Exiting the parking garage, I looked up and around trying to get my bearings. I had driven downtown for a one-day conference, but I don’t come to the city very often anymore. As I determined which way to go, a young man with scruffy blond hair in dark gray coveralls approached me.

“Could you give me money for breakfast?” he asked. I glanced around me to be sure we weren’t alone. We were. But as I scanned, I noticed a Steak ‘n Shake on the corner.

“No, but I’ll go with you and buy you breakfast, if you want,” I said, pointing toward the restaurant. “Over there at Steak ‘n Shake.”He hesitated for a few seconds, then said okay. He was hungry.

“I can’t stay and eat with you, but I’ll pay, and you can stay and eat,” I explained. Would he really have expected me to stay? Would I have really considered it were I not rushing off to a meeting?

“How are you this morning?” I asked as we walked along the street together. He was careful not to keep pace with me, holding back just a step or two.

“I slept on concrete all night,” he said, stretching a little. “Sleeping on concrete is no good. At least I was warm, though.”

“I’m sorry you had to sleep on concrete,” I said, resisting the urge to ask where he had slept. I tried to remember if I had ever spent a night on concrete, whether I had ever woken up wondering if I would eat that morning.
Diner stools

I relaxed a little when we walked into the restaurant. The familiar sounds of food service and casual conversation offered a sense of protection the deserted street had withheld. Safer now, my mind turned toward appearances. What would people think seeing me walk in here with this man?

“I’ll be right with you,” a waitress at the back of the restaurant called out. Over the next ten minutes, she repeated the phrase with apologies. She was busy delivering freshly made food to other patrons. And I sensed she recognized the man I was with.

“What’s your first name?” I asked while we waited at the counter. His full name seemed like an invasion of privacy.

“John,” he said, “but I go by Mike.”

That’s weird, I thought. Mental illness? Multiple personalities?

“It’s my middle name,” he corrected, reading my mind.

“Oh. My name is Charity,” I offered, extending my hand.

“Charity,” he repeated, and we both understood the irony.


I used to be more charitable, I wanted to tell Mike. I used to give people money for gas and food all the time. But something had changed. Stories of muggings and drug abuse and panhandling schemes filled the newspapers and were retold in personal conversations. Fear, cynicism, even pride, had closed in. And the thought of being taken advantage of or even hurt seemed worse than a man going hungry. If that’s what was really happening here.

“I have an apple,” I said, rifling through my purse for the fruit. “You could have it for later.”
“I don’t want to take your food; what will you eat?”

“It was just a snack,” I replied. “I can buy something else later.” I considered his value system that would allow him to take my money but not my food. Strangely, it made sense to me.

“Okay,” he said, and I handed it to him.
Eventually, the waitress came, Mike placed his order, and I paid with cash.

“Thank you,” he said, as I nervously stuffed my wallet back into my purse. Having my money and credit cards and ID exposed while the waitress counted the change reminded me that this was a stranger I was standing next to.

“You’re welcome,” I replied, putting on my gloves. “And God bless you.”
As I walked out to the sidewalk and waited for the crossing light to change, I heard someone speak. The voice didn’t seem loud enough to be directed at me, but I understood the words as, “where is my friend?” I turned in time to see another man in coveralls walking into Steak ‘n Shake.

Wonder if they’re together? I thought, barely resisting the urge to feel taken advantage of. The whole exchange cost me 10 minutes, a little less than $7, and an apple. I decided I could afford to let that go, regardless of motives.


Then, maybe I should have bought more? I thought. A hamburger, Coke, and apple split between two men would barely stave off the hunger. Maybe I should go back?
Instead, I looked at the time, pulled my jacket a little tighter and my purse a little closer, and hurried down the sidewalk toward my meeting.


Charity Singleton Craig / Posts / Blog
Charity Singleton Craig is a freelance writer and editor, bringing words to life through essays, stories, and books. She is the coauthor of On Being a Writer (T.S. Poetry Press, October 2014). She is regularly published at various venues, including The Curator, where she is a staff writer; The High Calling, where she is a content and copy editor; and TweetSpeak Poetry, where she is a contributing writer. She lives with her husband and three step-sons in central Indiana. You can find her online at charitysingletoncraig.com, on Twitter @charityscraig, and on Facebook.
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    Lindsey Smallwood

    Charity, thanks for reminding us to take time to notice. It’s so easy to pass by and ignore. But just because we can’t help everyone doesn’t mean we can’t help anyone. I love this story and that it ends with questions because these encounters always do.

    June 15th, 2015 21:08
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    Caryn Jenkins Christensen

    I love your honesty Charity. It is a scary thing in today’s world to give to strangers ~ especially men, and especially when we are “alone”. I too have grown leery over the years and become more self-protective. Before cell phones, my girls used to witness me stopping by the side of the road to help a woman whose car was broken down, give food (never money) to those who were in need, always reminding them that the Holy Spirit is the best guide as to when to stop and help, and…when not to. Just a few weeks ago, I was driving home from work and I witnessed a city bus pass a (black) man who was running to the bus stop. I have *never* given a man a ride before, but I felt the strangest peace, and decided to pull over and speak to him through my window which I had rolled down a few inches. Again, I felt complete peace in speaking with him, and ended up giving him a ride to the main bus station. Turns out he was a Christian (a very joyful Christian) who took the bus everyday more than 45 miles to visit his son, who was in the hospital with a terminal illness. Like you, I thought about taking him the whole way, but decided on just the few miles. I thought about it later and realize that God had me meet his immediate need. And that’s all He had asked of me.
    Thank you for sharing this ~ and not tying it up in a nice neat bow. 🙂

    June 18th, 2015 17:29
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    Beautifully told, Charity. And I so get this. It’s a tough call. We supposedly have a system in this town where you can donate at retail establishments to a homeless-hungry fund, but even that doesn’t seem to help much. It’s in place because of the scams that are up and running on every major intersection and freeway offramp. It’s tough to know what is best, it really is. I will usually give to someone who approaches me directly and tells a story, even if it sounds suspicious. And I want to buy vouchers for fast food places and keep them with me. But do I remember to do that? No, I do not. Sigh.

    June 19th, 2015 23:05

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