Jennifer

                Her sadness stopped me.

                An instant earlier, I was ducking and weaving through the swarms of holiday shoppers on State Street, still feeling tense from the unexpected detour through those same crowds in my car when I found the entrance to the parking garage closed. I was downtown on an errand, picking up birthday dinner for my wife from one of our favorite restaurants, my mind focused upon getting the food and making my way home as quickly as possible. All of those things fell away when I saw the woman on the bench, head in her hands, radiating despair.

                State Street is lined with panhandlers. Some are mentally ill or inept, abandoned by society to fend for themselves years ago, when Governor Reagan closed many of the mental health care facilities. Some are veterans, usually with PTSD and drug or alcohol problems. Some are physically threatening or verbally abusive. You want to care, and you want to help, but who, and how? If you give them money, are you just getting them their next bottle, or their next fix? Then again, if I was living on the street and had no hope of ever having a better life, how can I say that I would not be tempted, too, to drink the days away until they finally ended? There comes a point when, lacking anything else, a bit of self-induced anesthesia seems merciful.

                The woman was clearly homeless. Next to her bench was a large, rolling case stuffed with belongings, and on it rested a sign: "Please help. God bless." Beside her, on the bench itself, however, there was a Bible with an artistic, hand-made cover. Her clothes were clean, and her hair was brushed. When she looked up, her eyes were clear despite the tears. She did not have the usual hollow look, nor did she show the more obvious signs of drug or alcohol use. Something in her eyes broke me open. I decided to take a chance. Finding a quiet eddy to one side of the crowd, I reached into my wallet, pulled out a $20 bill, and folded it into my palm.

                "Hi," I said as I walked up to her. "You look so sad. I'm sorry."

                "It hasn't been the best day," she said.

                "I'm afraid I'm in kind of a hurry." I was still thinking about my errand, and that Jo Ann was waiting for supper. "Will this help?" I handed the woman the money.

                She nodded. "Yes, it will. Thank you. Oh, now I'm crying again."

                "It's okay."

                "This is going to sound crazy," she said, "but could I trouble you for a hug? I don't get many hugs any more."

                "Okay." I have to admit, my first reaction was to tense up. How long had it been since she had bathed, or washed her clothes? I felt embarrassed by my own reaction, prayed that it didn't show, and put my arms around her.

                Her clothes smelled clean, and so did she. She hugged me for only a few moments, and then she let go and took half a step back. "Thank you," she said. "I really did need that."

                I nodded, not sure what to say. "I, I hope things work out for you."

                "Me, too."

                "Well, um, I'm supposed to pick something up. I'd better go."

                "Okay. Thank you again."

                "Good bye."

                I walked the remaining half block to the restaurant, but the woman stayed in my mind. How could I just throw $20 at her and walk away? I'd be returning to a warm home, a wife, and furry pets, to enjoy a steak dinner. Where would she be? Sitting on a bench, on the street, hoping for enough help to make it through the next day. When I paid my bill, I dug out some extra cash. I couldn't solve her problems, but I could help more than I had.

                The woman seemed a little surprised when I stopped again.

                "How long has it been since you've had a nice meal?" I asked.

                "A while."

                "Do you like Italian?"

                "I love Italian!"

                "That restaurant down there is one of our favorites, and the owner is very nice," I said. "If you'd like, well, here's enough money to buy yourself a good, hot meal there and still have some cash left over for tomorrow."

                "That is so sweet. Wow. Thank you!"

                "May I sit down with you for a minute?"

                "Sure. Wow, nobody ever wants to sit and talk. Most of the time, people won't even look at me."

                "Yeah, well, it is kind of hard. There are a lot of homeless people here, and we get jaded after a while. You seem different, though. If you don't mind me asking, how did you end up here, in this situation?"

                "I got laid off -- three times, actually. And my husband had died, and finally I just couldn't afford a place to live any more." She laughed. "It's kind of funny, I guess. I mean, my dad's pretty much rich. He owns some companies. He believes in tough love, though -- says I need to learn to make it on my own. He sent each of us kids to college, and then cut us off as soon as we'd graduated."

                "Wow," I said. "That's harsh. I mean, I have a daughter, and I totally understand about wanting her to be able to support herself. But, let her live on the street, like you're having to do? I couldn't do that. No way."

                "It is pretty extreme," she agreed. "Just before you got here, the last woman who stopped and talked to me, she was so mean! That's why I was crying. She said, 'You homeless people, all you ever want is money! You're all drunks and druggies, that's all you are. Why don't you get a job?'

                "Well," she continued, "I try to get jobs. I've worked part-time at that store there, and at some other places, but it's never enough to live on. Every time I try to get a real job, I run into the same thing: they want me to have a mailing address, and a phone number where they can reach me. I don't have either. Well, I'll have a post office box pretty soon -- I'm working on that one, anyway."

                "So," I said, thinking. "It would help you a lot if you had a phone?"

                "Yes...?" I could see her wondering what I had in mind.

                "Okay. Let's get you one."

                "Really?"

                "Yeah, really. I mean, you don't need anything fancy, do you? You just need a phone, your own number where people can reach you, right?"

                "Yes."

                "Well, let's get you a TracFone. They're not that expensive, and you don't have to worry about monthly bills or having a mailing address -- you just buy minutes as you need them, pay as you go. How about that?"

                "That would be wonderful!"

                "Let's go. I'll bet the drug store up the street has them."

                The drug store didn't have them, but Radio Shack, a couple of blocks down in the opposite direction, did.

                "What's the cheapest one they've got?" she asked. She found one for $5. "This would be just fine."

                "Maybe, but this looks like a better phone to me." I pointed to a $20 one -- not enough to break my bank, and hopefully not so much that it would embarrass her, either.

                "Oh - really? Would that be okay?"

                "I think so."

                "Oh, man! This is so exciting! I'm gonna have a phone!"

                It turned out that the phone I'd picked was on sale, and it, too, was only $5. I added the difference into what I'd already planned to spend on calling minutes.

                "This is just wonderful," she said, as the salesman unboxed the phone and set it up for her. "I can call my mom, and my sister, tell them I'm okay, wish them Merry Christmas...!"

                "You will need to watch your minutes, though," I cautioned. "They can disappear pretty quickly. We had another friend who had one of these, and you do have to keep an eye on that. You'll want to save some for your job hunting. Oh! What about the battery? How are you going to keep this charged up?"

                "Oh, there are lots of places where I can use outlets. It'll be okay. But, how do I buy more minutes? Do I need to come back here to get them?"

                "No," the salesman said. "You can get them anywhere."

                "I see the cards in all of the grocery stores," I said, "and most drug stores, too. You should be able to get them pretty easily."

                She glowed as we walked back up the street to her bench. "This could change everything," she said.

                "I hope it does."

                "I can't believe you did this for me. Thank you -- thank you! But, why?"

                "It just felt right," I said. "Besides, where you are right now -- that could easily have been my wife, or me. Both of us have lived on that ragged edge. We were lucky enough to have families who helped us out, but that's all that saved us."

                For me, that time was back in 1988. In the course of three months, I suddenly found myself divorced, laid off, and needing gall bladder surgery. I used to joke that I went under the knife in Indiana and woke up in California, but that was not very far from the actual truth. I was living on borrowed money, trying desperately to find a job while struggling to support myself, an ex-wife, and a child. People like to think they're safe, but the truth is that most of us, even if we have good jobs, are only a few paychecks away from living on the street. I was only unemployed for six weeks, but that was enough to drive me into bankruptcy. Even with the job, there were times, in the early days, when I had to borrow money from friends just to buy gasoline to make it to work and back.

                "Can I put you in my phone?" she asked. "You can be my first friend in my phone list."

                "I'd like that. Better yet, I'll text you, and then you can have my number and add me that way. What's your name?"

                "Jennifer."

                "I'm Daryl. Here comes that text."

                I did still come home to a warm, reasonably safe shelter, with my own bed and spouse and pets, and I did have that steak dinner. Maybe I fooled myself into thinking that I actually helped someone, but I hope not. I hope I did a little more than just toss money at a beggar and run away. And maybe, just maybe, reading this might encourage someone else to do a little more, too. I hope so.

                Jennifer texted me this morning. "Thank you again for the phone," she said. "I'm getting ready for church right now. I'll text you again later."

(Note: "Jennifer" is not her real name. I've changed it to protect her identity.)