CHERYL ANN SMITH, director of Madonna House, Robin Hood’s Bay, wrote this piece after the murder of a homeless regular visitor to one of her previous communities in Winslow, Arizona, in 1990…

It was a Saturday, after a long and tiring week. We had just filled our plates and were ready to sink into lunch when we saw Foster make his way up our driveway. Foster was a tiny Hopi who could have been anywhere from 35 to 60 years of age.

Years of suffering from alcoholism and street living had chiselled his face and body into a state outside the normal wear of time. Foster had been visiting Madonna House in Winslow, Arizona, for years.

Unlike many Native people, he could talk up a storm, sharing about his early family life or about the pain of living in the streets and being run off by everyone – dogs, children, adults. He bewailed the slights he’d received from others, and also proclaimed his love for music and his eclectic faith. He’d also look for his “usual”: a cup of coffee, a peanut butter sandwich with chili powder and a magazine to read, preferably one about movie stars.

In recent weeks, Foster began to come around daily and to spend hours at the house. Often, he would grab a broom and sweep the patio or rake the yard. He would do the work so meticulously and with such obvious pride that it became evident the Casa had become his home. Occasionally, he would bring one of his buddies over to meet us – and to get food or shoes. He finally had somewhere to bring his friends, some place where they would receive a little dignity.

We learned a lot about street living from Foster. We knew that if we gave him a “new” jacket for the cold nights outside, he wouldn’t get far from the house before others were trying to wrest it from him. Sometimes they’d offer a drink in exchange, other times it would be stolen while he was “sleeping it off” at night. Our childlike friend was a very sensitive man, yet street living is merciless and rarely offers a kind face. He felt people assuming he was stupid and worthless because he was alcoholic. He railed against this judgment yet was helpless to change it.

Sometimes Foster would be very demanding, wanting one thing after another. Other times he’d ask for the broom and would sweep around our house for a couple of hours. Sometimes he’d talk our ear off, other times he’d sit quietly or sing to himself. Sometimes he seemed almost sober, other times he was hardly recognisable in his drunken stupor.

So when Foster stumbled up the driveway one Saturday at noon, we didn’t know what to expect, or whether we could muster the energy and patient love to serve him. Yet he seemed happy and was content with his coffee, sandwich and movie magazine. He was even willing to let Oso, our dog, stay outside with him. (The two had a running feud, because Foster usually wasn’t sober or steady enough to hold both coffee and sandwich, and Oso too often made off with the sandwich!)

This turned out to be a visit unlike any other, though. Foster put on the performance of his life – playing an invisible banjo to an invisible audience of thousands, dancing and hopping, making the sign of the cross, twirling his rosary and singing religious songs interspersed with Hopi chant and Blue Suede Shoes.

On and on the performance went, and with it, our own weariness melted away. By the time Foster had triumphantly taken his last bow, our spirits had been cleansed and lifted, and we were conscious that Jesus had visited and served us through the song and dance of our friend.

A couple of weeks ago, Foster was knifed and killed. Apparently, the motive was robbery, but all he had was a new pair of running shoes. Few may have noticed or mourned this violent end to the life of a homeless alcoholic, but we lost a friend.

We’re slowly getting used to the reality that Foster will no longer make his unsteady way to our door – that our chili powder will stop trickling away – that we no longer have to search for magazines about movie stars. And yet the grief and shock is mysteriously being replaced by an irrepressible image of a loveable Hopi spirit dancing, hopping, hootin’ and hollerin’ a peculiar medley of songs – and not at all out of tune with the angelic choir!