The King’s Jubilee

“You’re Welcome!”

Posted by Cranford
"You're Welcome!"

This piece was a long time in the making. The core of it has sat as a text on what is my now defunct cellphone since December 17, 2015. It is crude and ridiculous. Diamond sent it to me after we had helped her and her man for over a year in various ways. Among other things, it includes the first and second and only times I have been called a bitch. When I read it, I broke into uproarious laughter. I determined then and there that I had to somehow immortalize this. This was by far the most creative “thank you” I had ever received for helping someone in 30 years of serving among the poor! I showed Tony. He couldn’t believe it. Earlier that evening, we had delivered their belongings back to them that they had stored in our barn since August. Some people just have a hard time saying thank you.

On August 14 Diamond and Rashawn had dropped off five huge garbage bags of their belongings at our barn for safe-keeping and tried to pull a fast one by just assuming they could arrive at our house with their stuff, and move in. They had not asked. They did not even ask for the ride. They just slipped into the back seat of John’s car. John just assumed they must have worked something out with me. They sat silently all the way home from Phila. to our home in Souderton, figuring I wouldn’t have the nerve to turn them away. I was home, because I was ill. When I heard them in the backyard, I lost it.

Tony had never seen me or heard me in such a rage before. I just could not understand the sheer gall at the level of presumption and deception that it took to try to do that. It was not like we didn’t have history. At Memorial Day, she had tried to guilt me into paying for a month’s rent, even though the weather was OK, and we had no money.  When I did not pay it, she accused me of driving drunk, (She had seen me have 3 beers all day, several hours before we left to bring them home.) One used to be able to read about our appeal and the story on The King’s Jubilee’s site, before TKJ went out of business.

Over the last two years, as I have had open heart surgery for my aortic valve replacement; and as our house was foreclosed on and auctioned by the sheriff; as I went through three infections in my chest incision and ended up allergic to a ninth antibiotic;  almost all of the old supporters and volunteers were silent, invisible, evaporated. with a few notable exceptions. Then I would refer to this glorious text message and have a good laugh. Diamond had really put her heart into it!

When our team was serving food in the park, Tony saw them. They were too embarrassed to come over for food. He called me. I told him to take food to them. He did, and gave them my love.

On the left side of the painting I wrote, “At least she said something. Read Revelations 3:16-18. It’s more than I can say for most of the church people in my life.”

Revelation 3:16-18  So, because you are lukewarm-neither hot nor cold-I am about to spit you out of my mouth. You say, ‘I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.’ But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked. I counsel you to buy from me gold refined in the fire, so you can become rich; and white clothes to wear, so you can cover your shameful nakedness; and salve to put on your eyes, so you can see.

So the painting was done in layers. It is the logo of The King’s Jubilee in subdued tones on a 24″ square canvas. Painted over that is the QR Code for the text that Diamond sent me on December 17, 2015. That way, anyone with a smart phone with a QR Code app can read it, but it is not visible to casual observers or children. I thought this was a much better solution than counted cross-stitch. I discussed it with my therapist today. She and I had a good laugh. I said, “When I post this, the shit is probably going to hit the fan.” She said, “So what! That is what good art is supposed to do. It provokes a response.”

I asked her if she didn’t think I was totally off my nut for preserving this text in this way and doing this. She told me, no, quite the contrary. I had taken this ridiculous attack, seen it for what it was, and now turned it into something beautiful.

You’re Welcome.

Painting is 24″ x 24″ acrylic on stretched canvas.

SOLD

The irony here is the first time I shared it at a public showing, the first one to hit it with a QR code reader on a phone was a 9-year-old girl. I heard, “Look at this, daddy.” And I thought, “O shit.” I explained to him. We had a good chuckle. Our next door neighbor, who was visiting the show, stopped by, enjoyed the story, liked the painting, and bought it.

Tony

Posted by Cranford
Tony

Anthony McNeal is a dear friend. I don’t know how long ago we met. He was homeless. I was leading The King’s Jubilee, serving meals in center City Philadelphia. Tony managed to go to Philadelphia Community College to receive several certifications in computer use and maintenance. He is also a skilled, bicycle repairman and a cook. He got a job cooking at Tindley Temple UMC‘s kitchen which provided meals a couple of days a week to homeless people. He moved into an apartment with another man who had been homeless, when he got a Section 8 apartment, to share expenses. Tony started to help us serve on the street, when he was still on the street himself, and continued when he moved into the apartment. He was always a cool head to help maintain order and help keep everyone safe. When the city required food safety training, he took the course with me, so he could take charge when I could not make it.

When my health took a turn for the worse, he would come up to our home in Souderton and do the heavy chores that needed doing. Many times, he helped me cook the soup for the street or took over the task entirely, at our house. Sometimes, he brought his uncle, Steven Johnson, to help, as well. Tony has accompanied me to WXPN’s Exponential Music Festival for a few years. He also came with me to Philly Socialists’ retreat in West Virginia a couple of years ago. He is always happier when he is serving, so he pitched in and cooked the whole Labor Day weekend.

Tony is a joy to know. Everyone of our friends and family who has met him, became his friend, too.

A few years ago, Tony invited me to his birthday party at his dad’s house. When we arrived, they were surprised by the fact that I am white. They asked Tony why he failed to mention this. He said, “I forgot. I don’t think of Cranford as white.”

The painting is acrylic on 14″ x 11″ stretched canvas.

Tony is still not happy with me about how I cut off the top of his head in this painting. It communicates his height. I was standing that close when I took his photo in the hallway at 30th Street Station in Philadelphia. I also gave him more white hair than he had yet. He is getting there.

SOLD. I gave it to Tony’s daughter and granddaughter.

“X”

Posted by Cranford
X

Many years ago, I wrote an article in The King’s Jubilee newsletter about the Autobiography of Malcolm X, in which I recommended that every white man in America should read it. I got some feedback on that! Of course, the negative feedback was all from people who were too narrow-minded to read it. Several people said that “everyone should read it!” That missed my point. To overcome racism, it is important to gain understanding from other perspectives. Malcolm X became a hero of mine not because I agreed with everything he said or did, but because he had the courage to live a self-examined life in public.  He was not so proud that he would not change his course when confronted with hard new truth.

“A ballot is like a bullet. You don’t throw your ballots until you see a target, and if that target is not in reach, keep your ballot in your pocket.” – Malcolm X

Painting is acrylic on 16″ x 20″ stretched canvas.

Price: $200 plus postage

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Fred Benjamin

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Fred Benjamin

Fred’s presence was always a little more than one could contain. One never knew quite what to expect, except that he would be high energy, assertive, and want to be involved.

Fred Benjamin lived on the streets for over twenty years. He landed there after his dad died and the pre-paid rent on the loft he had shared with him ran out. That was the story as I heard it from Fred. I learned at his funeral, it wasn’t as simple as that. There was a brief marriage and a son left behind along the way. Fred was proud of his son, when he finally did mention him. He is a career military man, stationed overseas. I met him at Fred’s funeral. Man, was he pissed! He let his dad have it in the most honest eulogy of the day, speaking from a broken heart, like only true love can.

Fred volunteered with The King’s Jubilee regularly. He liked to take charge, a little bit too much at times. He had a different perspective. After 20 years living in a box, a social worker approached him to help him move off the street. Part of the process was a psych eval. Fred asked her, “What? Do you think I’m crazy?” She replied, “You have been living in a box for 20 years. Do you think that’s normal?” Fred conceded, “OK. Point made.”

He was able to move off the street into an apartment. Fred had a temper and could be ornery, but he was loyal and with his charm and smile, one could not stay angry at him for very long if he got out of hand. He kept fights away from volunteers more than once or twice.

Fred and I led three tours of how the homeless live in center city Philadelphia, in 2010. This painting is based on a vidcap of Fred explaining how he lived in his box under the bridge by the police station. It takes a special set of skills and knowledge to live homeless. These people are not just bums. They are survivors!

After four years in his first apartment, they moved him to a different apartment. He had adopted a cat. His blood sugar had gotten very erratic and he had some episodes where it went dangerously high. The Wednesday before Fred died, I spoke with him on the phone to get together with him to go over nutrition and supplements to more naturally, better control his blood sugar. We were to get together the following Monday. His mother could not reach him on Saturday morning. She went to his apartment and had police and fire break in, when Fred did not respond. They determined time of death to be 7:08 am, July 18, 2015.

There was a meal after Fred’s funeral. Fred’s mom did not invite any of his homeless friends to attend. I asked her why not. She said she didn’t want her lady friends to be worrying about their purses. I said, “Do you realize Fred lived in a box for 20 years?”

I did not attend. I waited outside for my ride.

The painting is acrylic on 14″ x 11″ stretched canvas.

Price: $100 plus postage.

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Angie

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Angie

To say that Angie was not a pleasant person, is the kindest euphemism I can muster. Let me just say, when her body was found dead of murder, no one was surprised, and there was a long list of people with possible motive. Yet we considered it a joy to serve her a hot nutritious meal in the park, rain or shine, once a week for about fifteen years. I think she died around 2007.

Angie loved to tease people. That is an understatement; it was more that she liked to torment people. She wanted to tease and provoke until blood was boiling. She positively delighted in making other people angry. She was proud of being a Native American “squaw”. She was always bundled up and totally covered, even when the weather didn’t call for it. She always had some scam going. She would give one of the volunteers some tea or some special lip balm. The next week they were informed they owed her $10 or more; and, by the way, she had the rest of their order now. She didn’t care whether she was picking on children or adults. She could be relentless.

Once I brought venison stew down to the Love Park from a roadkill deer that Alex Smerkanich had picked up while it was still twitching alongside of the 309. A coworker and I butchered it after work. I just left the ribs long. I roasted them and served them as an added bonus to those who wanted them. Many of the people were puzzled as to what kind of animal these bones came from. I let them know it was deer. They asked where it came from. I told them. Angie was off to the races! And she didn’t stop until she died. She was constantly after me about sweeping pigeons off the pavement, running down squirrels, etc., to put roadkill in the soup. It frustrated her that I never got angry with her over this.

One night, the entire McGraw family, all eleven of them, came down in their short bus to help serve. They even brought along their three-legged Great Dane. After we were done serving, they got the dog out for a little social time and walk in the park. Angie saw this dog and exclaimed, “What happened to that poor dog’s leg?!” Sweet little Elisa McGraw, who had never uttered a word down there before, immediately replied, “We put it in the soup!” We were all surprised. It sure shut up Angie.

I have painted a terrible picture of Angie, but I recall tender moments, as well, and times when she apologized with tears and said thank you. It is hard to imagine what torments she must have suffered to have built such terrible defenses for her psyche. We all start life with great potential and aspiration. No one looks at a little baby and envisions a bitter, contentious, homeless lady leaving conflict in her wake. Who and what did this to her? Why did it happen to her and not to me? When we start to ask these questions, we are starting down the path of understanding what Paul of Tarsus was saying when he said we should each look at ourselves as the worst sinner ever. (1 Tim. 15) This puts Jesus words, “Judge not”, to the test. People do what they feel they need to do to cope. We rationalize our own behavior. At the time, in the moment, our behavior, no matter how bizarre or hurtful, always seems rational. And we’ve done some pretty stupid, bizarre and hurtful stuff in our lives, no? Everyone you see is fighting a great battle. They haven’t had the same advantages, perspectives and privileges as we have.

As ornery as Angie was, we still looked forward to seeing her as part of the mix on the nights we would serve. I still remember her gruff laugh. I didn’t mind being the butt of her jokes. I could play along, if it kept her from picking on someone else. I just wasn’t raised to throw people away. And people she was!

Let us be kind.

The painting is acrylic on 11″x14″ canvas with painted sides.

Price: $80 plus Postage.

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Brad

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I met Brad on a late spring evening, I think it was 1990, when we were serving homeless people food with The King’s Jubilee. He was under 25, white, of slight build, literate. He had just found himself homeless. His mom had moved in with her boyfriend and there was no room for him. His dad had disappeared several years before. Brad was afraid of what might happen to him on the streets. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. He felt completely vulnerable.

Brad

The next week, Brad came to eat with us again. This time, he was all disheveled and he was talking to himself and arguing with himself the whole time he was in the line. I was able to speak with him privately after everyone had eaten and the crowd had dispersed. He told me that a couple of the old hands on the street told him that the number one rule of the street is that you never mess with a crazy person. So he decided to start acting crazy as a defense, so nobody would mess with him. He learned to survive and cope on the street. I tried to direct him to programs that might help him get off the street, but space was very limited, and he didn’t fit into any of the usual categories.

After a few months, Brad stopped coming by to eat with us. A few more months passed and he showed up again. He was acting like a full-blown, psychotic, paranoid schizophrenic or someone on a very bad trip. The problem was he wasn’t acting anymore. He had fully inhabited the role he had chosen and had forcibly driven himself crazy; like method acting gone terribly wrong. Almost twenty years later I would still see him from time to time. Some nights he would be better than others. Instead of the frightened young man, he had become a quite aggressive 40 something man and was quite direct in asking for or demanding what he wants. It reminds me of a program I heard on the radio about bullies where a psychologist described aggression as preemptive fear.

The irony with Brad was that his crazy behavior was not irrational. On one level, it had served him well. He was still alive after spending almost 20 years on the street, because no one messes with a crazy person; but at what a horrific cost.

Price: $80 plus Postage.

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Nancy

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Nancy

We only knew Nancy for the last two years of her life. and she passed away almost 23 years ago now, on September 4, 1993, but she was a force of nature. I will be the first to admit that this painting is a poor likeness to photographs of Nancy. She looks healthier here than ever I saw her, with brighter eyes. This is more the way I remember her in my mind’s eye rather than what the camera saved. She had been so beat up by circumstances, by poverty, by drugs, and quite literally by people in her life, that the camera wasn’t always kind. But in real life, that is not who we knew or what we saw.

She had been married and had two sons. They divorced. She got involved in a lesbian relationship. Her lover ended up abusing her to the point of fracturing her skull, which gave her problems the rest of her life. I don’t know what else they got involved in. Her lover abused the children, as well. I do know, she knew the seamier side of Pottstown very well. Nancy joined us serving the homeless in center city Philadelphia. After several weeks, she implored me to start a similar ministry in Pottstown, where she had lived most of her life. I said I would be happy to, if there was a need and we could raise the resources and manpower to do so. I told her it might not look exactly like what we did in Phila. She and I spent two weeks, day and night, interviewing all the social service agencies and churches; talking to hookers, addicts, homeless, business owners, teenagers hanging out, cops, to find out what was and what was not happening to serve the poor in the city; and what else should be happening.

We found that the only day of the week when no food was served was Wednesday. There were three populations in two neighborhoods that needed food help: children, homeless adults, and homeless teens in central Pottstown and Stowe. I was actually doing more of the interviewing of the church people. Nancy was busy raising up a team and a van, etc., because it was the same night we served in Philadelphia, we had to double our team to make it happen. We determined to go forward as long as Nancy was willing to lead the Pottstown team. She humbly accepted. She was the best person for the job. She could not drive. She lived on SSI and Food Stamps in public housing. She knew the lay of the land and she had a heart for the people.

Within a month of her asking, we were able to start serving on two sites. She added a drop off spot for boxed meals for homeless teens who wanted to stay faceless, later that year. Nancy would call me on Thursday morning all nervous that she was out of peanut butter. I would ask her what day it was. She would tell me it was Thursday. I would remind her that she didn’t need to make PB&Js for another 6 days, so not to worry. She gradually learned to wait longer before she would call me, if she was out of something, until she learned to trust that things would be supplied when they were needed by the community of faith. Then one Thursday morning, I received a call from Nancy. She told me how she had used the last of her peanut butter for the sandwiches for the children the night before. She was worried about it, so she asked the team to pray for more peanut butter, before they went out to serve. When she got home to her apartment, she could not enter until she cleared the 3′ x 4′ front step of all the containers of peanut butter that had been left there for her! She said, “Oh me of little faith!” We have no idea where it all came from. We just refer to that as “The Minor Peanut Butter Miracle.”

About a week after Nancy and the team celebrated completing a year of service, Nancy Karpinski died of an apparent heart attack on Sept. 4, 1993. She was just 50 years old. Her legacy lives on. Her right hand man for that year, Kork Moyer, now leads an outreach and shelter ministry in Pottstown. I don’t think that would have happened were it not for the importunity of this unlikely organizer.

It is good to see her smiling face and kind eyes again.

Painting is 11″x14″ acrylic on stretched canvas, with painted sides so no expensive framing is required.

Price: $100 plus postage.

SOLD

Pops

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Pops

I never learned Pops’ name. Everyone just called him Pops. He was happier than any man had a right to be who was living homeless in the parks or under the bridges. I wondered if he was simple-minded, truly spiritually disciplined, or  was just born happy. Scientists tell us that people’s happiness centers in their brains develop differently in the womb. At any rate, he took the lessons his mama taught him seriously! If he couldn’t say something nice, he wouldn’t say anything at all. He wasn’t homeless for being lazy. He was always busy. He had a big shopping cart. He used it to collect recyclables to turn in for cash.

He would go around to the renovation and demolition sites and ask for any of the metal they would part with. Many times the union men would have him go in and do some of the particularly dirty work, up in the vents, etc., in exchange for some of the metal and all the wire. They usually didn’t get much, if anything for the wire, unless it was stripped. Pops would recycle all the aluminum, steel, copper and tin. He would keep the wire. He also snagged cords from the blinds on these jobs. Pops would then painstakingly strip the used, copper, electrical wire. He would then wind it into crosses. He used the salvaged cord from the blinds to tie necklaces for them. He always wore one and had several more on his person. He was in the habit of giving these cross necklaces away. He would say, “Just trust Jesus” or “Jesus loves you” and offer you a cross. If you told him he had already given you one, no matter, please accept another.

Over the years, Pops offered me four crosses. I passed three of them onto others. Pops eventually did succumb to the dementia that comes with Alzheimer’s. He spent his last year or so living on the street in a large crate with a loving community of four other men living in adjacent shipping crates under a parking ramp bridge. These men looked after him with sensitivity and love rarely seen in nursing homes with all the amenities. They knew just how to deal with him when he was present and when he ‘went off’. It was tragic, yet also beautiful, to witness. Pops was reaping loving care in the roughest of circumstances from the most unlikely caregivers after sowing a lifetime of simple love and cheer.

I have to say, though, to witness this in the USA in 2002, and to have no way to intervene to get him to a properly heated space with proper treatment, because we as a people lack the compassion to muster the political will to provide universal, easy to access healthcare as a basic human right, was heartbreaking.

wirecross
Cross Pops made for me

When I was chrismated in 1999 in the Orthodox Church, my godfather, Alex Smerkanich, gave me a very nice, shiny, real gold cross, on a gold chain. I lost it, one dark, winter night, while serving the homeless at 18th and Vine. So I had Pops cross blessed on the holy table at St. Philip’s and I started wearing that instead; in memory of Pops and for all my homeless brothers and sisters. When I started to tear out the wiring to rewire our house, I saved the old wire. I strip it and I make crosses like Pops did and give them away, for people to remember Pops and his simplicity; to remember all my homeless brothers and sisters; to work to end homelessness; to work for universal healthcare. It’s pro-life!
I painted Pops from memory. I made him younger than I ever saw him to reflect his childlike faith and unsinkable optimism. Yet I included his white hair and long white beard to reflect what a gift of wisdom this was. I made a small cross out of salvaged doorbell wire and fastened it to the canvas on the necklace.

Painting is 11″x14″ acrylic on stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage

Fill out the form below so we can arrange payment and delivery. I take PayPal, so all credit cards are accepted.

Myron

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The other day a friend dropped by and saw my paintings and heard their stories for the first time. He asked me when I was going to paint a portrait of Myron Starinshak. He said Myron was one  of the most annoying people he knew, but on Holy Saturday, to not hear his voice singing the litany in front of the tomb, brought tears to his eyes. This is the 4th Great (Holy) Week since Myron’s passing.

Myron Starinshak

I used to stand next to Myron in the choir. He used to ride shotgun with me, faithfully, to serve the homeless in Philadelphia. He also accompanied me on three trips to Pittsburgh to icon festivals to help man the table when I had “Come and See” Icons, Books & Art. I know more about Myron than I should possibly write.

He lived in a rooming house in Lansdale, PA, and managed it for the owner for several years. When the owner wanted to sell it, it took four large dumpster loads to clear out most of the stuff Myron had squirreled away in every possible nook and cranny of that place to make it presentable to buyers. Myron wanted me to find homes for two, large, plaster, baroque gilded framed prints that had been in the narthex of of his Carpatho-Russian Orthodox Church as a child. The prints were not icons. They were sentimental, western guardian angel paintings. The frames were huge and gaudy. I had no place to store them. He just could not bear to see them go into the landfill. I agreed to find a home for them. I knew just the people who would like them. I gave them to a couple of good Haitian friends who dearly love each other and they have their pictures framed in these and hanging in their living room.

A couple of years later, Myron asked where those pictures were. I told him I gave them away. He was livid. He said, “Those pictures were in my family for over forty years!” I asked him, “Where were they displayed?” He said, “They were never displayed. They were too big. They were in my mother’s attic until she passed. then I took them.” I said, “They have not been in your family for 40 years! Your family has been hiding them for 40 years! Finally someone is getting some use out of them and enjoying them.” He simmered down.

Myron had a knack for saying the most inappropriate things. He didn’t have a filter. He had strong convictions, but they weren’t always educated with sound teaching. At the same time, he had compassion and humility and service that just would not quit! He did 100 little jobs around the church that no one but he and Fr. Boniface knew all of, to make the place cleaner and run a little more smoothly.

Myron and I had some great road trips. We had some great times serving on the street. Alex the Albanian asked when Myron stopped coming, “Where is that little man? Why is he not here?” When he died, he said, “I will pray for Myron.”

Painting is acrylic on 11″x14″ canvas.

Price: $100 plus Postage

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Kenny

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Kenny Cobbs
missionaymentalityS

Kenneth Cobbs challenged me and instructed me like few other persons in my life in such a brief time. I can count on one hand the people who have had this kind of impact in this short a time, and they all seem to totally, irretrievably disappear. At least Kenny left me with a couple of books of his poetry, including one poem about me. It is not particularly complimentary toward me. I was alarmed when I read it. Kenny and I discussed it. He stuck to his guns and defended it. This was how he felt. It cut me to the quick. I was grateful for the critique and thanked him for his honesty. I asked his forgiveness, for that was not how I wanted to come off or how I intended our ministry to be perceived. At the time, I published it in The King’s Jubilee newsletter as a confessional, with an appeal to help, please, let’s all do better.

Kenny had given me two booklets of his poetry that he had typed up. He managed to photocopy several copies and staple and fold them. He would sell them for $5 each to raise a little cash. I made some copies for him. I told him I would retype and reset the booklets in nicer fonts, with full color covers. I did this. He never showed up to retrieve them or the money for the copies that I sold for him. I never saw him again. I contacted the nuns who he said he was visiting that week. they had not heard from him. I left my phone number. I have searched for him every couple of years, since, to no avail. That was in 1998. I keep hoping that he chose to disappear and become a Buddhist monk somewhere. He was an intense person, wise beyond his years, yet I fear the world was too rough for him. He had been part of the MOVE family and had not recovered from the terrorism inflicted by the city, and the lies and machinations to frame Mumia Abu Jamal for killing a cop; after Mumia dared to report sympathetically about MOVE.

Kenny took me down a peg. I was glad for it. He did it with honesty, in the spirit of true brotherhood and love. I have gone back again and again to our conversations and his critiques to see how I measure up “according to the Kenny scale.” If he knew, he would laugh so loud!

I painted this from emotional memory. My counselor and I talked about this painting. This is the first time I have obscured a part of a face. I think this is because both of us were blocked in some major ways. He was dealing with PTSD from Mayor Goode’s bombing of West Phila. I was a recovering fundamentalist; had been abused by clergy, yet still playing the clergy game. Kenny’s right eyebrow is raised. This was done subconsciously on my part, but it makes perfect sense. Whenever I think of Kenny, I think of our conversations and his piercing, unflinching criticism. It is rare that I can find someone who can give as good as he gets. “Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.” (Prov. 27:6) I measure my progress on stepping down from my “god complex” and getting over being a “white knight” on the “Kenny Scale”. This is the raised eyebrow and slightly more open right eye. The background color of orange and shirt as bright red were chosen because of the MOVE fire on Mother’s Day, 1985. My missing front tooth is from that night, as well. But that’s another story.

Acrylic painting on 11″x14″ stretched canvas.

Price:  $130 plus Postage

Fill out the form below so we can arrange payment and delivery. I take Paypal, so all credit cards are accepted.

Alex the Albanian

Posted by Cranford

This is a portrait of Alex Bejleri or “Alex the Albanian”, my dear friend. We have known him since I started to serve on the streets of Philadelphia in 1988. He appeared to be crazy. With what I later learned of what he had been through, he had every reason to be. Most of the other street people would have nothing to do with him. They tagged him with the moniker “Russian” by which he is still known to this day. He seemed to have a hollow leg, as they say. He would sometimes eat 8 cups of soup, then ask for leftovers. He always loved our food. He would keep track of our volunteers; who kept coming; who dropped out; and asked why.

Alex Bejleri

We helped him learn English so he could get his citizenship. He walked over 5 miles in the snow to visit me in the hospital when I was ill. He would call me when I couldn’t make it to the street; even after he no longer needed our service, but he loved my soup. He prays for me and for my family daily. He still believes what they told him on Radio Free Europe, even though he has spent most of the last 28 years in Philadelphia, living on the street. I guess, if you go to jail for something, then escape, give up your homeland, your family ties, move half a world away; it’s hard to come to terms with the idea that the reality that it was based on was an illusion. You see. He was a ‘political prisoner’ in Albania for listening to American propaganda radio broadcasts. I had to find him a shortwave radio so he could try to tune them in here. I kept trying to explain that America lied to him and they were not allowed to do that here. It was too much for him. Of course, now, they have changed the law. The CIA is now allowed to lie to us “legally” by broadcasting propaganda within the US. I guess Alex should try firing up the shortwave again. Of course, now he doesn’t need to. He can just turn on NBC or CNN, etc.

My health has taken a turn for the worse and I am sidelined until I can get an aortic valve replacement in June. Alex took the train and bus up to ‘get his mail’ the other day. (They failed to forward several pieces of his mail. He used our address so he could open a checking account, etc.) I showed him this painting and my self-portrait. He did not seem too impressed. He looks better now than in this painting; sophisticated, business-like. I look more like he did. He confirmed that my health is bad and he committed to praying for my heart every day in the Basilica of SS. Peter & Paul in center city Phila. I thanked him. He went to dart out the door. I stopped him to give him a hug. He said what he always says when he calls me on the phone, even when he leaves a message, “I love you my brother!” And I love Alex.

My life is so much richer for knowing him.

Painting is acrylic on 11″x14″ canvas.

Price: $120 plus postage

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Oscar

Posted by Cranford
Oscar

I shared Oscar’s story more than 20 years ago in a TKJ newsletter shortly after he had died. Oscar was in his early 50s. It was 1992. I was 37. We were serving on the sidewalk on the City Hall side of JFK Plaza at that time, more commonly called the Love Park because of the world-famous LOVE art in front of the fountain there. We would see Oscar on occasion. Every time he came, he made it a point to seek me out afterward to say how thankful he was for what we did. He would say how special that I am for doing this. I always deflected by saying something like, “I’m just doing what Jesus compels me to do. I wouldn’t be happy if I didn’t do it. It is Jesus who loves you.” He would reply, “I don’t believe in any of that god stuff. I just know that you are really special and I am truly grateful. Thank you!”

At times, we would talk about history or philosophy or the arts. He was well-educated. He had had a good paying job at one point. I don’t know if I ever learned how he ended up on the street. He had used cocaine and had suffered a couple of heart attacks as a result. He is among the most civilized people I have ever known, with a twinkle in the eye and a Bohemian side.

Hurricane Andrew hit Homestead, FL, in August of 1992. Church groups were sending clothing and supplies down to the more than 100,000 families whose homes had been destroyed. Word got out that people were having a hard time surviving because it was a slow process to get any cash to buy necessities. So people started tucking cash into the pockets of clothing to short-circuit that process, and get money into people’s hands quickly. Several bags of men’s clothing did not fit onto a truck bound for Homestead, so they got re-directed to The King’s Jubilee. They told me about the potential money in the pockets. Between working full-time, leading a Bible study at Graterford prison that afternoon while Bethann made the soup, coordinating with the Pottstown and South Carolina serving sites, somehow searching pockets got missed.

When we gave away the clothing that night, it was a free for all, like always. There was one garment no one seemed to want. It was a corduroy sport coat with suede elbow patches. Oscar grabbed it and put it on. It fit. It was warm. He said, “I’m not proud. It’s warm. It’s clean.” The others laughed and called him “professor”. Who knows? Perhaps, that’s what he had been. He disappeared for a couple of weeks. When he came back, he told me what happened. Later that night, he checked the pockets of the sport coat and found a $50 bill. He told me that he wished he could say he did something productive or constructive with it. Alas, he said, he had a good meal at a fancy restaurant and went on a week-long bender. He said, “I’m sorry. But it’s been a long time since I had such a good time and could forget about all of this. Thank you. Can you forgive me?”

I told him there was nothing to forgive. He found the money. It was his to do with what he wanted. If he got some relief, well, who am I to judge? (I am weeping as I type this.) His eyes welled up and he thanked me again with a hug. The next time he thanked me for serving all the guys on the street. He said, “I thank God for you, Cranford.” My eyes welled up with tears.

I don’t know if he had found faith, or if he was just being gracious and kind to please me. It was the last time I saw Oscar. He died of a heart attack at 53. I attempted to paint this from 23-year-old memories. It is a poor likeness. The beret and the neck scarf are there. The beard, long, full hair, and brown eyes are there. I tried to convey both his thoughtfulness and the mischief, with the intent stare, the tilt of the head, and the slight smile.

The painting is 20″x 16″ acrylic on stretched canvas.

Price: $100 plus postage.

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