I love car rides. They give me time to think.
(And of course, the opportunity to throw myself a private Celine Dion concert… where I’m Celine Dion.)
I was driving to Wilmington for Christmas. I have family there (which as described, are “as family” as I get). I decided against going up to my folks place in Rochester, since driving 13 hours alone, each way, didn’t appeal to me. Plus, they volunteered to head down to Raleigh to check out Method Savvy’s new digs, and get to know a little about my life here.
It was pouring, the equivalent of a child screaming, pausing to breathe, just to start screaming again.
Miserable.
I distracted myself by focusing on the holidays.
This time of year, it seems that everyone is a little bit more into the idea of family. We think more about what it means. I’ve always had a skewed definition of what family is- I tend to pick up family as I go. That’s never been truer as it’s been now. But very recently, that perception changed again.
Thanks to my friend Rachel, I’ve re-connected to my faith. I’ve been focusing on my weaker attributes, and trying to do more good in the world. I’ve been OK at it. It’s really easy to get caught up in your own problems, so when I encountered a homeless man at Whole Foods this week, I didn’t think too much about it.
I was in the car with Shana and Tassy, and we were on our way to lunch. We were talking about Christmas expenses, and all I could think was – “phew, I’m going to save SO much money this year.”
It was true. I didn’t have a ton of people to buy for. I didn’t need to leave the state. I was totally going to save a ton of money.
Until I saw him.
A middle aged man, in a heavy coat, and a scarf covering his face. He stood on the corner, outside of the store, with a handwritten cardboard sign. I had seen him before. I had seen him a million times, and had ignored him. From my time in Philadelphia, where homeless people were as frequent as stop signs (probably more so), to my time in Wilmington (where they’re disguised as beach bums), homelessness is an issue that I never paid a ton of attention to.
It was freezing outside. Raining. I watched him for a few minutes before we pulled into the parking lot. I thought about him when I went to the hot foods bar, and contemplated what I wanted to eat. Then, I stopped thinking, and started acting.
I picked up an array of hearty food – macaroni, cornbread, mashed potatoes, pulled pork, chicken wings, gumbo, as well as some energy bars. I got a glass thermos and filled it with water. I picked up some bars of soap, hand sanitizer, and cough drops. I mindlessly shopped.
After I was done, I went outside, walked up to him, and handed him two bags.
His eyes welled up with tears.
He was younger than I thought he was – I saw the glimmer of a diamond earring hiding beneath the scarf that covered his mouth. He told me his story – about how his girlfriend was pregnant, and how he had lost his job. How he was struggling to find another, about the economy being terrible.
But his eyes told another story. One about perhaps a difficult life, a journey down all the wrong roads. A life led by poor choices, and perhaps, a need to craft a sympathetic story, something more relatable, honorable, or understandable, than his actual story.
Whatever the truth actually was, I knew it wasn’t the one he told. I knew he was lying to me. I felt a pang of disappointment – one of, “this is the guy I chose to help?” before immediately regretting that judgement. Regardless of who he was, or what his story was, he was standing on a street corner, in the freezing rain, days before Christmas, begging for help.
Because even dishonest, confused or angry people need help. They probably need it more than most.
So I put my hand on his shoulder, giving it a small squeeze, looked into his chocolate brown eyes and said – “Everything is going to be okay. Please believe me. Just have some faith.”
After we finished lunch, we watched him walk down the street. On our way back to the office, I saw him standing aside the train tracks, clutching the Whole Foods bag I had given him.
Maybe we’re all supposed to be family. Maybe family shouldn’t be limited to parents, sisters, grandparents or cousins. Maybe we should treat every person we encounter like family. Celebrate their successes and happiness, and be sympathetic towards their struggles.
At the very least, we can try.