I have pondered, many times, the issues surrounding the handing out of money to my less fortunate brothers and sisters on the streets. I'd much rather give to an organization that I can trust works closely with these individuals, and knows how to best meet their day-to-day needs. Many times I've given the gift of food, a warm drink, or some sort of practical clothing item, so as to avoid the potential that my spare change might contribute to an ongoing drug addiction, or that the child forced to panhandle in the streets is really just aiding an alcoholic parent in their downward spiral of self-destruction. Sometimes I have had opportunities to engage in simple conversations with these people, and have found that knowing their stories enables me to better know how or what to give. But in this particular situation, I had no tangible item with me to give this woman, was reluctant to hand over cash, and a language barrier prevented us from conversing. So instead, I took her outstretched hand in mine and held it, wanting to affirm her humaneness irrespective of circumstance, while firmly shaking my head, "No, I'm sorry, I have nothing to give you."
Hours later, after purchasing some books at a secondhand bookstore, and enjoying an all-you-can-eat buffet dinner at an Indian Restaurant, we made our way back to the subway station.
She was still there. Hands outstretched in eager, expectant hope. Approaching person after person with a stubborn persistence that amazed me, for almost all of them turned her away. I had a full stomach, a wallet bursting with spare change in my backpack, and my arms were laden with the day's purchases. What was my response this time? "I have no money to give you." Lies, lies, lies! And she knew it. She gripped the sleeve of my shirt, not letting go until I had stepped onto the escalator, nearly dragging her along with me. "Me... hungry!" she called out after me, in English.
It's been a few days since this encounter, and I can't seem to shake her from my mind. This is my confession as one who seeks to love God and all humanity... that so often I am a complete and utter failure when it comes to Love. I still don't get it. I pray for opportunities to love people and then ignore the ones I receive. I find myself wanting to love people on my terms or not at all. I am disturbed to discover, within myself, that I am first and foremost a lover of me, not others. How desperately I am in need of a change of heart, and of the continued work of a Savior in my life. Of the One who saves us from ourselves, from destroying ourselves and everyone around us in our blatant selfishness. The One who demonstrates Ultimate Love in the giving up of Himself for others, even to the point of death.
She gave me something... this empty-handed woman. She gave me an unshakeable, unsettling feeling that got me re-thinking, about what I believe and how I live it. Faced with her poverty, as ironic as it may sound, I realized how truly poor and lacking I am, and how desperately I need a Saviour.
But she also gave me a new definition of Hope. Hope that has no place of retreat. Hope that holds out hands, and holds on tightly. Even when everyone around is thinking, why don't you just give up and go home? Open your eyes, woman, and realize how futile this situation is. But Hope did have her eyes open. Beautiful, childlike, almond-shaped eyes... in a weathered, wrinkled face. Hope is not naivete or wishful-thinking. Hope is well-acquainted with suffering. Hope knows the facts, inside-out, maybe better than anyone. But she still doesn't give up, she still won't go home. She grips, stubbornly, and will not let go. Her persistence is unsettling and unnerving to those who are in despair, because they cannot understand her. But without her, all are lost.
Continue to hope.
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