four dollars a day

I stood waiting for the light to change. Only 50 yards and I'd be in the train station. I'd already passed the four regulars I see every evening, holding their cardboard signs, shaking coins in their plastic cups. I didn't have any change or singles so I'd passed them all by, head down like the other commuters, not daring to make eye contact. In a minute I'd be safe in the terminal, boarding my train home.

Now, two feet away from me sat a woman, also with a sign but not even making an effort to shake her cup. "This has been the worst year of my life," the sign said. "My daughter was killed in an accident and I am homeless. Please help."

I thought about the ten dollar bill in my wallet. The light was taking forever to change.

I looked at the woman. Her clothes were filthy. She clearly hadn't showered in ages. Her eyes looked vacant, like she was strung out, and probably not on grief. But who's to say. Even though we are behind in most every way financially, she clearly had much less than I did.

As the light changed, I reached into my wallet and pulled out the ten, folded it up, bend down and put it in her cup.

"I'm sorry for your situation," I said. She smiled and showed me her black front tooth.

"Thank you," she whispered.

In the first week of my new job I had the opportunity to take a personality test. I've taken these kinds of tests before but not this particular profile. Part of the results included a one-page writeup about how I most likely behave and operate and how others probably see me. It was interesting and surprisingly accurate.

As I thought about my encounter with the homeless woman on the train that night, I remembered the profile. Specifically these lines, "Because your positive outlook may lead to unrealistic expectations, more skeptical people may see you as naïve." "At times you might get yourself into trouble accepting people who don’t deserve it."

I guess this could explain why I gave the woman on the corner the $10. She was probably high on drugs and would just use the money to buy more and everyone standing around me probably thought I was the world's biggest idiot for giving her money in the first place.

But after more thought, I realized that there was a louder voice speaking to me on that corner than just my own idealistic and optimistic personality.

In church, two days prior, the prayer of confession included these words: "We have heard the cry of the needy. When we have, we have refused to respond."

Truthfully, I didn't really think these words applied to me. For years I have faithfully helped out at Third Tuesday Suppers. We've made lunches for Lazarus House. We support kids in Africa and South America every month. Even though we don't have much to offer, we are helping the needy.

But every day I pass the same four people with their cups out and I always walk on by. I don't have small bills. I don't want to look naive. We need every penny I'm earning right now. Anyway, how is a dollar going to make any difference?

Growing up, I never saw my dad refuse to help anyone. It's quite likely his personality profile would reveal the same trusting, naive, optimistic personality as mine did. But it was more than this.

When I was in college studying in France, I met my dad in Switzerland for the weekend. We traveled to Northern Italy and everywhere we went, whenever we were confronted with a person in need who asked us for money, my dad always kindly gave them something.

"Do you really think that makes a difference?" I asked after he gave the equivalent of about $20 to a very poor woman in a cathedral we were visiting.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "But I think God wants us to give to anyone who asks us for help."

Anyone? Everyone? Maybe that's possible for someone who makes a lot of money and has a lot extra. But me? I don't think so.

So I walk by quickly, pressed along by the rush of commuters hurrying to make the train, and appease myself with the thought that if all the wealthier people around me aren't stopping to put money in anyone's cup, I shouldn't feel badly.

But the day after I dropped the ten, I decided to keep four singles in my pocket for the commute home. As I approached the Canal Street bridge I got nervous, afraid of looking like the fool. But I stuck with my plan and dropped a dollar into each plastic cup, not daring to make eye contact yet touched by the warm "thank yous" and "God bless yous" I received.

The next day I did the same thing, only this time I looked at each person as I gave them the money.

"Have a good night," I smiled.

By the fourth night, the looks of surprise had changed to recognition. At least they knew one dollar would probably be coming their way that evening.

I am not telling this story to say that I am great. I am most definitely not. And to most, especially those pressed along with me in the mass of commuters hustling over the bridge, I probably look pretty naive. As if a dollar could make any difference. As if these people deserve it.

But in a season of politicking, when the nation is focused on improving the economy and determining if births should be controlled and who should be allowed to marry, I wonder how we've gotten so far away from the God this country originally put its trust in. The God who is this: "For the LORD your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who shows no partiality and accepts no bribes. He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the stranger residing among you, giving them food and clothing." (Deut. 10:17-18)

The God who wants this: "And you are to love those who are strangers." (Deut. 10:19)

Four dollars a day is a small price to pay to follow the God who defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow. A small amount to give to love the stranger. But every day I know that I am part of a much bigger story, that in a small way I get to show someone who is broke and alone that God is defending their cause, loving them and residing among them.

No, I am not great, but when I get over myself and all my excuses and live like I am called, I know I'm part of something that is.

everybody hurts sometimes

On the el platform last week, a woman was crying. She stood about 10 feet away from me, a short, heavy-set, middle-aged African American woman. Her face was serene, expressionless, but tears flowed down her cheeks and she made no effort to wipe them.

I wondered what could be wrong. Was one of her children in trouble? Did she have an argument with someone she loved? Or was she just feeling heaped with all the pressures of life?

We boarded the el and I sat facing her and contemplated what, if anything, I could do. The woman stared at nothing in particular. Her face never revealed her emotions, but her tears gave her away. I thought about getting up and sitting next to her. I thought about hugging her. Instead I said a silent prayer that she would know she's not alone. Because as R.E.M. sings so well, everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes.

In all of our differences, our finger pointing, our high horses, our self-imposed isolation, we are all just human. We all know sadness and grief and heartbreak. It's just not very common that our tears so grandly betray us in public.

Thinking about it now, I feel honored to have witnessed my fellow traveler's tears. If I see that beautiful woman waiting for the Brown line again, I will not think about our differences. I will be reminded that our hurts make us so much alike.

The next time my heart runs down my face in public, I hope I can stand like my friend on the platform: not hiding, just letting the tears fall. Hoping that my pain reminds someone else that everybody hurts and no, no, no, no, you are not alone.