I mentioned that I have been fixated on how God would have me respond to the poor people I encounter.  Alyn and I discussed this as we walked in San Francisco a couple of months ago.  We’d had dinner and then took a meandering route back to her apartment.  She has lived in the city for several years now, and has befriended most of the people who frequent the street.  We talked about homelessness and poverty in general, drug addiction and mental illness in particular.  Along the way we greeted people she knew and I admitted feeling overwhelmed by the needs I encountered on my walks in the neighborhoods I frequent.  We spoke of truly poor hurting people in various stages of willingness to accept lasting help. And of others who would prey on our good intentions.  We talked about how easy it was to look past or through them as if their need had not impact.

We kept an eye out for one woman in particular that Alyn has given clothes and spoken with daily.  Cherry Bomb, who we later met, wrapped her in a fragrant embrace and called her sister.  Remembering the tender origins of her concern for the poor, I asked my daughter “What do think we should do about all these hurting people?”  After a moment she replied, “I don’t know; so for now I just treat them like people”.

My first memory of her care for the poor was the November she was eight.  Our little family had a holiday tradition of visiting Union Square soon after Thanksgiving.  We look at the decorations, the store displays, and make our pilgrimage to FAO Schwartz.  Juxtaposed against all this happy celebration of Christmas and capitalism we encountered many people in need that also gravitated to the area. 

In the days leading up to our visit Alyn asked about the sad people and what we could do for them.  We decided to make sack lunches that we could discretely give along the way.  As Alyn made bologna sandwiches we talked about the care we would have to take because some of the people would be angry, or unable to focus.  I did not want to explain addiction and mental illness to an eight year old; but I also wanted to protect her from any negative response.

When the day arrived it was Alyn who timidly delivered most of the lunches. The homeless being as diverse as any other group, the reaction ranged from genuine gratitude, to puzzlement, to anger that the food could not be redeemed for cash. 

One angry and deluded fellow belligerently propelled his wheel chair across the flow of pedestrian traffic.  “What’s this?” he barked at the little blond who had placed a sack in his lap.

We enjoyed the shop windows and rode the glass elevator a few times.  The lunches had all been delivered and Alyn had wondered aloud if they had helped anyone.  Then there was a singular moment when Elaine spotted the man near the cable car roundabout.  From across the street we saw the angry wheel chair man.  He had eddied out of the foot traffic and was awash in a shaft of sunlight.  He sat quietly, momentarily content, eating Alyn’s lunch.