11/22/18

On the way to work this morning, I was asked by three different people if I had any money. The first started to tell me they'd just gotten out of jail, but I was in a hurry to catch the max and all I had was a $20 bill, so I said, "Sorry, can't help" and rushed off. The second was at the max stop, asking if I had any change or a cigarette. Again, I said no, sorry, and he started a conversation with another man waiting for the max. The third was also at the same stop. He came up and said, "Hi, Happy Thanksgiving." I returned the hello, and he proceeded to tell me a story about having cancer and how chemo was making him shit himself and asked me for money for a room. I looked at him, and so many things raced through my head, everything from being annoyed at constantly being asked for money on my way to work at 5:30 in the morning to thoughts of compassion for people who have such impoverished and difficult lives. Even if he just wanted money for drugs or alcohol, living on the streets is hard. Nevertheless, part of me thought, "I work hard for the little I have. Hell, I'm on my way to work on a holiday right now! Screw these people!" But another thought, "Do I really want to live in a world where nobody trusts anybody else or is willing to help another person because they don't care or just think everyone is up to no good?" And then I recalled something I'd read the day before, a homily from the late Theophane Boyd in Sundays at the Magic Monastery: Homilies from the Trappists of St. Benedict's Monastery about 'staying awake' to the preciousness of every person and to when God, in the form of the injured person on the side of the road in the parable of the Good Samaritan, shows up in our lives. Maybe it was that, or the fact that I work in the Providence cancer treatment centre, but I gave the third man all the money I had knowing that he could very easily be bullshiting me, but also knowing that if I refused a third time, I was turning my back on my own goodness and asleep to/closing myself off from others. He looked surprised at what I'd handed him, then thanked me, saying that he could see I was hesitant and questioning his story, but that he appreciated how I didn't judge him. And that last part surprised me. Because at that moment, I'd made a decision not to judge him, and he saw that. And for a brief moment, my guard was let down and I saw a glimpse of what Boyd was trying to convey about letting 'him' in and how easy it is to not see others, let alone love them as ourselves. But how many times do I simply say no? How many times do I just keep on walking right past the injured person on the side of the road? How many people a day do I say no to, or get short with, or say 'that's not my problem' to? Far too many.