Shawn Marcum
We all have a story, and our story gives us value and worth.
We all have a story, and our story gives us value and worth. Shawn Marcum was born November 1, 1979, in South Carolina.
Marcum is a slender man. His face is thin and hollow, typical of ice addicts (crystal methamphetamine), with skin tanned by the intense Midland’s sun and a life spent outdoors. The tattoos decorating his arms told other stories known only to him, along with the scars on his face.
The pain in his eyes is obvious and glazed over with shame as he recounted pieces of the story he wanted to share. Marcum readily admitted his responsibility for his circumstances, but it sounded like recompense rather than confession as he searched his heart for meaning. He is weighed down with the burdens that brought hopelessness from circumstances of his own doing and being the targeted victim of others, including his family. I explained to Marcum he is valued and has worth regardless of the events that brought him to this point. He nodded but was unconvinced.
Come to me, all of you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke on you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy to carry and my burden is light [Mt. 11.28].
It seemed like Marcum was born for tragedy, beginning at eight years old when his head was crushed under the weight of a railroad tie. He was playing around the fishing docks when the heavy beam became loose and found its target. I wasn’t sure how much damage was caused since there seemed to be little evidence of such a traumatic injury. Nevertheless, it was the only thing he could recount from his childhood at the time, and I do not deny the validity of his memory. I think he wanted me to know he has been a survivor since childhood.
I think we each have memories we latch onto that anchor us in our human identity before Christ. The memory gives us purpose until God reveals himself to us and creates in us a new identity in Jesus. French philosopher Albert Camus said, “There is but one serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question about philosophy.” Philosophy is simply a discipline that drives our worldview. For Marcum, that vivid childhood accident is fundamental to his philosophical worldview. He is a survivor. But surviving is not the same as living a life with meaning. He said, “I’m institutionalized. I’ve been homeless for fifteen years. It’s all I know.”
Marcum became a homeless drifter when his sister, Bobbie Jean (not her real name), took possession of his home while he was incarcerated for repeated driving under suspension (DUS) violations. She managed to get his mobile home placed in her name as the owner and allegedly used unscrupulous methods. He could have pursued legal means to recover his property, but he let it go. His sister had young children at the time. Marcum did not want to drag his nieces and nephews into the animosity between himself and their mom. He left his home for them. The streets of Gilbert, Columbia, and Lexington became home unless someone offered a couch in their home for a reprieve. Greenville seemed to be a favorite place. The foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains with forests of green trees and waterfalls were a grateful distraction from the filth and crime waiting for him in the city.
Lexington is his current home behind Maurice’s BBQ on the SC-6 (North Lake Blvd). Somewhere behind the restaurant, Marcum built a home – a small shanty – that offers protection from the elements. He described it to me with pride. It was built with whatever materials he could scrounge for the frame and tarped the roof. The walls are thorny vines from a briar patch offering a form of organic security from thieves. The small front door is secured by a padlock offering additional security when he is away. He plans to build a small window. Inside are meager amenities such as a small table and an air mattress for a bed. The slight smile revealed a moment of peace, and it was the only time he smiled during our conversation.
Marcum went on to share other harrowing experiences from his life. He was shot twice, stabbed, and suffers from ADHD, and is HIV positive. PTSD flashbacks from being attacked by his nephew with a machete haunt his memories. The nephew is Bobbie Jean’s son she allegedly coerced to attack him. His nephew faced incarceration if convicted of the attack and he dropped the charges. Marcum did not want his nephew to experience prison, which could potentially crush his life as it crushed his life. The only source of income is a monthly disability check. He uses some of the money to buy ice.
Ice is a highly addictive, physically and mentally harmful drug. It is a form of methamphetamine that looks like shards of glass or ice crystals. It can be snorted, ingested, dissolved, then injected, or the smoke inhaled when it is burned. Marcum said he buys amounts for twenty or thirty dollars per week. He takes a hit in the morning to “wake up” his mind and “get going.” Later in the afternoon as the effects from the stimulant wear off, he takes another hit, finally ending the day with a final hit of the drug. For now, that is his purpose in life. It is a manufactured happiness that fills in a void where Jesus is absent. But also, absent are family and trusted friends.
When asked about his happiest memories, there were only two. The birth of his daughter whom he hadn’t seen since she was seven months old. She is now twenty-three years old. The other happy memory was caring for his ill mother before her death at 10:30 a.m. on September 16, 2020. The date and time are etched in his memory. Marcum wasn’t there when his mother, Barbara, died. He violated probation to care for her and his sister reported him to the police. He was arrested and incarcerated. Two months into his four-and-a-half-month imprisonment, Barbara died from respiratory failure. He did not have the chance to say goodbye or make amends. It is another burden he carries and another memory where ice provides a momentary relief from sorrow. It was too much for him. Tears welled up in his eyes and he bowed his head. I ended our conversation with a prayer.
And [Jesus] will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death will not exist any longer, and mourning or wailing or pain will not exist any longer. The former things have passed away [Rev. 21.4].
I do not know if I will see Shawn Marcum again. I don’t know if my words of encouragement were heard, much less believed. I don’t know if my prayer resonated enough to let him know I care. I don’t know if I have the strength to face men and women like him. I didn’t expect the emotional drain from that short conversation. He was thankful for what we did for him today.
Radius Hope, that’s what I call the small community group that meets on Sunday evenings. The group does not have a formal name, but the group is comprised of people like Shawn Marcum who are no longer just surviving the day. Their lives flourish in Jesus, and they thrive serving the forgotten neighbors within their radius. They found meaning, and hope, and now are sharing hope with their brothers and sisters living aimlessly amongst us. While they have broken the bonds of sin that once enslaved them, they are still bonded to those men and women who have lost hope. They understand them. They know them and their struggles intimately. It is their strength that gives me the courage to face men like Shawn Marcum and inspires me to reach out. I pray we see a happy ending to his story where we can all rejoice eternally.