Every day I get off the VRE at Union Station in downtown DC. Leaving the station I make the 15 minute walk to the building where I work. The path takes me down First Street where I pass the same handful of panhandlers every day. Before taking this new job I only had the experience of panhandlers on rare occasions when I visited the downtown of a big city. Since it happened rarely under those circumstances it was fairly easy to help the occasional one that seemed "deserving" and ignore the rest. To myself I would momentarily argue that I can't help them all and I'm sure most are simply scamming for a handout.
Now in this new life it's quite different. Seeing them every day over time I could watch their behavior and get at least a feel for their person. My personality is such that I can't just walk and not think about things. If I'm walking I'm thinking. I might be listening to an audio book, or saying a silent prayer, or looking at traffic and people, or a hundred other things, but along with all of that, I'm thinking.
In my thinking I notice the few specific people that are at the station panhandling every day. There's an older gentleman who stands at the top of the escalator that goes down to the Metro station. He's blind. He's polite to people simply asking for a little help. He holds a plastic cup and some people put money into it. I've talked to this man. His name is John and he has an adult daughter that helps him out.
Just as I leave the station onto First Street, there's youngish man, maybe 30 years old. From the dull unchanging expression on his face he seems to have some sort of mental illness. I've had a few short discussions with him that make me think this assumption is correct. When someone talks to him he lights up with a smile and is pleasant. As soon as the conversation ends his face returns to that same dull look.
There are two women who are regulars. One looks to be in her late 30's or early 40's. I've talked with her a few times and it's not at all clear to me why she is where she is in life. She constantly looks at passers-by asking for help and holding out her cup.
The other woman is much older, probably in her mid-to-late 60's. She has serious issues. Most times she sits silent looking despondent holding her cup and staring off in the distance. She looks at nobody and always has a sad look on her face. Unfortunately she is also often smoking something that looks like a marijuana joint. Sometimes she just holds it in her mouth unlit. Often I find her laying on the concrete sidewalk with her back against the stone wall of the train station, her legs twitching wildly, convulsively. She is sometimes smiling when this happens and muttering incoherent thoughts. Other times in this state she seems completely unaware of her surroundings and is frothing at the mouth and swearing loudly. Despite these bad days I see her at other times a few hundred feet further down the street from her normal perch. When she is there she seems completely normal and seems busy writing in a notebook or making a drawing. I've had a short conversation or two with her at these times and she is nice to speak with.
Aside from these four there are others I see once in a while. There are other "regulars" as well who are making a living in various ways. There's the lady who passes out the newspapers for the Metro. The older fellow, Clayton, who sells bundles of flowers for $5. He adds umbrellas to his stock on rainy days. I've treated my wife to his wares on occasion. About once a week a guy who looks like an old hippy lays out some picture frames with crushed flowers to sell. His name is Alan. I bought one of pieces of art once for my office. Sometimes there's a small brass ensemble who appear to be college kids playing for tuition. I could keep going, but I think you get the general picture.
As I mentioned earlier, as I walk I think. That thinking has been a motivator, among others, for me to have chatted with the "regulars." In particular I have felt, at times acutely, a struggle between my desire to help, and my worry to not perpetuate any bad or addictive behavior. I have never felt good about handing cash to someone who seems likely to use it for purposes I wouldn't feel good about, like buying alcohol, cigarettes or drugs. At the same time as a Christian, and as a human, I feel a need to help and refrain from judging. For example I have no idea to what extent these people suffer from circumstances beyond their control. They may all suffer from any combination of illness not of their own making. They may have some level of addiction. It's true that those who suffer from addiction generally made conscious choices that led to substance dependence. I also believe it's true that at some point addicts can become dependent in such a way that they really cannot escape their addictive circumstance alone. Unfortunately when that is true they also are likely to be incapable of the rational thought required to recognize the need for help, or how to find help. How much of their state at that point are they responsible for only God knows.
A few years ago this internal struggle between wanting to do something and not wanting to do the wrong thing came to a head. For a few weeks I prayed silently as I walked for guidance. I eventually got an answer while watching General Conference. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland gave a talk titled "Are We Not All Beggers?". After a little more pondering and prayer I decided to help by doing what I could. I decided I could bring a can of food sometimes and hand it to one of them. I do that now a few times a week. I'm sure it brings me more comfort than it does them. I say a silent prayer for them on occasion as I see them. Several have told me they don't want the food. They say they only want money. I told them I'm not comfortable handing out money, so I share the food with those who are willing to accept it.
I thought that was the end of my learning on the matter. Then one morning there was a new unusual person adding to the daily gauntlet. He was tall and large statured. He was a black man that looked to be in his 60's and mostly bald. Judging by the scarring and discoloration on one side of his head and face he had some serious physical trauma at some point in his life. What drew immediate attention was that he was standing on the sidewalk with his hands in the air screaming a prayer at the top of his lungs. You could see people were nervous as they hurried by him. He seemed oblivious to the passers-by.
My immediate reaction was what you might guess. Here was a crazy I'd have to get by. I hoped he would not notice me like the others in the train of commuters rushing along the sidewalk to their daily grinds. Then as I got closer I notice he was standing about three feet from the older "regular" lady who was on the ground twitching and frothing at the mouth. She still managed to hold the homemade joint between her fingers. I heard the words of his prayer. He was pleading with God to free the woman from her bonds and torture. Though is words were loud enough to draw attention for half a block in all directions, yet the sentiment and the thoughts were beautiful.
I walked and thought and prayed. My immediate reaction was to judge the man in prayer harshly. I saw him as a barrier or challenge. Then I thought that he felt the same as I did. He wanted to do something to help this poor woman, but couldn't do anything more than pray for her. So he did what he could. He prayed. Now it's true he prayed in a way that seemed opposite of my more traditional approach. I prayed silently in my mind as I continued to walk along. He stopped and prayed very loudly for all to hear and know. Despite those outward differences we both felt compassion for the woman. We both wanted to do something, but felt powerless to do more than pray for her. So we both prayed for her. I'm certain most who passed by did not pray for her, or maybe didn't pray at all.
I don't know how much my charity is true compassion and how much is inspired by guilt. I'm certain I have more in life than I deserve. It's clear these people struggle to find joy as most of the rest of us would try to define it. I doubt my little acts have much impact. I help in other more formal ways through organizations. That sort of giving is easier because the giver is more removed from the need, and someone else takes responsibility to decide who receives the benefit and how they receive it. Given this experience I guess my learning from those people I see each day on the street is not over.
Now in this new life it's quite different. Seeing them every day over time I could watch their behavior and get at least a feel for their person. My personality is such that I can't just walk and not think about things. If I'm walking I'm thinking. I might be listening to an audio book, or saying a silent prayer, or looking at traffic and people, or a hundred other things, but along with all of that, I'm thinking.
In my thinking I notice the few specific people that are at the station panhandling every day. There's an older gentleman who stands at the top of the escalator that goes down to the Metro station. He's blind. He's polite to people simply asking for a little help. He holds a plastic cup and some people put money into it. I've talked to this man. His name is John and he has an adult daughter that helps him out.
Just as I leave the station onto First Street, there's youngish man, maybe 30 years old. From the dull unchanging expression on his face he seems to have some sort of mental illness. I've had a few short discussions with him that make me think this assumption is correct. When someone talks to him he lights up with a smile and is pleasant. As soon as the conversation ends his face returns to that same dull look.
There are two women who are regulars. One looks to be in her late 30's or early 40's. I've talked with her a few times and it's not at all clear to me why she is where she is in life. She constantly looks at passers-by asking for help and holding out her cup.
The other woman is much older, probably in her mid-to-late 60's. She has serious issues. Most times she sits silent looking despondent holding her cup and staring off in the distance. She looks at nobody and always has a sad look on her face. Unfortunately she is also often smoking something that looks like a marijuana joint. Sometimes she just holds it in her mouth unlit. Often I find her laying on the concrete sidewalk with her back against the stone wall of the train station, her legs twitching wildly, convulsively. She is sometimes smiling when this happens and muttering incoherent thoughts. Other times in this state she seems completely unaware of her surroundings and is frothing at the mouth and swearing loudly. Despite these bad days I see her at other times a few hundred feet further down the street from her normal perch. When she is there she seems completely normal and seems busy writing in a notebook or making a drawing. I've had a short conversation or two with her at these times and she is nice to speak with.
Aside from these four there are others I see once in a while. There are other "regulars" as well who are making a living in various ways. There's the lady who passes out the newspapers for the Metro. The older fellow, Clayton, who sells bundles of flowers for $5. He adds umbrellas to his stock on rainy days. I've treated my wife to his wares on occasion. About once a week a guy who looks like an old hippy lays out some picture frames with crushed flowers to sell. His name is Alan. I bought one of pieces of art once for my office. Sometimes there's a small brass ensemble who appear to be college kids playing for tuition. I could keep going, but I think you get the general picture.
As I mentioned earlier, as I walk I think. That thinking has been a motivator, among others, for me to have chatted with the "regulars." In particular I have felt, at times acutely, a struggle between my desire to help, and my worry to not perpetuate any bad or addictive behavior. I have never felt good about handing cash to someone who seems likely to use it for purposes I wouldn't feel good about, like buying alcohol, cigarettes or drugs. At the same time as a Christian, and as a human, I feel a need to help and refrain from judging. For example I have no idea to what extent these people suffer from circumstances beyond their control. They may all suffer from any combination of illness not of their own making. They may have some level of addiction. It's true that those who suffer from addiction generally made conscious choices that led to substance dependence. I also believe it's true that at some point addicts can become dependent in such a way that they really cannot escape their addictive circumstance alone. Unfortunately when that is true they also are likely to be incapable of the rational thought required to recognize the need for help, or how to find help. How much of their state at that point are they responsible for only God knows.
A few years ago this internal struggle between wanting to do something and not wanting to do the wrong thing came to a head. For a few weeks I prayed silently as I walked for guidance. I eventually got an answer while watching General Conference. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland gave a talk titled "Are We Not All Beggers?". After a little more pondering and prayer I decided to help by doing what I could. I decided I could bring a can of food sometimes and hand it to one of them. I do that now a few times a week. I'm sure it brings me more comfort than it does them. I say a silent prayer for them on occasion as I see them. Several have told me they don't want the food. They say they only want money. I told them I'm not comfortable handing out money, so I share the food with those who are willing to accept it.
I thought that was the end of my learning on the matter. Then one morning there was a new unusual person adding to the daily gauntlet. He was tall and large statured. He was a black man that looked to be in his 60's and mostly bald. Judging by the scarring and discoloration on one side of his head and face he had some serious physical trauma at some point in his life. What drew immediate attention was that he was standing on the sidewalk with his hands in the air screaming a prayer at the top of his lungs. You could see people were nervous as they hurried by him. He seemed oblivious to the passers-by.
My immediate reaction was what you might guess. Here was a crazy I'd have to get by. I hoped he would not notice me like the others in the train of commuters rushing along the sidewalk to their daily grinds. Then as I got closer I notice he was standing about three feet from the older "regular" lady who was on the ground twitching and frothing at the mouth. She still managed to hold the homemade joint between her fingers. I heard the words of his prayer. He was pleading with God to free the woman from her bonds and torture. Though is words were loud enough to draw attention for half a block in all directions, yet the sentiment and the thoughts were beautiful.
I walked and thought and prayed. My immediate reaction was to judge the man in prayer harshly. I saw him as a barrier or challenge. Then I thought that he felt the same as I did. He wanted to do something to help this poor woman, but couldn't do anything more than pray for her. So he did what he could. He prayed. Now it's true he prayed in a way that seemed opposite of my more traditional approach. I prayed silently in my mind as I continued to walk along. He stopped and prayed very loudly for all to hear and know. Despite those outward differences we both felt compassion for the woman. We both wanted to do something, but felt powerless to do more than pray for her. So we both prayed for her. I'm certain most who passed by did not pray for her, or maybe didn't pray at all.
I don't know how much my charity is true compassion and how much is inspired by guilt. I'm certain I have more in life than I deserve. It's clear these people struggle to find joy as most of the rest of us would try to define it. I doubt my little acts have much impact. I help in other more formal ways through organizations. That sort of giving is easier because the giver is more removed from the need, and someone else takes responsibility to decide who receives the benefit and how they receive it. Given this experience I guess my learning from those people I see each day on the street is not over.
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