Homelessness is a growing worldwide problem and Costa Rica is not immune. In the past 25 years, I have witnessed the homeless population in San Isidro de el General grow from a handful of alcoholics to a mix of drinkers, addicts, the mentally ill, and the sporadic arrival of Venezuelan refugees. I never knew how many until last December.
My wife and I bought bread, bologna, cheese, bananas, and filled some thermos jugs with coffee and went to town on Christmas morning. The forty sandwiches, the jugs of coffee, and the bananas were distributed within the hour. The town central park was where we found most of those in need. At first, we encountered a small group, but as soon as we began passing out the food, others arrived, limping and ragged, as if summoned by a communication system known only to the homeless.
My wife and I had different reasons for our altruistic gesture. Over the years we have both become more devout in our beliefs: She is an evangelical Christian who regularly reads la biblia and attends her favorite iglesia. I am a certified skeptical agnostic. We are equally firm and unshaking in our philosophies. Despite the gulf between us spiritually, we get along and have been married almost 27 years.
Our beliefs converged when she mentioned the idea of doing what Jesus would do on Christmas morning. I liked the idea because Christmas long ago became for me more a day to get through than one of celebration. For many years, working in tourism here, the entire Christmas/New Year’s period meant extra hours and no days off as it is the most hectic two-week block of the year.
Though I long ago abandoned any type of organized religion and worship of saviors, the day itself remains symbolic. So the food and attention gave the downtrodden group we encountered a moment of happiness and made me happy as well.
Recently, my wife mentioned another idea involving the local homeless. Hygiene is very important to her. Any time I wear sandals she points out all the disgusting flaws of my gnarly size 12 feet: The toenail fungus, the peeling skin on the heels and undersides, the toes that never look completely clean.
Once in a great while I relent and let her soak and scrub my feet and toes until they are as clean as they will ever be. Her idea, relayed to me as we chatted in bed before rising to start the day, was to go to the park and wash the feet of the homeless. “Como Jesucristo?” I asked. She didn’t need to respond. Of course, Jesucristo was her inspiration for this idea.
I told her that of all the things the poor stragglers sleeping in the park needed, getting their feet washed was like number 100 on the list. Then I told her that if she thought my feet were gross, I did not want to think about what she might encounter among her prospective subjects. I asked her which they would likely prefer, their feet washed or their bellies full.
Then I asked where she planned to get a steady supply of clean water in such a public place. I went on, partly because I thought the idea was a little too much of an attempt to emulate Jesus, and partly because I knew if she went ahead with it, I would be expected to help. It took some persuading, but in the end, sandwiches and coffee won out.
