I passed a homeless man two weeks ago and gave him nothing, and I’ve carried him with me ever since. 

I was lost in downtown Oklahoma City, late for my daughter’s choir concert, when I saw an elderly, white-haired man digging through a garbage can.  His wrinkled hands shook terribly as he pulled out a clear cup of melted strawberry yogurt and held it up to the sun.  Pretty fresh, a keeper: he put it carefully on top of his duffel.  He pulled out a McDonald’s bag, looked at a half-eaten cheeseburger wadded in its wrapper, and placed it by the yogurt.  All this I could see from a distance, and I fumbled in my purse for my only money, a twenty, ready to hand it to him as I passed.  A woman walking ahead of me beat me to the donation, handed him a five, which he snatched without looking at her and stuffed into his pocket.  And then he resumed digging through the trash for food. 

Now my mind began a debate: should I give him my twenty?  Money was obviously not going to stop him from eating leftovers from the garbage, which meant it would be used for something else – a place to sleep, maybe?  Or beer?  Or drugs?  The best thing, obviously, would be to buy him food, but we were under a freeway, no fast food places near, no food carts.  I know from my son that twenty dollars will finance a high-volume binge – marijuana or benzos or heroine or crack.  Would my twenty buy the overdose that killed him?             

My phone buzzed with two texts from my waiting daughter:  Mom, where r u?  Mom, we’re starting.  I looked down the street at the convention center, straight ahead.  I pulled off my heels and ran barefoot past the homeless man, looking the other way.  I told myself, The convention center will have a deli; I will buy a sandwich and bring it to him when the choir concert is over.  But of course, when I looked for the man again, he was gone.        

His image stayed with me.  I can’t really say why; perhaps superstition.  I don’t really believe that life’s gifts and struggles are handed out on a merit system, but even still, failing to help someone so obviously hungry felt shameful, deserving of punishment.   

Maybe I suffer from good old Catholic guilt.  A lifetime ago, a Sunday school teacher had us memorize a verse from Matthew:  “Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty… or sick or in prison, and did not help you?”   

He will reply:  “I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.”   

When I denied this homeless man, did I also deny God? 

Or maybe I’m just projecting, and deep down my real worry is for my drug-addicted son: in my darkest moments, I imagine him homeless and wonder who will help him?   

Regardless, I carry the picture of the homeless man, and construct a fantasy of finding him again and setting before him a huge picnic basket, sandwiches and fruit and cheese and water and cake.  I want a do over. 

Two weeks later, surprisingly, I get a do over in Malibu.  I am in a hotel room with my husband and son, who is 134 days drug free and on a weekend pass from the sober school where he now lives.  It has been an awkward reunion by the beach.  I am awake very early, watching my son curled up on the hotel sofa, his head newly shaved on a dare, his much-loved baby face marked by acne.  I miss you, I think, and my eyes tear, but I don’t want to cry.  He believes I cry to manipulate him; untrue, but still, I try not do it in front of him. 

But tears are coming, so I quietly pull on sweat pants and tennis shoes and slip out of the hotel room to run.  This is what I do these days when I feel like grief is going to crack my chest open:  I run until breathing hurts, then I walk a while, then I run some more.  This morning I jog down the street, past the hotels and building sites, past the fortune teller’s shop, past a Hispanic man digging cans out of the garbage.  I run down the wooden pier past the early morning fishermen; then I run back to my hotel's lobby, gulp some ice water, turn around, and run the course again. 

This time, at the end of the pier, I climb the steps to the second level, breathe in the wind and the fish smell and the sun, and say, “Hi God.”  This is my favorite way to pray, in the sun, eyes closed, but I cannot pray this morning.  I can just get out those two words and the crying starts and does not subside for a long time.  I watch the sun glint on the waves, watery fireworks, until I finally, finally achieve a sort of resigned, exhausted calm. 

I have no more running in me, so I walk back down the pier and head back to the hotel.  Something blows under my feet and trips me – a plastic milk jug.  The Hispanic man I’ve run past three times, the one sorting through trash for recyclables – his garbage bag has burst open and the cans and plastic are blowing all over the sidewalk and street. 

“Oh,” I say startled, “do you need help?”  He looks up at me, points to his ear to say he doesn’t understand.  “Can I help you with this?”  He shrugs, and I squat down on the sidewalk with him, grab an extra garbage bag, and begin sorting, sticky soda cans in one bag, sour-smelling plastics in the other. We work well together.  We quickly move the garbage off the street and sidewalk, out of the way of joggers and shoppers who pass without a second glance. 

I toss in one last can and neatly tie off my sack, a double knot just like I use in my kitchen.  The man looks at me and says, “Gracias, gracias.”  

I smile, grasping for the correct Spanish, and say, “Es no problema.  Es muy facile,” and it was easy, and really nice, working side by side with him sorting the trash.   

“Una sonrisa hermosa,” he says, pointing at me, and when I look up the words later on my computer, I find they mean beautiful smile.  This despite me probably looking like a blotchy-faced, swollen-eyed wreck from all my crying. 

I’m not reading anything holy or mystical into these few minutes of sorting trash in Malibu.  But I did pinpoint something that bothered me about the Matthew verse: the phrase, “least of these.”  In my mind, that has always implied some kind of superiority – give to those less than you. 

I don’t think that’s really the intended message.  Sooner or later, we are all hungry or desperate, grieving or sick or in prison.  And we’re meant to see each other, really look and pay attention, and work together when we can.  This way, we’re giving something to God, and God is giving something to us. 

I helped a man sort trash in Malibu.  He saw me, looked at my tear-stained face and called my smile beautiful.  When I walked away, I could breathe again.  We are all the least of these.