If You Give a Man a Meal...

Sometimes there is a moment in life that, while it is happening, you know it is a test. Today just such a moment happened to me.

I made an excursion today with my kids to the local Target. Out here, that means an hour round-trip of travel, planned around naps and mealtimes. After our shopping was finished, I decided to stop by the local Panda Express to pick up some dinner to take home. Now, it's important to note that I don't eat out here very often, despite my love of "Americanized Chinese food," because we're poor. Some might ask how we can eat out at all, if we're so poor; everyone spends their money differently, so I'll leave it at that.

Anyway, as I pulled up to the takeout window, the girl leaned over and said, "Can I ask you kind of a strange question?" I said sure. "Do you like shrimp?" I nodded in the affirmative; I liked their shrimp, but I wouldn't usually order it because it costs extra. The girl then proceeds to tell me that the last guy through the line couldn't pay for his order, so there it was, all boxed up and ready to go, so I could have it for free! My guess is that once food is taken out of their serving dishes it can't go back, for sanitary reasons.

I was so excited I pulled into a parking spot to examine my prize. I immediately thought a quick, silent prayer of gratitude, as I opened the box to reveal two servings of shrimp, plus chow mein (I prefer the noodles over the fried rice). I then sent my husband a text message at work to share the good news, closing everything back up and settling it on the seat next to me.

Then the test arose. 

A man was standing on the corner, next to the fast food restaurant, holding up a cardboard sign that I only partly read. As soon as I got to the word "hungry," I pulled over, put my car in park, and rolled down the window, handing the homeless man the bag of free food. "Do you like shrimp?" I asked. He nodded, reached for the food, and said, "God bless!" A shiny metal stud poked through his scraggly beard, the rough rubber of his gloves scraping my fingers as the bag passed from my hands to his through the open window. And we went our separate ways.

I've been thinking of that moment ever since. 

It felt so good to give that man some food! Whenever I see homeless people, I wish I could do something for them, and today I did! It was no burden to me to give him the food; it was a bonus, a bit of extra that had happened to fall into my lap, and I have never been stingy with what I receive.

I really do think that moment was a true test of my character. I may SAY that I am always willing to share, wanting to give, but when faced with free food, food that I liked in particular, would I still be willing to give it up?

Sometimes I imagine having lots of money and being a "person of means," and I like to tell myself that I only want money so I can give it away, to help more people. One of my favorite television shows is "House Hunters International," although it's a love-hate relationship. I love "seeing" all the exotic locations; I hate listening to all the rich white people whining about every little detail that isn't up to their exacting tastes, for their SECOND homes. I have told the hubby that if we are ever rich enough to afford a second home, I never want to buy one. I would rather buy someone's FIRST home for them, instead. Sometimes I tell God these things, to see if He believes me and is willing to test my word. Today was that test, or at least one of them.

I think I have what's called a "bleeding heart." Whenever I make treats at home, I usually give away at least half (much to my husband's dismay). I love to share. (I'm sure when my boys are older I will have to make an entirely separate batch, and then guard it, if I want to give some away, but until then, my neighbors get lots of treats.)

I have heard that one cannot become poor by giving too much; I have also heard that giving is a luxury. I constantly do battle with those schools of thought.

My husband and I donate ten percent of all our earnings. I trust my church's ability to spend those funds wisely and help others through their specific means and experience. There are lots of charities out there that claim to do so much good, but they either turn a large profit, or the people running the charity really don't have good business sense and  money is wasted. I also believe in making a difference at the community level. I've volunteered before to help clean a local women's shelter, and I've helped put in a new landscape at a community center. But for all that, I still wish I could do more. 

Homeless people in particular make me uncomfortable. My "safety training" makes me wary of all strangers, especially vagabonds. Why are they there in the first place? Drugs? Alcohol? Mental illness? A willingness to be irresponsible blights on society? I just don't know. But I still feel guilty ignoring them.

I am a firm believer in the admonishment to teach others to fish instead of simply handing them a fish. As one that has had to receive "fish" on a number of occasions, accepting handouts is detrimental to one's self-confidence. I may have never been homeless, but I have come too close for comfort. Eviction notices are scary. If either of those experiences is remotely like what a homeless person goes through, I cannot imagine how they return to beg day after day. I pity them.

But what if the man you are feeding is putting on an act, willingly choosing not to work because it's easier on some level to feed off of others? I am more suspicious than the average person. It's something I learned from my mother, as a means of safety and self-preservation - I never did get into a car with a stranger who offered me free candy. The thought crossed my mind after I drove off, leaving that delicious free food with the unknown beggar. What if he just conned a gullible mother out of her meal?

Despite being more suspicious than average, I am still a fairly optimistic person. I believe there is good in the world, yet I am willing to accept the possibility that the man I "helped" today did not deserve it. I do not know his story. I do not know if he has a mental illness that keeps him from being able to care for himself, I do not know if that mental deficiency was of his own making. I do not know if he sells drugs to school children, I do not know if he once had children but lost them due to some tragedy and that drove him to his current state. I do know, however, that the moment I gave him the food, I passed a test, and maybe that's the only reason he was there.

Woods in the Moonlight

Growing up, my family spent a lot of time together with extended family. I lived in the same town as my dad's brother and his family, another of his brother's lived just a few towns over, and my mom's parents were in the next city over. One of my aunts, my dad's sister, lived four hours away though, so we typically planned those visits over parts of summer or other vacations. I think that is where my love of nature began - on those hot, dusty drives through the Sierra Nevada mountains.

 Whenever I hear cricket chirpings, I am immediately transported back in time, to dry, hot summer evenings in my aunt's home in Nevada. Their home didn't have central air, so those nights were spent on the floor in my cousin's room, the window open, a fan oscillating, the gossamer curtains fluttering in the occasional wind. Moonlight spilled onto my pillow, filtered only slightly by the thin fabric window treatment. The crickets would serenade for hours, the whole house asleep, extra full with all the visitors, and eventually the heat of the desert day would fade into the cool, yet heavy, night. I was probably only awake for a few minutes, but to me, those silver moments were long and mystical. 

Moonlight paints everything in strange, alien shades, much the same way snow can transform any landscape into a glittering plain of diamonds. Foreign, yet still familiar, as certain shapes are remembered and compared to their day-lit counterparts. I loved bathing in that soft, white light. When I was younger I even used to orient my pillow to be in the moonbeams for as long as possible. Since then I have heard the old lore that sleeping in moonlight will lead to lunacy. That must simply mean most of us have spent at least some time in moonglow.

With all our modern conveniences of central air and heating, pest control and air filters, I think we tend to forget what it is like to be touched by nature. Don't get me wrong, I would just as soon forget about mosquitoes. When I was younger, I could wake up out of a dead sleep if I heard one of them nearby. One time in my high school science class, we were playing with tuning forks, and one of my classmates tried to sneak up behind me with a vibrating fork. My highly attuned mosquito-deflecting reflexes were such that I nearly smacked him in the face with my flailings.

I think those reflexes stayed with me for some time after my parents got central air in our house, though. I was bit by a deer fly once while hiking, and I was so ANGRY at the pain that when I swatted at my injured calf, I managed to kill the offending fly. I also smeared blood all over, but I did feel better for having slaughtered the pest!

Yet for all that, I still love pine and redwood forests. I spent at least nine weeks of summer, over the course of my life, in the woods. Most of my time camping was as a participant in my church's "Girl's Camp," for the girls ages 12 to 18. For most of the campers, this was their first time away from home, and it was very often their first opportunity to ask questions about God and their religion. I loved the program so much I came back as some sort of leader for three years past the norm, and I attended my cousin's Nevada girl's camp for at least two summers.

The best faith-building experience I recall at one of these camps involved a day hike, a mountain stream, and a pair of glasses. I was a youth leader for some twelve-year-old girls (the groups were called "nests" and each nest had an adult counselor with one or two teenage "junior" counselors), and part of our challenge that week included a day trek into the woods. Most of us wore swimsuits for splashing in the stream where we would lunch before heading back to camp, and the icy clear water was a welcome reward for our dusty hike. Unfortunately, in her excitement, one of the girls went all the way under the water, not realizing the current was strong enough to rip the glasses right off her face. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent with us searching for the girl's glasses. She was so upset, fearing the reprimands from her parents for losing such an expensive item. But I, the expert in mountaineering from having read "My Side of the Mountain" so many times, I was determined to retrieve them. Keep in mind, however, despite the clear water, it was extremely hard to see the bottom of the rocky stream, even though it was just a couple feet deep at the most. Shapes and shadows get bent and distorted in water.

After some time of everyone searching carefully, but being tricked by the sun glinting on the moving water, most people gave up the search. It was almost time to start heading back. The idea came to me, however, to try and get a better idea of where the water would have carried her glasses. I borrowed another girl's glasses and firmly knotted them to some string, then stood where the girl thought she first stepped into the stream. I dropped the second pair of glasses into the water, keeping a tight grasp on the string, and watched as they drifted down into the current. 

I reached my hand down, following the string, feeling around for any signs of glasses. Just as the last girls were leaving to get back on the trail, I felt something. I pulled out my prize, disbelieving but triumphant! I had managed to find her glasses! (And for the record, we didn't lose the second girl's glasses.) For that young lady, who I am sure was praying just as fervently as I was, she received her very own witness that Heavenly Father cares about one of his daughters retrieving her lost glasses.

There is a stillness in nature that we tend to forget, a largeness to life that makes one feel small and insignificant, yet still incredibly grateful to be alive and have the senses necessary to experience it all. The forest isn't necessarily less noisy than the city, however, what with all the animal activity in the day, and the rustling, rooting of the nocturnal creatures. 

But if you are lucky enough to camp somewhere that has smaller hills in the area, and it is a clear night, you can hike up to some higher point and listen to a different sort of stillness. Imagine the tops of the tall, needled trees, swaying, shushing in a rhythm reminiscent of the vast ocean, all color washed out in the pale moonlight. It is a sound and a smell unlike any other (except, of course, for that of other, similar forests). 

With flashlights dimmed, the Milky Way appears in stardust strewn glory, and the vastness of the night sky reveals itself over the stretch of sleeping giants, nodding and waving their needled arms in the rocking wind. It is a beauty meant to be shared, and those I have gone camping with will not soon be forgotten.