Dignity

Just now, 6:30 am, while waiting at a light, I saw a man in tattered clothes cross the road in front of me. His pants were baggy, they looked like they were maybe once his size, held up with a piece of rope or twine for a belt. His coat was flapping open, in the cold morning wind and rain, a hoody under that. And one of those green canvass shopping bags was clutched in his right hand, it had a few things in it, he needed a shave, and in his mouth his lips clenched a cigarette stump. Every bit of that man said “homeless” right down the trudge of his shuffling steps.

The cigarette is why I’ve brought him here to talk with us.

I didn’t despise that man, nor did I pity rise in my heart, though he deserved either of those. That cigarette said to me that he’s hanging onto his dignity with what little strength he has left.

As I ponder what I might do to reach out to such a man, rather than tear away that cigarette, I might buy him a pack of smokes.

Or maybe I’d just go walk nearby where he is. In some guise or other to fool him into believing that I too belonged there. And wait for an opportunity to see if there’s a way out for him. I could pray in that waiting time, that he’d reach out to me in some way.

How would you tangibly love such a man?

Or maybe I’d do some top secret reconnaissance and leave some supplies where he could find them… dignity intact…

I just don’t know rn