Journal, Day 1, $2.01wasted

This morning I stopped at my neighborhood store to by my usual cup of coffee. As I was getting out of the car, I noticed a homeless man stooped near the phone booth. He saw that I was limping and made some kind of comment and I thought to myself, "I don't even feel like getting into it with him about why I'm limping or how I hurt my foot." I said nothing to him and proceeded into the store and bought some hazelnut coffee...$1.19, one black and mild(I really am trying to quit)....$.89. It all came to a total of $2.01. Since this is my daily routine, I had already counted out the exact change for the cashier. I gave it to him and left before he could ring me up. Once outside, I made eye contact with the man squatting by the phone. He looked to be in his late forties, but the weather of life had beaten him down. He was dirty and his hands were rough and ashen. I never judge people when I see them living on the street because I have been homeless before. I was blessed not to be living under a bridge or sleeping on a park bench. But I was homeless. In a flash, I remembered being 8 months pregnant and walking the street at 1:00am because I had no where to go. I was cold. I was penniless and I felt like the weight of the world was not only in my belly, but resting on my shoulders. It was a chilly February night in our nations capital and I had riden the bus as long as I could. I sat down near a Metro stop and a car pulled up. There was a young man inside who asked me if I needed a ride. I had him take me to a hospital because I knew that I could buy some time in the ER and perhaps a meal before they realized there was nothing wrong with me. In retrospect, I am thankful to God for Chuck (the guy who picked me up). He could have been anyone. A psychopathic killer even. But instead, on that chilly night he became my angel in disguise. As I looked at my brother stooped by the telephone, I was reminded of how far I have come from that cold February night and how right when I needed someone to offer me a helping hand, it came from no where. "Can I get $.50c my sister?" The moment he asked me I felt selfish for having spent $2.01 on the caffiene that isn't good for me and nicotine that, if I don't quit soon, will surely kill me. I gave him the fifty cents willingly and deliberately touched his hands as the change passed from mine to his. I wanted him to feel me. To know that I didn't judge him. That I saw past the dirt and the smell to the humaness of him. I needed him to know in the moment of passing that I could relate to him in a way that even he couldn't understand. If he had caught me 13 or so years ago, I wouldn't have had the change to give him and we probably would have been sharing a bench together, hungry, broke, and cold. As I rode away from him to my job that I now can't think of complaining about, I couldn't do anything but thank God for a memory, a flashback of where I have been. I thanked him for Chuck. And I thanked him for my $2.01 lesson in humility.
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