I momentarily hesitated before grasping my grandson’s hand and approaching the homeless man.
The man certainly fit the image of “homeless.” His dirty trousers complemented a shabby shirt, accompanied with ill-fitting, cracked shoes exposing his sockless feet.
Lori and I had taken our grandson, Eli, for one last getaway before he starts back to school. We’d endured the Sunday afternoon heat at the Louisville Bats baseball game (Eli’s favorite sport), then cooled off at the hotel’s swimming pool, and were on our way to eat pizza (his favorite cuisine). The next morning, we planned to tour the Louisville Slugger Museum.
As we walked the streets of Louisville on our way to Bearno’s Pizza, Eli saw him, the man on the street. He was holding a cardboard sign, begging for money, unfortunately a common occurrence in a downtown metropolitan area.
I could think of several reasons not to give to this man. For one, how would I know that he wouldn’t spend the money in a bad way: alcohol or drugs. And, I’ve often wondered if some of the homeless work for someone else, in a human trafficking kind of situation, where someone forces them to beg for money. Even if that’s not the case, I ask myself if I’m helping them. Am I treating a long-term problem with a short-term remedy?
And, I’ve learned by experience that some who ask for money are con artists. As a young pastor in the Deep South, I gave money to a man passing through town. He stopped by the church, asking for gas money to get to New Orleans, where he said his daughter was near death. A couple of years later, this man stopped by with the same story. When I asked if it was the same daughter near death when I gave him money a couple of years ago, he cussed me before stomping away.
So, I usually try to give the needy some specific item rather than money. Even then, there’s no sure way to know who is genuine and who’s not. Not long ago, a man stopped by the church, asking for money. He looked vaguely familiar. Then I recalled that I had taken him to lunch several years ago when he asked for money. When I reminded him of that, like the other man on the way to New Orleans, he stormed away in a huff.
Nonetheless, I still have a yearning to help the less fortunate. Even as I drive through my little town, I see transients, and I wonder what their story is, and if I could win their trust, what they could tell me about why they are where they are. Many suffer from mental health issues and wouldn’t be capable of an honest conversation. The fact is, we usually have no way of knowing what suffering they’ve encountered in life or what combination of influences led them to the place they are today. If we were to learn more about them, we might be more tolerant of and sympathetic to their situation.
Focusing his attention on the homeless man, Eli turned to his Gigi and me, “Can I give something to that man?”
Reaching in my pocket for a couple of dollars, I handed the money to Eli and gripped his hand in mine, carefully maneuvering away from the traffic to the man working Main Street, adjacent to the Galt House. Eli, the shy boy that he is, handed the man the money without saying a word.
“Thank you, my son, God bless you,” the homeless said, looking down at Eli.
From the proud grin on Eli’s face, as we walked away, you would have thought he had received a blessing from the Pope himself.
The next day on the drive home, Eli wanted to call his mother.
“Guess what I did, Momma?” he said.
I anticipated an animated conversation recounting how much fun he had at the game, that he had eaten nine pieces of pizza the night before, and how amazing the museum was.
“I got to give to a homeless man,” he declared to his momma.
I smiled to myself.
Yes, it’s true, I thought: it is more blessed to give than to receive.