Hungry, Homeless and Looking for Work

We’ve all seen them.  Those who stand along the sides of busy intersections, wearing ratty clothes and holding cardboard signs.

Oh please stay green please stay green please stay green NOOO it’s red and I’m going to be right next to him what do I do, what do I do, do I look at him or look the other way, do I help or not, do I even have any money maybe the light will turn again really fast oh man he’s looking right at me it’s cold outside and it’s starting to drizzle what if he’s scamming but what if he’s not…

I don’t remember the first time I encountered a needy sign, but I remember the first time that I ever really noticed.  I was a young teenager, out with my dad in a nearby town where we lived.  We passed such a man, and then parked in a nearby parking lot.  My dad went inside to do his shopping, while I waited in the car.  The dilemma tore me apart that day.  I had $20 in my pocket that I would never miss, even though we were not that well off at the time.  But I lacked the nerve to make a move.  There was something in me that wanted to help so badly, but something stronger that was afraid and unsure.

 Afraid of the man.  Afraid of my dad finding out.  Afraid of it being the wrong thing to do.

And so I sat in the car feeling guilty, and have never forgotten.

As I grew up, things didn’t change much.  Nobody that I knew was a “homeless giver”, and there seemed to be plenty of opinions on the matter. 

If they would just get a job, they wouldn’t be that situation.

There are better ways to go about it than begging.

They probably just spend all the money on booze and cigarettes anyway.

By giving them money, we are creating dependency and making the problem worse.

We need to address the problem, not treat the symptoms.

Valid arguments, some.  But the guilt still has its way, and for good reason.  Like the time on the way home from a Florida vacation we drove right past a family sitting in front of their car holding a sign for gas or repairs or whatever it was and proceeded to enter a nearby restaurant and drop over $100 in food none of us needed.  Dear God bless that poor family I just ignored as I take mine to stuff themselves silly.  Amen.

I thought I was going to throw up.

So what to do?

I’m staring at him and he’s staring back at me.  It’s like I’m trying to channel some sort of mind-reading and figure out the story behind the sign.  And then I wonder, does it matter?  If he’s lying, it’s between him and God.  But if he’s telling the truth, then I’m the one that’s going to have to answer for the reason I drove on by to my nice comfortable home and nice warm dinner and nice fat bank account.  Before I can change my mind, I grab for my purse, searching for a five, finding a ten, and feeling guilty about the twenty sitting in there.  I pass the money to my son, and ask him to roll down the window.  He questions me, and I hope that I am doing the right thing as I try to explain why this is important to me.  He nods in agreement and seems to have no problem with my words.  The man looks grateful for the assistance and murmurs his thanks.  I heave a big sigh as the light turns green.

For now, it is enough.