Violet died this week. I decided on the way to work this morning to go to her viewing. Stayed five minutes and went to the office so I could check my email before the students arrived.

Five minutes.

I didn't know Violet too well. Made it my point not to.

She had a severe crack cocaine and alcohol addiction, which caused her to suffer two strokes. After the strokes, her weight quickly dropped, her speech became slurred, and she walked with a pronounced limp. Before the strokes, she made her rounds through north Waco and became an almost-daily visitor at Mission Waco. I don't think there's a person who worked there who wasn't talked into giving Violet a few bucks at one point or another. I have a friend who was actually duped into giving her his tv and close to $100! Her stories were regularly told there with humor, well before she died. However, beneath those stories was a layer of concern, for she was quickly deteriorating.

Violet was at "mid-life" when she died. While very poor, she isn't what tradition labels as homeless. She always had a stable roof to rest under. However her family and network of support had all but disappeared.

Why? Don't know. Remember, I made it my point not to know her well.

When I first moved to Waco, I often found myself in conversation with her...and then, of course, I'd find myself giving her a ride somewhere and/or emptying out my wallet. (She certainly had a way of making you feel like you two were the oldest and best of friends!) After a year or so, I made it a point of avoiding her when I saw her, or simply blowing her off with a "G'morning Violet. No, I don't have any money to give you, sorry."

So today I gave her 5 minutes. It was all I could do for her because I really wouldn't have had time to check my email before class.

Since high school, I've been quick to proclaim Matthew 25:31-46 as one of my favorite biblical passages.

You know, the whole doing unto "the least of these" deal.

The hungry. The thirsty. The alien and outcast. The naked. The sick. The imprisoned. These folks are Christ.

I quit offering the outcast Violet money for food and drink because she was sick with addiction.

I'm sure you're putting the equation together.

Perhaps I should jump a couple chapters in Matthew and adopt Mattthew 27:54, since it appears I better relate to the guards at Jesus' death.

Surely this was the Son of God!

After his death, these men realized who it was that just died. More importantly, these men had a hand in Christ's death.

So I gave Violet's dilapidated and fraile corpse five minutes of my time this morning.

Now, as I look down at the hammer and nail in my hands,
I cry out, Surely this was Christ the Son of God!