We couldn’t get on the road until well after dark. Years
ago, I would pack a Thermos of coffee and a few snacks. Little towns had yet to see yellow arches. Gas
stations offered pots of coffee which had usually been sitting for a couple of
hours. On a bitter November night, a few swigs of black bean hit the spot.
Just off the interstate, the rest area was fairly new and
sat at the top of a little mountain which gave down into miles of harvested land.
Other mountains were nearby but the scraggy fields and far spaced small towns
reflected nothing but space. I got out of the car and gazed up into the night sky.
A few cars were parked at the curb next to the brick
building. Park benches and picnic tables stood away from the building. Another
car was parked more closely than the others. It was old and battle worn. A man
leaned under the hood, messing with something. A non-descript item like a pillow or blanket
and paper trash were smashed up into the rear window and blocked a passenger
window.
Burt and I walked into the rest area without mentioning the
old car.
I walked into the Ladies and immediately got the picture. I
said hello. The room was stuffy from the two hand dryers hanging near the
faucet. Harsh lighting and yellow tiles reflected into a wavy polished metal
mirror scratched by more than just an uneven lipstick. I walked past and into a
stall.
Instant dilemma. What should I do? I had never seen anything
like this before. A mother was standing by a hand dryer. The sound never seemed
to end as she regularly pushed the button to keep the warm air near her
daughters. I had never seen anyone like her before. She was a large woman
draped in ill-fitting clothes that appeared to have been worn a long time
without washing. Her face and hair were not clean.
At her feet, two little girls huddled together on a blanket,
children sitting on the floor of a rest area in a blanket to be used for
sleeping. They were wearing thin clothing. There was no hint of the rosy blush
of a sweet childhood. They needed good food, warm clothes, hot water and a soft
bed.
Frankly, my twenty-two years were in shock over this
situation. What could I do to help them?
I had a twenty in my pocket. A twenty would buy a week’s
worth of groceries. My parents always
gave me money for my pocket when Burt and I were leaving. I could give the
woman the twenty. I felt compelled that this was the right thing for me to do.
I listened to some of her story. I could only help this much
but I hoped it would get them down the road. She was very appreciative and
blessed me profusely. I almost had to turn my eyes away from the girls. I had
never seen two little girls in such a dire situation. They didn’t offer any
smiles, huddled together on the blanket, on the floor of the restroom, warming
under the hand dryers like baby chicks under a light.
I had had an almost religious experience giving the woman
the twenty dollars. In my immature twenties, I didn’t know if she was there to
bless me and my generosity or if I was there to offer her hope and a minimum of
salvation. My heart seemed to overflow, no matter which reason. I even thought
maybe she was an angel.
But in not too many more minutes, Burt pointed out it
was probably a scam. I should have tried to get the little girls help on that
bitter November night. I failed even though I thought I had offered Christian charity. After the Thanksgiving holiday, I waved goodbye to my
parents. I left without anyone giving me even one dollar bill.
Last week, a young man walked up to
a group of my friends as we stood outside saying goodbye. When he first walked
up, I assumed he was a high school boy going into the restaurant. He was
wearing khakis and a yellow hoodie. His hair was neat.
He stopped and asked if
we could help him. Those words. “Can you help me?” He had run out of gas and
the filling station (next door) wanted 14.95 to loan a gas can. Here was a
picture of his car. Here was the phone screen where he had tried to call his
father. He was 17 and lived in “Pricey Neighborhood.” Just a few miles down the
road. He was politely pleading, to this group of ladies – grandmothers, retired
ladies, working women - a very compassionate group to come across in your time
of need – good Christian women.
Three of us walked to our cars,
the only cars on the other side of the building. First one friend pulled out of
her place and then the friend next to me. I backed out and put my car in drive.
I am startled to see the boy running across the grass, straight for my car. I
brake to stop. My window was barely rolled down. He has pulled up his hood and
is standing with his hands in his pocket. So close to my window I can see the
cratered skin of severe drug abuse.
“Mam, please, anything. Change. Just quarters.” For a minute
I remember I have a handful of quarters in my purse. But something in me
remains resolute. I had a twenty in my pocket. But I was afraid. He was so
close to my car. My antenna went up. I drove off. The paper has been full of purse snatchings
and robberies.
Was I supposed to put my car into park, open my purse and look
for quarters or pull the twenty from my pocket? My instinct urged me to drive
away.
I doubt he was seventeen or lived in the nearby fancy
neighborhood. But he belongs to someone. Is a Mama sitting in a chair, unable
to sleep, thinking about her son? What if he were my son? I could only hope
someone would help him.
I’ll never know if he was a scam or a thief waiting for me
to roll down the window. His face is still clear in my mind. I don’t know how
much favor I can afford him.
People are literally running to us for help. Blocking our
pathways. Interupting our conversations. Startling our senses. So many people
need help that we are overwhelmed, frightened and exhausted. What can we do?
How do we know?
A little voice inside of me. Lord, give me heart and
courage. And a pocketful of twenties.
