I hadn’t gone on a ten-mile run in over a year, so I was a little worried. It was hot and my route didn’t pass any water fountains, though there were plenty of gas stations and convenience stores along the way. If things got ugly, a cold, sweaty bottle of Gatorade would fix me up. I tucked a five-dollar bill into my shorts and headed out the door.
After about two miles, I saw him. I’d passed his spot several times before—a mound of dirty blankets, a ripped plastic tarp, and a pile of dirty clothes. It was his home, I guess, though it feels wrong to call it that. What do you call the place where a homeless person sleeps? Anyway, he was there this time, tucked underneath blankets with a stocking cap pulled down tight over his grimy face. He held a tiny transistor radio to his ear, oblivious as I ran past.
I remembered the five dollars tucked in my waistband. The idea that I should give it to him flashed through my mind, but other thoughts followed that one. All of them were excuses. As I ran away from the man, a battle started in my brain. The notion of giving a homeless guy five bucks went to war with a host of reasons not to.
I’m going to get thirsty, I thought. I’ll need it later or in case I feel lousy. Like there was any chance I was going to be worse off than this guy, even if I passed out and ended up in the ER.
Next came the old standard. He’ll use it for drugs or booze. I knew this because I’m psychic, apparently. There were a hundred other things this guy might buy with the money. I thought of him buying batteries for his radio, perhaps his only diversion. Then I thought, So what if he buys booze or drugs? The Bible doesn’t mention a substance abuse escape clause that exempts me from giving to the poor.
The next excuse would be funny if it weren’t so stupid. Maybe I’ll offend him. He didn’t ask for money. I might even scare him. He might attack me! How ridiculous. If a stranger tossed me a finsky, I wouldn’t be anything but pleasantly surprised.
I kept running as the pendulum in my brain swung between doing the right thing and doing the scared, selfish, and stupid thing. When I was almost a quarter mile away, I asked God what to do (because I’m not bright enough to ask him before I try figuring things out on my own). I don’t usually hear God talk when I pray. When I do, I’m never sure if it’s him or my unconscious belching up what I need to hear. This time, however, I’m pretty sure it was God.
“Lord, should I go back and give that man my five dollars?” I said.
“Is that a serious question?” God replied. “Because coming from someone who’s been a following me as long as you, that better be a joke.”
Ouch. Okay.
I turned around and ran back to the where the homeless guy lay. He was intent upon his little radio and didn’t notice my approach.
“Hi,” I said. It startled him and he looked at me. He didn’t look scared or mad, just surprised.
“You want some money?” I said because that “way with words” thing I usually have wasn’t happening at the moment.
I handed him the five. He didn’t say anything. He seemed a little disoriented, like he wasn’t sure what was happening.
“Take it easy,” I said and started running again. Actually, I fled. The situation was uncomfortable and I wanted out of there. I didn’t hear him thank me, but I didn’t mind. He might have been too surprised or confused. Besides, what did he have to thank me for? Five bucks wasn’t going to turn his life around. I hadn’t really done that much.
