He was a man I met back home. It wasn’t the first time I had seen him. I passed him often on the way to school, when I transferred from the bus to the skytrain. He looked kind of scary, with his cap pulled low over his eyes, with his grizzled long grey hair and beard, his sharp, intelligent, fierce ice-blue eyes looking straight into your eyes, and his deep voice crying out for “change”, sometimes spouting condemning profanities as frustration builds from well-off looking passer-bys who don’t even give him a glance. He looked mean, dangerous. But I knew he was also dirty, cold, hungry, and had but a sliver of hope in his grey life.
During the school year, I had decided to take some introduction social work classes. As I learned more about the troubles that plague the homeless and the cycles of poverty and discrimination that keep them entrapped, God placed in me an increasing compassion for them. That morning, I had been reading some verses in the Bible about God’s heart for the homeless and oppressed. Yes, Lord, my spirit had responded on the inside. You care about the fatherless and oppressed! You care about injustice! Why do we, Your children, Your servants, Your ambassadors in this world, not do anything to help these people? It was then, as I stepped off the bus that morning, that the man’s voice carried a sharp and sudden conviction to my heart. What was I doing anything about it?
That first morning, I didn’t do anything, but I prayed. I was completely scared to approach this homeless old man. My parents had always told me to stay away from homeless people, because they were dangerous. What to give? How much to give? If I give him money, will he use it to buy drugs? If he comes to know me and my name, will he continue to bother me and call me out from among the crowd? Will he expect me to continue to keep giving? How should I approach him? Should I make reference to his situation or pretend that everything was okay? How could I even relate to his situation? How deep should I probe, how much should I get involved? These were all the questions swirling around my head.
I finally decided on just giving him some granola bars and seeing what would happen. The next morning, as I got off the bus, I prayed to the heavenly Father for help. Then I quickly handed the man the granola bars with a nervous smile. “Thank you very much, dear,” he exclaimed loudly. With a nod and another nervous smile, I hustled off. Phew, I had done it.
To be continued…
Photo by Neal Currie at http://photo.net/photodb/photo?photo_id=4012857
