A few weeks ago, a woman who writes a blog I read regularly posted this question: If there was a group of homeless and needy families in front of you asking for help, would you give them money knowing that while some of them would use the money to buy food, others would use it to buy drugs?
The blog's comment section filled up rapidly. Some people pointed out that the question is a great analogy for the U.S. government's $700 billion economic bailout plan. Others said they never give money to people on the street while some said they always give money to people on the street.
I was in San Francisco about eight or ten years ago and a guy came up to me as I was entering a BART subway station. I had my wallet out because I was getting ready to buy a ticket. The guy approached me and said, "Hey, can you spare a dollar ... or a twenty?" While he was asking, he had glanced into my wallet and spotted a couple of twenties - so he figured it was worth a shot. I laughed out loud, but still only gave him one dollar.
I have always tried to give money to those who ask, even if I didn't have much money at the time. If someone is standing at a grocery store or in front of a Wal-Mart saying they don't have money for gas, I try to help them out. My kids saw me do this when they were young and I hope it left an impression on them.
My reasoning is actually quite simple - we're supposed to help those in need. The Bible says that if I have two coats, and my neighbor has none, I'm stealing from him. It does not say, " ... if your neighbor has none, you're stealing from him unless he's addicted to crack." What my neighbor does with my gift is between him and God.
What would you do? Give me some feedback.
Writing ... GOOD Writing ... but not mine
The Cab Ride
by Kent Nerburn
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.
So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.
"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."
"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."
I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers."
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
8:09 PM - Sep. 30, 2008 - {1} -
Dad2Three
Recent Entries
Friends of Dad2Three
Dad2Three Links
