I have an unopened pack of cigarettes in the front door of my van. They’re Players, I think.
Nobody in my house smokes, and they’ve been sitting there for over a month, so message me if you’d like to make an offer. I’d really like to see them go to a good home.
What happened was this: Scott, the kids, and I were exiting a theatre building after watching my son, Nicolas, play a Schindler’s List solo on his violin (yes, that was totally a mom brag, and yes, he did wonderfully, thank you!)
So, we exit, and there is a homeless man near the door, and he is digging through the garbage can.
We ask him if he is okay, and if we can get him something to eat.
“Yeah, that would be great,” he responds with a smile. Then, “Well, actually, honestly what I could really use is a cigarette. If you could get me a pack of cigarettes, that would be awesome.”
Scott and I look at each other doubtfully. You know, that “Hey, we’re willing to get you some nutrition, buddy, but don’t expect us to fund your filthy habits” monologue starts going through both of our minds.
“Well, we’re happy to get you a sandwich or something,” one of us says.
“If it comes between food and smokes, I’d really prefer the smokes. Please,” he replies.
“Well, we’ll think about that. How about we run to the store over there, and we’ll meet you right back here.” And we drove off.
It really only took us a minute or two to accept the fact that what that man really needed, at that moment anyways, was a nice, warm cigarette – some normality, as my brother Paul called it.
I have no way of empathizing with someone suffering withdrawal in any form other than ice cream, so my patronizing offers of a salad and herbal tea can only go so far.
Scott pays the surprising cost for a pack of smokes and a snack, and we make our way back, but of course the guy was gone. He figured we would only bring him food, and he didn’t have time to wait for it. So off he went, to dig through another garbage can for a half-used butt.
In some kind of strange irony, by hesitating to get him the smokes, it seems we lost an opportunity to remind a poor man of his dignity.
In no way am I saying we should all be providing for the addictive habits of strangers. But finding a way to reach the poor is something I find is increasingly on my mind.
For many years now, Scott and the kids have spent their Friday nights volunteering behind the scenes at the food bank. The work they had been doing suddenly came to an end, and now I am left with the unsettling feeling that we can longer rest in the easy and comfortable fact that we were “doing our part.”
It should be simple, the Corporal Acts of Mercy. I don’t know why it feels so complicated.
The other night I stopped to give a pair of gloves to a poor woman sitting on the side of the road in the cold rain. After hearing that my aunt used to do the same, I’ve started to keep a few pairs in the van for people on the street. I drove away feeling so helpless and dissatisfied with myself. A pair of gloves, really?
But the woman smiled at me, and truly seemed grateful for something so small. I was told the gloves did make a difference to this woman because it addressed a real need. She was cold, and maybe they would take some of that coldness away. I don’t know. I wanted to do more for her.
I see the homeless more and more. I resent constantly being faced with panhandlers, but I also desperately want to see Christ in them and love them for it. Does that contradiction make sense?
I try to remind myself that regardless of what brought a person to the street, or how qualified they look for some good, old-fashioned manual labour, that person was once a child. And that child never dreamed of a day when they would be on the street in the rain begging for spare change or digging in the garbage for a cigarette. It takes a certain sense of loss to bring a person to that place.
And so, my plan for Advent is to try and simply remember that once the Holy Family wandered the streets without a home, or food, or warmth.
And while I cannot heal all of their wounds, I can stock up on gloves and gift cards for a cup of coffee. I can offer a moment’s warmth and some normality.
And, if I’m humble enough, maybe that pack of cigarettes will find a good home.