...

cogs, originally uploaded by Witty Screen Name.

Yesterday, on my drive to Sandy's, I saw a man with a grocery cart filled with bags of cans. He went into a bus stop shelter. I drove a little further, turned around, and went into the convenience store next to the bus stop. I got a coffee, and an already-prepared egg/cheese/bacon sandwich with hash browns wrapped in foil. When I went outside to give the man the food, he was no where in sight. His vacant cart with wisps of bags tied to the handle was tucked next to a nearby fence.

I thought maybe he was down in the culvert, perhaps going to the bathroom. I imagined what it must be like to protect your bags of carefully collected cans worth five cents a piece. I imagined him in the muddy, frigid culvert, and the bags of cans there with him.

After a few moments, I called out "Sir?" The food in my hands was still warm. "Sir?" I climbed down as far I as I dared to peer into the culvert. No one. I walked back up and then behind the convenience store. I read a sign: "Redemption Center" and then another one: "Closed." It is possible he had come some distance just to find the redemption center closed, and now he is on his way to another center. I imagine he knows where they are all located. I left the food in the cart.

Shame on me.

If I had the intention to share with him, I should have asked him first. I should have asked him to come in with me.

And why was I afraid to go down into the culvert? What could have happened that this man with several layers of bulky clothes and a bunch of bags of cans would feel threatening to me?

My giving is a high percentage of my "mutable income" (which is two mites), but my giving is also erratic. I want to have a more stable financial picture so I can give more consistently and more effectively.

I will still give what is free. That's easy.

Later, as I was falling asleep, my subconscious brought some levity: Sue B as a "poor" graduate student told me a story about her weekend. She had befriended the man who scouted her neighborhood for returnables. I'll call him Sam. A few days after hosting a party, she greeted him on her neighborhood's recycle pick-up day.

"Sam! Check it out!" She opened her garage door and revealed the jackpot of returnables from the party. She described the smile on his face.