Out of the Mouths of Babes

“For he who is least among you all—he is the greatest” Luke 9:48b.

I see the old man often, weekly at least, always at the same intersection, always holding the same sign: an explanation that he is a veteran, lives in the woods, needs money, etc.—I never look long enough to read the whole thing, as I wouldn’t want to seem to be staring and certainly wouldn’t want to look as if I had a handout for him, either—and, on the other side, a smiley face and the Spanish word for “smile”. He hobbles on one crutch, holding a cup and humbly asking the drivers stopped at the light for spare change. Today was no different, except that, owing to the warming temperatures (and much to my chagrin), my windows were open.

The red light seemed to last for an eternity. I knew it was only a matter of a few seconds until my budding three-year-old reader in the backseat, who was waving happily as the man approached our car, asked me to help him read the man’s sign or started asking why he was standing in the median, why he had a crutch, what was in his cup…any number of questions I didn’t want to answer. In fact, I was doing my usual uncomfortable act of a half-nod, half-smile, and quick attempt to look away, be distracted by something else terribly important, all the while wishing the light would hurry up and turn green and wondering if I could close the windows without Luke asking why I was shutting the man out.

I always wish, when I’m in these circumstances, that I knew better what to do. So many “words of wisdom” run around in my head: don’t give him money, or he’ll just spend it on booze; give him a Rescue Mission pamphlet and pray for him; watch out for strange men if you’re a woman traveling alone; pack an extra sandwich and bottle of water to offer…I’ve never known whom to believe. If I thought about it more than just at that moment, if I really had compassion and thought of this old man—or the several other homeless people I see regularly around town—more than just in the uncomfortable moment, I might have known how to help him, how to reach out to him without jeopardizing my safety, Luke’s, or his, how to actually help relieve his burden a bit and touch his soul.

But, of course, I don’t think about him. Usually, as soon as I escape the moment, as soon as the world’s-longest-red-light turns green, I continue on with my comfortable life and forget all about the old man. But not today.

“Hi, buddy. Be good,” the old man said to Luke through the open window.

“He’s a nice man, mama!” said Luke, still waving and smiling. “He’s the greatest man I’ve ever seen.”

Thank goodness Luke was sitting behind me and couldn’t see my face; thank goodness I was wearing sunglasses that hid my eyes. Otherwise, how could I explain to Luke why his words brought tears to my eyes; what would the other drivers at the light think of my crying as I waited for the light to change? “For he who is the least among you all—he is the greatest,” (Luke 9:48b) said Jesus.

I still don’t know what to do for this old man. But I can tell you this: when that light turned green and I drove away, I didn’t forget him this time. Even as Luke, in his three-year-old-with-a-short-attention-span way, proceeded to ask me which way we were turning, what the street sign said, what the speed limit was—himself forgetting the old man even as he waved goodbye—I once again was given a fleeting glimpse of what it means to have the faith of a child, simple yet so profoundly clear, of what it ought to look like if I were to look at people as Jesus does.