Helping

Moments after sunrise during an early morning walk I pass a woman sitting on a concrete bench. Beside her is a small carry-on bag and other items.

My brain starts taking inventory. Homeless? Hungry? Mental? Meth addict? Alcoholic? Dangerous? Panhandler?

Answers come back: Too clean to be homeless. Outweighs me by 100 pounds so she’s eating somewhere. Too calm for a meth addict. No bottles in sight, so maybe not drinking. Probably mental.

I stop my brain and turn around to offer help.

Yes, homeless. Not an addict. Waiting to qualify for disability. No one will help her because she’s childless. On and on.

Then I quit asking questions and suggesting solutions because I hear a departed sponsor’s voice.

He’d say if someone’s life is bad enough that they’re collecting money on the street I should help.

When I’d suggest they might be a hustler with a Mercedes parked around the corner and live in a penthouse he’d say the same thing.

So I follow his advice and hand her a bill.  And my day went just fine.

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