Chapter 8: The One They Called a Bum

Chapter 8:The One They Called a Bum

There are things I’ve witnessed in this work that I will carry for the rest of my life—beautiful things, redemptive things. And then there are the wounds I carry that I didn’t see with my own eyes, but that pierced my heart just the same.

The call came from the hospital—or maybe he called me himself. I can’t quite remember. I only remember the words “possible heart attack” and the way dread landed heavy in my chest.

When I got there, they were already running tests. It wasn’t a heart attack. It was a pulmonary embolism—silent, sudden, and deadly. He had nearly died. Statistically, he shouldn’t have made it. But he did.

When I sat beside his bed in the ICU, his voice was weak and cracked from tubes and trauma. But what he told me next broke me in a way that no diagnosis ever could.

“I was on the side of the road,” he said.
“I was slumped over in my chair, and I knew something was wrong. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I was trying to wave somebody down.”

I could picture it—his frail frame bent forward in a wheelchair, leaning against a concrete barrier that separated the road from the bridge. Alone. Helpless. Trying to mouth the word “help” to any car that would look his way.

“And then a truck pulled up,” he said.

For a moment, I felt hope. Someone had stopped.

But then he went on.

“They rolled down the window and screamed at me—‘Get a job, you bum!’—and then they threw a hot cup of coffee in my face.”

I sat in stunned silence. My breath caught in my throat.

“I thought I was gonna die,” he whispered. “And that’s the last thing I heard. That I was a bum.”

There aren’t words to describe the rage and grief that filled me in that moment. Not just for him—but for what it says about the world. That someone could see a man slumped over in a wheelchair, clearly in distress, and respond with hate.

I went home that night and wept.

I pictured him there, on that bumper. Hands barely able to lift. Mouthing the word “help” while cars drove by. While one didn’t. While someone hurled coffee and cruelty.

He spent close to three weeks in the ICU. The closest brush with death I’ve ever seen in this work. But somehow—by mercy I can’t explain—he recovered.

But even now, years later, I still carry that image.

I carry it as a reminder: That behind every rough exterior is someone who’s been screamed at, discarded, or dismissed. That no matter how strong or stubborn someone seems, they may be sitting in the wreckage of a moment they can’t forget.

And I carry it as a witness. That this world can be cruel—but Jesus is kind. That people may hurl coffee and condemnation, but God still sends help. And sometimes, help looks like a case manager walking into an ICU, holding a friend’s hand.

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Final Takeaways:

• The world may call them bums. But God calls them beloved.

• Cruelty wounds deeper than illness. But kindness heals where medicine can’t reach.

• No cry for help is invisible to heaven.

• Sometimes survival isn’t just a medical miracle—it’s a spiritual one.

• The bridge between despair and hope is often built with presence.