WWJD?

It started the night the Russians attacked. It started when they smashed the kitchen window, and came running inside the house in their Russian clothes, swearing their Russian obscenities in their Russian language, swinging their Russian bats.

I stood there, chuckling as one Russian screamed in my face. I thought he was drunk and had come for some more partying. It was a few seconds later when he and his friend started smashing all the windows in the house that I realized it was not funny at all.

My sister threw a party for my nephew, a party where she got to be the cool mom buying alcohol for my nephew and his friends and letting them get drunk. Of course she got drunk as well, but that was not my concern. My concern was the amount of teenage kids drinking beer, vodka, and smoking pot, partying in the side street the house was on. They yelled, laughed, danced, screamed, fought - and that is why the Russians attacked.

I did not want to go home that night. I knew something bad would happen from the party. But I had no place to go. I could have slept in my car on some street behind the Autumn Oaks apartments in Roseville - there are a lot of cars on one street in particular. But the idea of being ticketed by the Roseville police for this kept me away from safety.

I saw clearly in my mind as I stood there watching the Russians the possibility of destruction of life with just a few quick steps on my part. But something kept me frozen in place. I kick myself to this very day for not doing something. It's embarrassing.

But the Sunday after this happened I went to the Salvation Army in Roseville, the one next to Wild Bills. My sister was getting evicted, and she said we needed to part ways. That was fine with me, for I had had enough of the drugs and drinking and chaos in my daily life from my family and their friends. I needed peace and quiet.

So I walked into the Salvation Army, right when the Sunday meal was going on. They had set up long tables for the poor to eat at, covered with a very tasteful paper table cloth. The red plastic dishes and white plastic silverware looked at home and even festive on this day.

The line to the kitchen window had died down, and someone beckoned to me to "come and get some food." I asked this tender and polite lady who I needed to talk to about getting much needed help. She pointed me to a bald man in glasses, white but stained apron on, sitting and eating his breakfast.

I walked over and silently prayed.

"Hi," I said.

"Grmf," he said. His mouth was full of breakfast sausage.

"My sister just got evicted and I need a place to stay. Can you help me?"

He had just shoved another sausage in his mouth as I was talking. He shook his head no in response.

"Do you know of any services in the area that can help me?"

"Grmflflm," he said once more.

He swallowed his food fast. At this point I assumed he wanted seconds before the poor people got it.

"I'm sorry, but I can't help you," he said.

The sad thing was he swallowed his food fast, but not all the way, and I got a nice shot of half chewed sausage sitting in the sides of his mouth.

I turned to walk away, and saw on a wall a WWJD cut out, covered in golden glitter, acting like a small banner for all to see.

Apparently the Jesus of the man I talked to would be too busy eating breakfast sausage to care too much about anything other than stuffing his face.

So I spit on the floor, and walked out of the room. The man yelled at me, but I ignored him.

I am not sure Jesus would have done that, not even my Jesus. But I sure felt better.