I will call the stranger who dialed 911 “Joe.”

Joe relayed the facts of the situation to the dispatcher: There was a dead man on the other side of a decorative open-blocked cinder wall. He was lying on the ground, hidden from view on the other side by tall, thick bushes. He was found by a boy and his mom.

Me.

I stood next to Joe and listened to his side of the conversation. I couldn’t help but think it was all a crazy mistake.

The man my son discovered a few minutes earlier was just sleeping, right? How deeply wrong to mistake a sleeping man for a dead man. I actually worried how he’d feel when he woke up to hear some lady thought he was dead. While Joe answered the dispatcher’s questions, I walked back to the bench where I sat when I first saw the dead man. I approached him, concentrating on his face. There was no mistake, no flinch, no flare, no life.

Joe snapped his phone shut and put it in his pocket. The police and paramedics were on their way. The dispatcher said for us to move away from the body just in case. We left the walled garden courtyard to wait for the authorities to arrive. Loud sirens meant they were already near. A firetruck pulled up first, then an ambulance, then the police. Joe and I hailed them. I led them to the body.

A paramedic confirmed he was dead. The men began to talk logistics. Yellow tape appeared out of nowhere, wound around trees and bushes with Joe and I still inside. An officer flipped a small notebook open and began to write down the pertinent information. A paramedic said he confirmed the death at 14:14. Joe excused himself. His bike was still inside the building and he was wanted to get it. The policeman said okay.

I gave a statement. My son found the body first, then told me. I thought maybe the man was sleeping, but then I realized he wasn’t sleeping. My husband quickly took our kids outside, away, and I stayed behind to look for help. Joe saw us. He knew something bad happened because of our faces. He asked to help, and he did.

The police officer told me the man was most likely homeless. I nodded. I knew it. But I couldn’t help wonder if he thought that would lessen the impact or the degree of what happened. Like it was finding a dead bird or animal—sad, but natural and not unexpected. I don’t think the police officer was cold or uncaring. I just think as a police officer in Boulder, he’s probably seen a lot of similar scenes in the course of his career.

After giving my information, I walked away. Joe came out of the building pushing his bike and we said goodbye. I looked for Lee and our kids. I saw them across the lawn. Some of them were running around, chasing each other. My older kids stood. They saw me coming. It was all bewildering.

We went home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We walked in our front door. My son headed toward his bedroom and I caught him. I turned him around. He was crying and he declared the man’s face was like a screensaver in his head. I threw my arms around him and said I knew exactly what he meant because I saw him too.

All the way home, we had chattered like maniacs about everything we were seeing out the van windows and things we needed to do. It was to cover up what was going on. We had no idea who saw what and what they realized or didn’t realize. We hadn’t had time to talk to each of our kids, alone, to determine what they knew. That would come later.

~~~~~~~~~~

Now what?

That’s what I kept thinking.

I decided I wanted to see Winnie the Pooh, immediately. It would be perfect because my son had been wanting to see it for weeks. When it first arrived in theaters, he watched the trailer over and over, declaring Pooh to be one of his all-time favorites, begging to go. Lee agreed it was a good idea. My son and I put on our shoes and left. We drove to the theater and talked about how it was going to be very important that we not bottle up bad feelings. He could talk to anyone he trusted. He said he would.

Winnie the Pooh made us laugh out loud. It gave us precious, necessary distance for a little over an hour. During the movie, my cell phone buzzed in my bag. I didn’t answer. It turned out to be a detective with the police department. After the movie, I called the detective. We were still in the parking lot. He asked about us. Were we okay? He had already contacted Victim’s Advocacy on our behalf, saying they’d be calling to chat with us as well. They could even come to our home as soon as we wanted. They’d help us in any way they could. I thanked him.

A few minutes later, a woman from the advocacy office called and asked if we had any questions or things we wanted to talk about. I told her how our son was doing and how the other kids were doing. She gave me several ways to contact her office in the future.

And then an investigator from the coroner’s office called a few hours later, wondering if we had any questions for him. I missed the call. I didn’t realize I had a message until I woke in the middle of the night and looked at my phone. I listened right there in bed, exhausted, still bewildered, and praying away the screensaver.

I could think of one question:

What is the man’s name?

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a lonely way to die: Wedged between shrubs and bricks, alone under a dark blue sleeping bag. I realized he thought he was simply going to sleep because his wire-framed glasses were neatly folded and resting inside a hollow cinder brick, waiting for him to wear the next morning. It was his little nightstand.

And then our family, all 10 of us, visited the little courtyard garden last Saturday afternoon after picnicking on salami, cheese, and crackers. We found him.

He is someone’s son. He was once a baby, a boy, a teen. My heart goes out to that child and that man whose life ended there and once-upon-a-then. It’s too late to change what happened, but it’s never too late to tell someone’s story and perhaps through that effect change. As long as we have poverty, abuse, addiction, mental illness, apathy, isolation, and rejection, we will have the homeless.

Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live. ~Norman Cousins

Some estimate 80% of homeless people struggle with mental health and addiction. Chances are excellent everyone reading this knows and loves people who share those same battles. As a Christian, I am commanded to actively care for “the least of these” which means those who cannot help themselves. Too often, I leave that for others. I tell myself I haven’t been called to that ministry.

Then those ‘sheep’ are going to say, ‘Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?’ Then the King will say, ‘I’m telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me—you did it to me.’ Matthew 25: 37-40 The Message

If this wasn’t a bullhorn in my face, I don’t know what it was. People are free to reject the food, the drink, the companionship, the medicine. But I am not free to not offer.

As soon as I know who he was, I will write his name here. My heart goes out to everyone who knew him and loved him and misses him.

Edited to add: The coroner’s office called. His name was Jeffrey.