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.
