of aids under eight years of age.

Father Clifford Norman gave his life so that the children would know without any doubt, they are loved by one person on this earth..

Father said he would open his front door and at least once a week, find the filthiest child you ever saw. Looking into Father's loving eyes, they knew, they finally had a Father.

The children come from the worst conditions, living on the streets of Mexico City but all that matters now is they are finally, loved by someone.

Father had dreams of building big schools for his children, wanting the best like any Father would but since God sent him the real 'scragglers' the most unwanted children on earth, by the time he fed, housed, clothed and hugged them nonstop, well, there were schools, but not quite the ones Father had dreams of.

The last time I went to see Father Clifford, two years ago at Christmas time, I knew I would never see him alive again.

I arrived on his doorstep unannounced as I have done since 1988 like all the other 'scragglers' God sends him.

When I left, my heart was opened once more to absolutely knowing on this earth there are people that care so much, they willingly die for that love.

Father took me in and immediately asked my heart's desires.

Well, I had just taken, buses, trains, planes and walked to get to him but instead of answering, "Food and a bed!" my soul spoke.

"I want to paint Father" I said. Within two hours Father had someone go buy me a canvas and I was painting. His failing health had opened his ability to give a trillion times since I had seen him last. This dear priest, dying, wanted to fulfill my heart's desires plus those of his 300 children and 20 homeless elders.

And I remembered. There are people that hear the cries of the homeless, the orphans, the forgotten elderly, the poorest of the poor and open their arms and hearts unconditionally to them in whatever way they feel God is asking.

My heart opened once more to hope, charity and love.

I started a newsletter because of his love...I cannot give things away fast enough to those that have not (and these are mostly the people that can't give because their hearts are closed) because of this special soul, Father Clifford Norman.

Because I live in a large city where people die on the concrete streets daily with people walking by, pretending not to notice, pretending they don't see them eating out of garbage cans, without the ' Father Normans' and 'Mother Teresas' it would be impossible for me to deal with what I see. My heart would break.

Father Clifford Norman and Mother Teresa of Calcutta India taught me that the saying on a T-shirt I was given after donating blood is true...It read:

Father Clifford Norman
a letter by Judy Jones

The following letter was written to THT editor Mike Burch by Judy Jones after the article above had been submitted ...

I just had letter from Father Norman in Mexico ...

He cares for 300 orphans at Santa Maria orphanage in Mexico [and] over 30 abandoned elders, and now from his deathbed is starting a shelter for Mexican women and children beaten sometimes to nearly to death by drunken husbands coming home from Saturday night outings.

And he also from his deathbed is starting a shelter for homeless children under eight years of age dying of AIDS.

Sometime I feel we get way off the road of heart into political things when really reaching out to the poor can be done anytime with no laws, no politicians ... just heart.

This ol' dying priest is keepin' mine open.
He loves so much.

Mother Antonia, Tijuana's 'Prison Angel'
a letter by Judy Jones

A letter from Judy Jones to Stephen Hand, editor of  TCRNews.com, regarding the article "Tijuana's Live-In 'Prison Angel'" by Mary Jordan of Washington Post Foreign Service, which you can read by clicking here.

Judy's letter ...

Stephen, I spent some time in the prison in Tijuana with Mother Antonio and spoke with her often on the phone when I moved to Berkeley. I would take the bus and trolley to Tijuana from San Diego, then another bus to the prison.

And today I found the article in TCR about her. God works in utter mystery.

I intuitively understood God placed me in her life to plant the seed about starting an order for older nuns to carry on her works after she dies. But she just wasn't ready to hear God's will in her life. She yelled at me, "You haven't anything to offer. No money, no car, you are forty!" I just let her yell because she was a clear mirror of me when I resist God's will, of all of us when we are afraid. This was in 1988 and now according to the article you published, she is working to get the order going and already has seven older nuns. She put me in a tiny cell with four women and wanted me to teach art. I had never been in a prison before in my life or since. The room was about as big as a closet and one woman had a tiny baby. It overwhelmed me. And I guess her yelling did push me away since it was no easy trip for me to even get to the prison. Took me more than five to six hours one way, and then depending on how long I had to stand outside the prison waiting for the guards to locate her, etc., it could take up to three more hours.

Maybe I will go see her again. I'll pray about it! Sometimes it appears I am just a catalyst in many different lives and it is usually when they are forming new things, especially the priests and nuns or when people are dying. I always think, "Great! God wants me to be here with this person forever, etc." But so far, God just moves me in and out of lives. I've learned not to get attached and accept it, kinda.

Mother Antonio's light is so bright, Stephen, you literally cannot look at her or get physically close to her. I've only seen one other soul with such supernatural light. And I have talked with others seeing who have experienced the same thing when near her. Her cell she lives in is no bigger than a box.

Mother Teresa of Calcutta started out at age 18 to live as a religious and nothing upset her or alarmed her. But Mother Antonio started much, much later in life after a marriage and children, which makes quite a difference.