Today’s post is a sort of followup to a previous post, where I shared my angst about the barrier between my middle-class, white, suburban self and the homeless and misplaced.

I pulled into a Carl’s Jr. to pick up a quickie breakfast for my family last week and saw a man in a wheelchair sitting by the paper stand our front. I’d seen him there before. It looked like almost everything he owned was in the wheelchair with him, and it was all covered with a layer of black. He was also incredibly dirty and wore a coat covered with the same black grime, his hair was disheveled, and he had a leg that was swollen to about six inches in diameter and and was bright red. It wasn’t a pretty sight and my heart swelled for him.

So, as I went through the drive-up window and I contemplated buying an extra meal, and impulsively, I did so. After receiving everything, I pulled around the other side of the parking lot, parked, locked my car, and walked over to him.

“Sir, would you like something to eat?” I asked him, holding in my hand a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I didn’t see the open look that I expected to see and that I often receive from the seniors each month. I figured I was a little out of my element here, anyway.

“Oh, no, thank you. I’m not hungry.” He seemed a little embarrassed.

“Are you sure? Would you at least like a cup of coffee?” I was determined to get past any barrier that might be up on his part.

“No, thank you, but thank you for asking.”

Still I was determined. “Would you like to take this to someone else or keep it for later? Is there anyone else who might enjoy it?” Still he declined politely, but I admit that I was distressed. “Well, I could just leave it here in case you change your mind.”

“Oh, no, really, thank you, but you take it.”

“We already have enough,” I responded and I flashed him a smile and looked him directly in the eyes. Even so, he declined once again, and I resigned to the fact that he wasn’t going to take what I offered.

So, I left him there, and went back to my car, and then I just laughed at myself. What was I thinking that I should assume that just because he was dirty and disheveled that he must be hungry? Maybe it wasn’t a sandwich and cup of coffee that he needed, I considered. It only served to remind me how very great the divide continues to be between myself and this man and others like him.

I didn’t really take into consideration the fact that even though this man is in a terrible situation that he has a certain amount of dignity. I never asked his name, and admittedly, probably didn’t want to know. Again, I wanted to throw a sandwich and a cup of coffee at him to make myself feel good. It isn’t going to be that easy, I realized, to make a change in myself that would break this barrier. I was going to have to get personal.

Yesterday, another man approached me in the parking of my grocery store. He looked distressed, telling me he was hungry and asked if I could give him a few dollars. I told him I was going into the grocery store and would be happy to get him anything he liked. He looked perplexed for at least one second and then said, “Thanks, anyway,” and walked away. To me, this illustrated even further the complexity of the homeless issue. The problem isn’t necessarily hunger. The problem is displacement, loss, loneliness, alcoholism, drug abuse, mental illness, and probably more issues that I haven’t thought of. Those things don’t get cured by a Carl’s Jr. breakfast sandwich or three dollars.

I am starting to learn that I need to think more realistically. I need to start asking someone their name because a name is a person’s identity. I need to start opening myself up and taking a risk, but I will navigate slowly through these uncharted waters. It was a learning experience. I imagine that God has more times like this in store for me in the future.