‘You Saw Me” (07/12/2025)

Yesterday, I wrote the blog about witnessing two young men praying in a Mission BBQ booth before their lunch and how that led me to go to them when I needed help, believing that their Christian values would lead them to offer their aid. I shared that I introduced my request by telling them “I saw you pray.” Then the rest of the day, my mind kept returning to a conversation in the early 1990s with a man I will never forget, Michael, who taught me the importance of seeing the other.

I remember the day vividly. I was working in my office at Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary trying to put everything away from the faith formation classes the night before. The only ones in the center were the receptionist and me. My office phone rang, and when I answered it, the receptionist told me sternly, “You need to come down here right now.” I wasn’t sure what that was about, but I immediately headed to the front door desk.

As I entered the hallway that led to the front door, I saw him. He was an average height man but his height was where “average” ended. There was an obvious hole in his one shoe showing his toes. His clothes were soiled and didn’t really fit. His hair was tousled. He didn’t have an outer coat or hat and it was terribly cold outside that day. I walked toward the office, but found the door closed. It was just the gentleman and me.

I introduced myself, extending my hand, “Hello, I’m Kate”. He looked at me momentarily before he offered his hand for a shake, “I’m Michael” he told me. I asked  him how I could help him. He sorta looked at me in disbelief before replying, “I need help. I am hungry and cold, and I don’t have any money.”  I said, “I see. Let me see what I can do. Stay here for a second, please.”

I went to the bathroom off the main room, found a washcloth, some soap, and a towel. I went back out and spoke to Michael. “I want to give you a chance to freshen up. I’ve set out things in the bathroom over there for you. While you’re doing that, I will see what else I can find to help.” He went into the bathroom and closed and locked the door.

I lived a few blocks away. I drove home, went to my husband’s closet and grabbed a pair of older tennis shoes, a clean sweatshirt, and some socks. Then I headed to the back door and grabbed a jacket and stocking hat for him. I drove them back to the parish center, went in, and knocked on the door of the bathroom. Michael opened the door, and I handed him the clothes saying, “I hope these work for you.” He took them, closed the door again and locked it.

About 15 minutes later, he emerged with the new clothes and shoes on and his previous wear in the bag I’d brought him. He just stood and looked at me.

“Well, I said, we’ve done something about the cold, let’s do something about the hungry. Come with me.” As we walked down the hall, I told him I was taking him to lunch. He seemed very surprised. I told him there was no food or funds at the parish center, so the best way to ensure he had something to eat was to take him to my favorite lunch spot. When we arrived at the restaurant, I waited for him to get out of the car, I walked with him to the door, opened it, and motioned for him to go in. We walked to the hostess, and I said, “Table for two.” Michael looked at me oddly, but followed along with me to the designated table.

When I sat down, he asked, “You’re eating with me?” I responded that I’d already eaten, but I was going to sit with him and visit while he ate. “Order whatever you want,” I told him. And he did. After the waitress took his order, I asked Michael where he was from. And for the next 20 minutes, Michael told me all about his life as a successful artist in Hollywood who became addicted to alcohol and drugs, lost everything, and had been living on the streets of America for the past 10 years. His sadness was obvious when he spoke of his wife and kids whom he hadn’t seen in years.

When his food came, I chatted so he was free to chew. I told him about being an import to Sun Prairie, how my family had moved around a lot because of my father’s occupation and then my husband’s occupation. He asked a question now and then out of politeness, I think.

When he was done with his meal, he folded his napkin next to his plate, and then he told me, “Thank you.” I responded, “You’re welcome, Michael, I hope you enjoyed your meal.”  What he said will be with me always. “I’m not saying thank you for the food or the clothes,” he said, “even though I do appreciate your generosity. I am saying thank you because for the first time in years, I feel like a person who matters. You saw me, “he said, “I will never forget that.”

Then he shared that he’d been given food and clothing for years, but that he always felt that he himself was invisible. “No one has ever asked me to share how I came to be this way.”

After lunch, I asked him where I could take him. He told me the bus stop. He said he’d stopped at the police station, and they’d given him a bus ticket but nothing else. “They pretty much let me know I should keep moving on.” I drove him to the bus stop. Before he got out of the car, he turned to me, extended his hand for me to shake, and said, “Thank you for seeing me and talking to me.”

That happened over 30 years ago. I can still see Michael. And if I close my eyes, I can still see him. He changed my life in ways that it is hard to explain. He taught me how important it is to be present to others, to see them, to listen to them, to treat them as I’d want to be treated. I give thanks to the Spirit who guided me that day.

As we continue our journeys of faith, hope and love, let us commit to being present to those whom we encounter. Let us attempt to see them as our beloved Savior sees them. Let us remember always how essential it is to our human dignity to know that we are seen.

Until tomorrow, let us all love well.