I don’t normally write like this as I hate badly formatted sentences and paragraphs…. but his is what I wrote when I go home and found I didn’t care about the formatting, the typos, the gramma …. I just had to get a stay that in writing it the hardest thing was looking through the mist in my eyes….. I also like to have pictures to keep you interested, but in this story just make them up in your head……

I was walking home from the pub tonight.

Yes… again.

No, I’m not seeking treatment for that just yet.

On the way home I wandered past the library, which is a magnificent $750,000 public building. You paid for it. I paid for it. We all paid for it.

One bloke lives there.

Not works there.

Lives there.

Under the veranda.

Apparently the architectural plans forgot to include the “Homeless Accommodation” label, but life has a wonderful way of repurposing government infrastructure.

I met him yesterday.

Young bloke.

Sleeping rough.

Not because he wanted to become an “urban minimalist” or “embrace tiny living”, but because life kicked him square in the teeth.

I gave him my card.

Not my council card.

My personal card.

With my personal phone number.

You know… the dangerous thing we’re all told never to do because people might ring you.

He did.

He told me his story.

He’s from Wellington.

Young partner.

Young child.

Another baby on the way.

Got himself into trouble with drugs.

Made some dumb decisions.

So he packed everything he owned that would fit in his arms and came to the Riverland to do something that has almost become a revolutionary concept.

Find work.

Tonight I stopped and had another chat.

“Got a job,” he said.

I smiled.

“What are you doing?”

“Washing dishes.”

At the Indian takeaway.

Thirty bucks an hour.

The owner apparently committed the unforgivable crime of judging someone by whether they were prepared to work instead of which government form they’d completed.

Then came the bit that punched me in the chest.

The owner asked him,

“Do you want cash, or do you want me to keep it aside so you can send money home to your family?”

Read that again.

An immigrant businessman.

Running a takeaway.

Helping a homeless bloke earn money.

Helping him support his family.

Giving him dignity instead of pity.

So I walked into the restaurant.

Introduced myself.

Handed the owner my card.

Told him if he ever needed anything, he could ring me.

Because what he did tonight wasn’t corporate social responsibility.

It wasn’t a strategic initiative.

It wasn’t community engagement.

It wasn’t an action item in a five-year strategic plan.

It wasn’t funded by a grant.

There wasn’t a steering committee.

There wasn’t a governance framework.

There wasn’t a colourful brochure.

There wasn’t a logo.

There wasn’t a KPI.

There wasn’t even a bloody morning tea.

It was just…

Community.

Imagine that.

Meanwhile…

Our town has enough organisations, charities, committees, advisory groups, funded projects, outreach programs, strategic plans and branded SUVs to invade a small country.

Everyone has uniforms.

Everyone has policies.

Everyone has measurable outcomes.

Everyone has annual reports.

Everyone has mission statements.

Everyone has lanyards.

Everyone has matching polo shirts.

Everyone has a Facebook page telling us how compassionate they are.

And somehow…

The homeless bloke still sleeps under the bloody library.

Funny, isn’t it?

The bloke actually fixing the problem isn’t one of the services.

He’s the bloke cooking butter chicken.

I came home tonight feeling strangely hopeful.

Not because we’ve solved homelessness.

We haven’t.

Not because government suddenly became competent.

Steady on…

But because two ordinary blokes quietly reminded me what charity actually looks like.

One had enough courage to ask for work.

The other had enough character to say yes.

No committee.

No consultation.

No twelve-month pilot program.

Just one human helping another.

Earlier today a very dear friend gave me a kick up the backside.

She told me to stop wrestling with gatekeepers, self-appointed community royalty and the people who believe having a street named after them somehow qualifies them to decide the future of everyone else.

She told me my job isn’t to roll around in the mud with them.

It’s to climb higher.

To think strategically.

To lead.

She’s probably right.

Annoyingly.

I hate it when younger people are wiser than me.

It’s deeply inconvenient.

Because lately I have been questioning whether I should simply walk away.

Walk away from council.

Walk away from community politics.

Walk away from trying.

Walk away from people who seem to spend more energy protecting their little kingdoms than building a better town.

Then tonight…

A homeless bloke and a struggling  Indian take away chef reminded me why I started.

Not because communities are perfect.

They’re not.

Mine certainly isn’t.

But because every now and then someone quietly does the right thing when nobody’s watching.

No applause.

No recognition.

No photo in the paper.

No award.

Just humanity.

My mother understood that.

After she died, people I’d never met came to tell me how she’d quietly paid for wheelchairs, helped families, encouraged staff and supported people she barely knew.

She’d sworn them all to secrecy.

That’s charity.

Real charity.

Not the sort that needs an annual report.

The sort that leaves no empty chairs at funerals because so many people loved you.

So maybe that’s my lesson tonight.

Maybe communities aren’t saved by strategies.

Maybe they’re saved one dishwasher, one conversation and one act of quiet kindness at a time.

Mind you…

If anyone from one of our forty-seven funded community organisations is reading this, don’t panic.

I’m sure there’s already a working party being established to investigate whether washing dishes aligns with the Community Wellbeing Framework 2030.

There’ll probably be a consultation.

Three consultants.

A logo.

A strategic action plan.

And if we’re lucky…

By about 2029…

Someone might remember to ask the homeless bloke what he actually needed.

He already told us.

He needed a job.

One bloke listened and gave him a job, which he probably could have done himself for nothing…. but the bloke who was trying needed a hand…….

Everyone else was busy measuring compassion, virtue signalling and redesigning their corporate logo…..