The panhandler
The man stood at the side of the road holding a piece of cardboard – probably a side torn off of a box – with words written in crayon: Need work, food, prayer. A backpack and a bottle of water sat next to him. He appeared to be older, thin, weathered skin, wearing faded jeans and a ball cap. He was clean and when he smiled you could see that he was missing several teeth. My husband and I sat in our minivan at the corner, waiting for the truck in front of us to make their turn into the traffic of the main street.
I sat for a moment wondering where this man came from; when was the last time he ate, whether he was a drinker, smoker or meth user. It doesn’t take much to assume he’s had a hard life somewhere. And he’s not the first person I’ve seen waiting on a corner, cardboard sign asking for work, money, or prayer. Even in our mid-size city, which seems to collectively turn a blind eye to the idea that there may be homeless beggars blighting our “Christian” city, he’s not the first to panhandle and with the current troubling economy, he probably won’t be the last.
Sadly, there are many in our fair town who still fail to believe that we have homeless people or families in poverty. Surely the reason for their situation is due to their own poor decisions and that if they had just had enough faith and worked hard enough they never would have been in that position. But that is a myth that leads to a series of denials.
It is a myth that if one just works hard enough, no one should be down on their luck. There is a myth that meth could not be a problem in our middle class looking neighborhoods. And there is a myth that beggars on the corner can only be found in big cities. Of course the exception to the myth of homelessness is the knowing nods of people talking about inebriated Native Americans wandering the streets of our downtown. So a new myth is born, that the only homeless inebriates are the natives whose reservation borders the town. And the myth turns to a stereotype laced with racial overtones, that “Indians” are lazy alcoholics just looking for a handout to get more booze. Of course this myth repeats itself in cities all across the nation, with different groups of people taking on the role of the pandhandler.
I have been told not to give money to panhandlers. They’ll just use it to buy booze. If I buy them a hamburger they will scoff because they wanted cash for alcohol. If I give I am just enabling them to continue making bad decisions. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch!” goes the rhetoric. I’m not sure these people who counsel me with this advice have any solutions to the issue other to turn away. This is perhaps why the most common reaction to a panhandler is to ignore the problem.
I’m not going to pretend to be a saint when faced with the man on the corner or the woman who approaches my car in the parking lot asking for spare change. Sometimes it is truly uncomfortable meeting that stare and I’ve been known to hurriedly jump into the car and drive off before they see me. What is it that I am afraid of? Is it having to make a decision of who is worthy of my spare change or not? Or is it that I may have to face the fact that there are people who are in need, whether by their hand or not? Is it the fear of busting the long-held American value that if you just work hard enough you can be somebody someday?
Is it just work ethic that separates these people from me? I have just worked harder than them? In truth, in the dark of night lying in my bed, I know that my husband and I could be merely a serious medical issue away from being in real trouble. Thinking about finances, mental and physical health, and simple bad luck, I have lots of example of people who seemed to be doing ok, but then end up living on the edge. It doesn’t take much misfortune to find youself tumbling into poverty.
For a long time I ignored the dirty, outstretched hand. Time and again I was told stories about how the panhandlers just get annoying, and in the cities, border on harassment. When you don’t want to be bothered, you ignore.
Several years ago, I was visiting my older brother who happens to be a priest, in a city that at the time was thriving, economically. He was showing off the beautiful, brand new Catholic school built on the donations of parishioners, clearly reveling in their good economic fortune and wanting to give back to their own community. We drove by new construction throughout the town, a testament to the good times the city was experiencing. Good employment numbers and higher than average income for the state all spelled good news. One might surmise that if someone was jobless, homeless, and begging for work in this town that it was indeed because they just didn’t work hard enough.
On this particular, bitterly cold, winter day, I was driving my brother through the town as he gave me a tour. As we approached one particular busy corner we could see the familiar figure of a down-on-their-luck panhandler on the corner, cardboard sign in hand. James told me I needed to pull over. He jumped out of the car, pulling his wallet from his back pocket as he did so, running up to the man with a few dollars and a card, his breath frosting in the cold. He spent a scant few moments talking to the man and then did the familiar blessing, signing the cross with his hand in front of the man before jumping back into the car, out of the cold. He didn’t do it in a sanctimonious show-off manner. In fact, I got the impression that he wasn’t thrilled with having to jump out into the cold. I remember saying, “I guess that just comes with the job, doesn’t it”. He told me that yes, in fact, it does. I asked him if he thought that man would turn around and use that spare change to buy a bottle of vodka. He said that he supposed that he might, but that it wasn’t really for him to say or judge. That wasn’t part of the job. The outreaching of the love of Christ through his hands, with some spare change and a card with a phone number for a shelter, was his job.
The man at my corner in my city might have been a meth user. He might be looking for some drink or he might be just down on his luck. I have no idea whether he was a “nice” man, a “Christian” man, or whether he was an unrepentant mean man. It’s not really my place to judge. I just know that no matter what he does with a scant three dollars, it is the act of giving that might in some small way bring comfort. Even the drug addicts and alcoholics deserve love.
My husband must have seen all of this playing out on my face. “You want to give him some money don’t you”, he asked with a sigh. I told my husband to pull the van closer to the corner so I could roll down the window and give him some change without making it a big deal. I scrambled to find some single dollar bills or cash of any kind. I never have cash because I am always handing it to my children. “Hold on, I think I have some cash”, he says. Quickly I rolled down the window, not wanting to annoy the traffic behind me waiting to get out of the parking lot. I called the man over and thrust my fist out with folded bills. Remembering his sign I said, “I’ll pray for you”, not knowing, and not really caring, whether that was a sincere request or not. He took the money in his hand, smiling a toothless smile, eyes softening. “God bless you” he said. My brother blessed a homeless man on his corner several years ago, and today, on my corner, I have been blessed. And then we were on our way.
I worry about these people. I don’t have the resources to pluck them off the streets, find them jobs, and give them shelter. But I can continue to support our local Catholic Charities that I know does such meaningful work with the people living in the streets. I know I can’t always give them large bills or buy meals, and I often wonder if I couldn’t be doing more. But what I can do, and what costs me nothing, is to let go of pre-judgment and starting giving out a simple act. It’s an act of kindness toward another human being. It is an act of love and that trumps everything else.
