Steve Dresselhaus, September 2026
I was working in my office at home. I was prepping for a Bible study I was to lead that evening. The air conditioner was at its max doing its best to force the oppressive heat of the Baja desert out of the room. The background music was the heart-merrying sounds of Caribbean jazz, making my office a happy place. Having been raised in Venezuela, the sounds of the music of my youth were making my work space pleasant. The outside world was, well, outside.
I took a short break and opened the door to my office. It was not calm outside. Two police vehicles with lights flashing were out front. Four officers were keeping a man and a woman apart. The woman, face down on the burning pavement, struggled violently with the two police officers restraining her. A constant stream of profanity and rage-filled screams filled the air. The hate was palpable, creepy, scary, demonic. The man, held by two other police officers, remained on his feet spewing out the vilest language of hate imaginable. He was threatening to kill his girlfriend, the woman who was face down on the street. The man, whose 28-inch waist was the result his addiction to crystal meth, was wearing pants with at least a 42-inch waist. He was “going commando,” which provided extra drama as both he and the officers struggled to keep pulling the pants back up.
We have known, let’s just call him Pedro, for over 30 years. He used to be a pleasant little boy, but now he is a 44-year-old homeless, substance-addicted, unwashed street dweller. He is rail thin and he has “meth mouth”: teeth gruesomely rotted out by the toxic gases he inhales with his meth. He lives on the sidewalk in front of our house, somewhat shielded from view by our parked F-250 pickup truck. Several months ago, the girlfriend, we’ll call her Maria joined him, converting our sidewalk into what we call the “honeymoon suite,” if you catch my drift. On occasion we let them into our cement covered back yard where they bathe with the garden hose.
Maria has had a devastating effect on Pedro. She thrives in trash. Bits of plastic, torn paper, broken whatever, fly-covered rotten food, open buckets used as her port-a-potty, old shoes, dirty torn clothes, and headless dolls follow her wherever she goes. She is a mobile city dump. Her drugs have turned her into an ugly, dirty, insatiable sex-craving woman in her early 30s, 40s or 50s – Who knows how old she is? She retains no remnant of modesty, We have given her t-shirts and running shorts in an attempt to keep her decent, but we never know what state of dress or undress she will be in when our doorbell rings in the morning. She is not always with Pedro but on the mornings she is, she also gets a hot breakfast on our front porch. Both of them have been to detox centers but since they immediately return to the barrio upon release, they are instantly drawn back into the world of drugs.
The night before last things were getting out of hand. They began yelling at each other in the vilest of language, most of it about physical and sexual violence. In the yelling match Pedro screamed at her for having killed her baby daughter and throwing her in a trash heap. Did she, or didn’t she? With substance abusers, fact and fiction are often indeterminant.
I managed to calm them down. Actually, it might not have been me calming them as much as it was their exhaustion from having been fighting all day. They went to their dirty blanket on the sidewalk. It was a quiet night. When they got up yesterday morning “love was in the air.” I had to tell Maria to make herself decent before the cops arrested her and before I would let her onto our porch for breakfast. She searched through some dirty clothes on the ground and found something with which to cover up.
The arguments began early. Like the day before, they argued all day. Late in the afternoon things blew up. A neighbor called the cops. The cops quickly arrived and ended up leading Maria away and then releasing her a couple of blocks away. Pedro was left in front of our house where a cluster of us immediate neighbors talked with him, trying to calm him down and letting him know that if the girl comes back the cops will be called and formal complaints leading to their detention will be filed. Pedro told me last night he was leaving for good and that his life is nothing but misery. After 30 years-plus of knowing him and watching his self-propelled descent into the hell of his making there was no lump in my throat nor tears in my eye at this goodbye. Should there have been? I gave him enough money to buy two hotdogs from the corner hotdog stand. I said goodbye.
It is now 6:30 AM, the morning after. I have not gone out to the sidewalk to see if Pedro did indeed leave. With very rare exceptions, we have served him a hot breakfast every day for over eight years. Every morning we let him and sometimes Maria in the front gate, and my wife and I prepare their breakfast. Sometimes it is oatmeal, sometimes quesadillas, sometimes grilled cheese sandwiches, sometimes leftovers from church activities but always with toast, coffee and fruit. Has this aspect of my life just come to an end? Will the doorbell ring today?
It is now 8:00 AM. I just went out front. Pedro did not leave during the night. He is sound asleep on the sidewalk. No girl. Relief. Breakfast #2921 coming up.
Why have I done this? Why am I still doing this? Could it be that I am actually promoting evil by feeding Pedro? Is my caring for him simply prolonging his pain and misery or is my caring for him giving him one tiny point of order, stability and security in an otherwise chaotic and directionless existence?
I do not serve Pedro in order to gain points with God. God has already made me his child so I do not need to make myself more deserving of a reward nor will my relationship to God be enhanced by my efforts. In part, I do this out of gratitude for what God has done for me. In part I do this out of obedience to Jesus’s call to love our neighbors as ourselves, and yes, Pedro is my neighbor. In part it might be my tiny effort to show others how Christians are supposed to live. Too many Christians outsource their good deeds by hiring a 501-3C to actually do the hands-on dirty work. It is absolutely not because I am good, worthy or vying for sainthood. My wife will tell you how often I say to her that I wish I was a backslidden Christian so I could ignore all the obedience stuff. I tell her that in the case of Pedro it is not worth the effort it takes to be a good Jesus follower. Sometimes I am not sure if I am joking or not.
I am sensing that this is part of my spiritual formation as I struggle to make sense of this and figure out if I am helping or harming. I want to dig deep and restore the dignity and beauty of the image of God buried so deeply in Pedro’s life and body that its reality seems to be in doubt. My head tells me I want to do for Pedro what Jesus would do for him. My heart tells me I wish I had never met this ruined man. The struggle continues
