“Somebody needs to help him! He looks so sad!” My little ones are once again disturbed about a scruffy stranger at a stoplight. He’s holding a cardboard sign: “Anything helps. God bless America.” One of some 2000 local homeless people, he is also part of over half a million homeless nationwide. Those red, two-minute traffic lights are the most popular hangouts for handouts. A beggar’s presence makes for squirmy moments, especially when the driver has kind-hearted little girls in the car.
I explain to the girls that we can’t give this man money because he might use it for drugs and alcohol. I recently listened to a speech from a police officer, assigned to the homeless beat. He says financial handouts are the worst actions a person can do to ease a conscience. “Do the homeless a big favor,” he emphasizes, “Don’t enable their habits. Instead, donate to your shelters and food banks.”
The officer tells lots of stories. He cleans up many abandoned camps—a sanitary nightmare. He helps people find relatives. He acts as a peacemaker. He keeps talking to one alcoholic about recovery programs—the man was once mayor of a nearby town. He mentions Carla, the woman in a fake pregnant outfit, who has been begging at the same street corner for three years. He says, there are homeless, who
earn more money begging than if they work minimum wage jobs. Many can’t hold a job because of mental illness. They forget to take their medicine, or their pills are stolen. Then, without meds, they act out and end up in jail. They clean up, are released, and the cycle starts again. Homeless can be veterans, young adventurers, girls and boys kicked out of homes, the unemployed.
I heard one former homeless man speak about the uniqueness of each individual. His journey started when his elderly mother became ill and needed a nursing home. He put their belongings in storage and camped under some bushes near her building. He says, “No one knew I was in the bushes; they were so thick. That is, no one knew except for the nurses’ aides, who came and got me when they couldn’t quiet Mom.”
This man is okay now, working as a custodian at a community center. But what to do with two little girls, who are sad each time we stop at a light where there is another beggar with a cardboard sign?
This is what happened last week with my granddaughters.
“Okay, I want each of you to decorate a brown paper bag. Today, we are giving snacks to two homeless people.”
Little faces brighten, and voices elevate. Rainbows and flowers mark the bags; a paper heart is tucked inside. Then, we stuff the bags with canned tuna and crackers, breakfast bars, juice boxes, and M&M’s.
As we climb into the car I say, “Let’s practice putting your snack bags out half opened windows.” They look scared.
“Now, “ I say, more confident than I feel, “We are going to pray that God shows us the right people.”
We each say a little prayer.
“Grandma, what if we don’t find any homeless people?”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m not worried about that. We prayed. Now let’s trust God to find the people he wants us to find.”
We pass one bearded fellow with a sign, who happens to be on the wrong side of the street. “I guess he’s not the one,” I assure, turning the car downtown.
A few blocks later I spot a bag lady. Who can guess her age when weather and life have beaten a person down to a few bags of garbage? This lady, donning a head bandanna, is rummaging through her belongings.
“Sister,” I yell. “Sister!” No response. Then, “Mam, Mam.”
She looks up.
“Hi there. Would you like some food? My granddaughter would like to share some snacks with you.”
The five-year-old, holding her bag, grins like the Man-in-the-Moon.
The lady is puzzled and then shows a toothy smile. She comes over and puts her big hands on the half-opened window. There’s a dirty piece of bread between her fingers. “Oh, niña pequeña, I don’t want to take your food. That wouldn’t be right,” she says.
The smiling child responds, “It’s okay. It’s your food. My grandma gave it to me so I could share with you.”
Hesitantly, the lady takes the bag.
“What’s your name?” I ask, introducing us.
“Kathy,” she replies. Then her words tumble out. She lost her apartment, because she didn’t report her mother’s death to Social Security. She is on a waiting list to get a bus ticket back to her family. She has written all these poems for her grandchildren but has no way to send them. She is in a shelter, where she fought last night with a mean woman. And, by the way, could we give her a ride?
“Oh, I am sorry. We can’t today.”
The rejection folds the conversation. She backs away a little.
“Kathy, we will pray for you, “ I say. “And we hope you get that bus ticket really soon to be with your family.”
She smiles and goes back to her bags.
“Hey, look,” I say to the girls. “I see another lady across the street. Sweetie, do you want to give your bag to her?”
We drive to the red light.
This woman, in her twenties, has a beautiful round face. A chihuahua peeks out of a pouch, strapped across her chest.
“Could you use some snack foods?” I ask Kathryn.
Her lips tremble and her eyes get teary. “Yes,” she says slowly and then takes the bag from the 7-year-old.
Kathryn stands there, wearing a shy smile.
“What’s your dog’s name?” I ask.
“Cocoa,” she says.
The light is about to turn green. “He’s cute. Kathryn, we hope you and Cocoa have a nice day. God bless you.”
“You too. Thank you so much.”
The little girls are flying high. I tell them we can’t help every person, but we can do a little. I tell them our town cares for the homeless. We drive by a shelter and a soup kitchen.
They nod in understanding. Of course, they ask if we can do this again.
“Maybe,” I say. “Hey, isn’t it neat how God led us to people today whose names had the k sound?”
“Yeah!” they agree. “Kathy, Kathryn, and Cocoa too.”
