The midday sun hid behind the skyscrapers, failing to take the nip out of the brisk wind that rushed through the streets. The woman standing along the wall visibly shivered. Her scarf was wrapped tightly about her face and her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. She wore black sweats and no-brand athletic shoes. While her clothing would have failed to convince anyone that she was one of the business people who rushed about on seemingly very important missions, she also could have easily blended into the otherwise very diverse crowds that wander Center City (downtown) on a regular basis.
She could have been just waiting for something—a cab or a bus, or a friend to meet for lunch. But this woman was subtly upsetting the flow of traffic on the sidewalk. The wrinkled paper bag in her hand betrayed any other assumption of what she was doing in Center City that day. She, like so many others, came to the busy streets to panhandle.
“Do you have any spare change…please?” Some people walked around her, away from her, crossing the street to avoid even hearing her plea. Many stayed their course, but looked away or put in their headphones at that very moment to listen to music that was not playing or pretend conversations on their phones. She shivered as another blast of wind clearly chilled her bones.
A kind voice from the side, said “You cold, baby?” The old man bent over on his cane looked at her concerned, but only for a moment. He continued on. It was those moments she appreciated—she was human again, with real needs. People saw her.
People saw me.
Yes, that woman was me, for less than an hour during lunch time last Friday. As part of our MissionYear, we participated in an activity called PROP: Pauper’s Right of Passage. We were sent in pairs to the streets for the entire day, with no money. Eat, or don’t. Find it yourself. Ask homeless folks for tips, talk with and learn from them. We were not pretending to be homeless and could share what we were doing, but we were encouraged to panhandle for an hour by ourselves—solitude in the midst of the city.
During that hour, I teetered on the verge of tears. I saw people turn up their noses at the sight of me. I had showered the day before, so I did not even smell—but their reaction still showed disgust. One man, linked arm in arm with his girlfriend, looked me in the eyes and reached into his pocket. Without a word, his girlfriend yanked his arm and set a faster pace. His hand remained in his pocket as they crossed the street.
“What did you say?” a young man on his phone inquired. I repeated my request with the best smile I could muster. He patted his empty pockets, and responded with a jumble of words I did not understand intermixed with the sounds of the city. What I did hear was “you’re cute.” I thanked him politely for looking for change, hopefully sidestepping the flirtation, and waved to him. “Oh, you’re not that kind of girl, huh?” That jumble of words was apparently more than a flirtation. It was a proposition. He walked away, leaving me choking back tears and holding my turning stomach.
But I met Jesus in this hour…multiple times. People who looked me in the eye, even when they did not have anything to give. Several people dug into their pockets and gave me all the coins they had. The guy who walked past me, only to return ten minutes later to drop a dollar in the bag without a word. The woman who apologized for not having anything and kindly encouraged me to “hang on.” And then there was James.
He asked my name, but nothing else. I did not have a chance to tell him what I was doing, nor did he ask. He instead told me he had been a Vietnam veteran who came home psychologically racked. He experienced homelessness but told me how prayer had changed his life. He is in a better spot now, and he could not pass by someone in need. He apologized for not having change, but offered to buy me something to eat, wherever I wanted. My pride pricked my heart and I almost said no—I could panhandle (painfully) for a little longer and buy myself something. To say no to this man, whose voice conveyed true care and concern, would keep my pride intact, but would simultaneously rob this man of an opportunity to share. This was not covered in the training session, so I had to make a decision.
I told him I would need to alert my friend (who was stationed around the corner for our mutual safety as we participated.) We went into Wendy’s, near where my friend and I had been standing. As we stood in line, he told me to order whatever I wanted, and added “whatever you order, order for your friend.” I meekly ordered two simple hamburgers, still in awe of what was happening. He took his change from the cashier, turned to me and asked “Are you going to be okay, Katelin?” I nodded, and thanked him profusely. He waved and without another word left the restaurant. Thank you, James, for being Jesus to me—no questions asked.
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That hour, though it seemed agonizingly endless, was a meager glimpse into the experience of so many people. I may not have known from where my very next meal was coming, but I surely knew I would be back in my warm bed that night and had several choices as to what to eat for breakfast the next morning. It is all too easy to gloss over this experience as an exercise in gratitude. While I surely walked away “grateful for what I have,” that is not my only realization—and I hope it’s not yours.
My city director had prayed over us before we went out that day—that we would see ourselves in the people that passed by. I definitely saw myself—I am utterly guilty of ignoring the humanity of people who I see in need. I have fiddled with my phone when I pass by them. I have stared at inanimate objects or my own feet instead. Instead of searching out the Thou, the image of the Divine, reflected in their eyes, all because it stirs a guilt, a discomfort that is inconvenient to me. The truth is there is need, there will always be need, and we’re not excused from doing something about it…just because we pretend not to see it.
I pray you too see yourself reflected in this story. Which character are you?
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