“What’s your name?”“Monica.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Breanna. Do you live here?”
“Yep.”
“Do you like living here?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”
“Do you ever want to live somewhere else?”
“Yes.”
“There are homes you could live in.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because of this.”
She waved a bottle of glue that she had been holding up to her nose throughout the conversation. Everyone who lives in the plaza has the same plastic bottle, permanently pressed up to their face. Clefa.(glue) To the world, they are simply drug addicts. They sniff. They stab. They rape. Yes, they act like animals. Because society treats them like animals. Growing to know these people, I understand now that they don’t sniff to get high, they sniff to survive. The clefa numbs hunger, cold, pain. It’s an escape from the reality that is living on the streets. We continued to talk, and after a while, she took her foot out from underneath her and showed it to me. “Doctor, something’s wrong with my toe.” Her big toe was huge, black, and smelled rank. I took her to see a real doctor and assisted in slicing open and draining her toe on a urine soaked park bench.
Since I first met Monica, I’ve seen her almost every week. Every week, we’d talk, she’d show me her festering foot, and we’d do the same procedure. Slice, drain, bandage. Every week, it was the same. Then one day Monica pulled me over to a secluded tree, and pulled off her shoe. Her toe smelled foul, and looked like it was dying. I told her she would have to go to the hospital or lose her toe. After much debating, she finally agreed.
We hopped in a Trufi to begin the hour-long trip to the hospital, passengers staring unashamedly at Monica as she curled up with her glue held up to her nose.
“Monica, can I have the glue for the afternoon? I’ll give it back when we leave the hospital.”
“No.”
“Can I have it for an hour?”
“No.”
“Can I have it for half an hour?”
“No.”
Okay.
Monica continues to sniff. Five minutes later, she pulls the bottle away from her nose and stares at it. Then, she slides open the Trufi window, and without hesitating, throws it onto the road. Immediately, she looks at me, horrified at what she had just done. I burst out laughing. ”You don’t need it. I’m proud of you.” Although I knew that as soon as we returned to the plaza, she would more than likely find a new bottle, it was a good moment.
I haven’t seen Monica since our excursion to the hospital. I don’t know if that was her last sniff of glue, or if she’s somewhere on the streets now, a new bottle in hand. I don’t know if she took her antibiotics, or traded them in for clefa. I don’t know when I will see her next, or if I ever will.
When that bottle of glue hit the pavement, I could have cried, I was so happy. It’s not physically addictive. Monica doesn’t need it. It’s a crutch. Something she knows might make it feel a little better, soften reality a little. Yes, it’s awful. But when it comes down to it, we all have our crutches. Some might not be as tangible as a bottle of glue, but it’s our human nature to turn to anything but the One who made us, to make us feel safe, secure, happy. Monica will probably struggle with glue for the rest of her life. Her battle is worn on her sleeve, visible for everyone to see. But the rest of us are all fighting something too. Some of us are just better at hiding it.
Although it makes me angry when I see toddlers living on the street because of the decisions their parents have made, I can’t judge anyone in the plaza for relying on glue to get through. That’s not my right. Yes, it’s not fair. But our God’s not fair. If God was fair, nobody would make it into his graces. As flawed humans, a holy, fair God couldn’t be with us. But God is just, and God has grace. And because of this grace, we not only receive the privilege of serving God, but also the right to call Him friend. Servant and friend. It makes no sense. But that's grace.
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