It was the day before Christmas—joy and giving filled the air, and people’s hearts were merry. I didn’t know when I woke up that morning that this day would teach me a lesson that would alter my view for the rest of my life.

Since June 1998, I had been teaching a community Bible study. We had been learning so much and were eager to live out all we had learned. This Bible study group, which later formed the early foundations of our church family, felt inspired to reach out. After prayer and meditation, we decided to feed the homeless on Christmas Day. While we knew there were already efforts to help the homeless, we felt there might still be a need we could meet.

I had never done anything like this before. Christmas Day had always been a time for family. Every Christmas, my family followed the same traditions—wonderful but predictable. We exchanged gifts by the tree in our pajamas, tested out the funniest toys, and then had the BIG family feast at one of the relatives’ homes. Christmas is still a time for family, but over the years, we’ve learned to broaden that definition.

It was almost the end of the millennium, and fears of global doom were on some people’s minds. That day, I was about to meet people who didn’t waste any energy worrying about a potential worldwide computer disaster that could disrupt their lives. For them, such concerns barely registered. Their lifestyle would hardly be affected; it was those living more comfortably who were seemingly at risk. I loaded my six-year-old son, Andrew, into the truck, and we set out to invite homeless people to our Christmas dinner in the park.

Now, I have to be honest with you—I didn’t always have compassion for homeless people. There was a time when I cared absolutely nothing for those living on the streets. I held the same “get a job” attitude that many people still do today. But over the years, God had been softening my heart on many issues, and through the example of Jesus, He was teaching me how to see people—and more importantly, how to love them.

We first stopped in Oak View, where we met three people who really surprised me. They had set up a makeshift camp behind a building, which they called their home. It was simple but quaint. When we approached and introduced ourselves, they graciously welcomed us. Our new friends—Linda, Michael, and Fuzzy—offered us some pre-packaged snack food. Of course, we refused, but they insisted. Food and provisions are no doubt scarce for them, while we had plenty at home. However, they wouldn’t take no for an answer, at least not for Andrew. They must have seen him eyeing their offer of cheese and crackers and knew that he wanted some. They accepted our invitation to the following day’s dinner, and we walked away with snacks in hand.

As we got into the truck, I felt awkward. We had received something from them, but we had not yet given anything in return. So far, things were not going how I had expected, but the real lesson was still to come. Little did I know, the next hour would offer me more wisdom than many years of previous experience.

Enter Vern Dugan. As we continued inviting people to our Christmas outreach, we walked into the back area of Libbey Park and met two men, one of whom introduced himself as Vern Dugan. He explained that he was a former engineer, had been living on the street for some time, and used alcohol to help keep warm.

You might remember that Christmas of 1999 was unusually cold, and that morning was no exception. As we began talking, Vern noticed that my son didn’t have gloves on and expressed concern that he might be uncomfortable. The Community Assistance Program (CAP), for which I am very grateful, had just received a batch of gloves to help take the bite out of the cold for those exposed to the weather. Vern gave them to Andrew. Again, we refused, but Vern insisted—he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I explained that we had a truck waiting for us with a heater, and a home we could return to with a furnace. We would soon be out of the cold; he wouldn’t. Despite our protests, Vern insisted, and we sheepishly accepted.

When we left, I felt confused. I hadn’t expected generosity toward us, and I knew that it was given sacrificially. I thought of the contrast Jesus made between financial poverty and spiritual poverty. I remembered the story of the widow who gave more than all the others because, while some gave from their abundance, she gave freely from what little she had. I had gone out that day to bless others, yet we were the ones who were blessed. I thought I was going to minister to others, yet I was ministered to. We had set out to give, but we came home with gifts. How could I explain to Shelley that we had received gifts from people who had almost nothing to give? What we learned that day was that they had a lot to give.

When I shared what had happened with my mom, she was deeply touched. The following year, she made Vern a quilt to help keep him warm during the cold nights. We presented it to him on Christmas 2000. It was later stolen, but Vern had something that couldn’t be stolen—he had a heart of love. Many of us learned a powerful lesson that year that opened our hearts to many more opportunities like it. Vern became a member of our church family, and I was honored to call him a friend. The lessons God used him to teach us have greatly affected how we approach ministry.

Today, I understand that people like Vern are by no means “homeless,” though they may be “houseless.” There is a home, a family, and a great deal of love among people like Vern. Vern Dugan passed away on November 21, 2005. We will be honoring him on Christmas Day at Libbey Park from 1-3 pm, in conjunction with our now-annual Christmas Service in the Park. This service marks the anniversary of when we met Vern, and for me, it commemorates a powerful message of God’s love at Christmas.