The English streets were cold that night, colder than they
should have been for that time of year. Mists rose up from the pavement, and the
streetlights were shrouded in a spectral fog. pulled my collar tighter against
the damp chill. It was still about six blocks to my home.
The boy surprised me — almost frightened me when he stepped out. Something about foggy weather turns one inward, and I had been lost in private thoughts.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Excuse me, sir.”
He was young, not yet twenty, shabbily dressed, and not warmly enough for this chilling cold.
“Could you spare some change?” he asked. “I’m trying to get something to eat.”
Like most people, I have become hardened to the beggars and panhandlers who wander the streets. I turn away, wave them off, sometimes even cross the street to avoid their intrusions into my life. But this boy struck me differently. He was polite to the point of being obsequious, and there was an honest pleading in his manner.
I looked at him through the mist. He returned my gaze through sad and lonely eyes.
I started to shape a response — something about how there was no reason why someone so young and seemingly intelligent should be begging on the street. But then I stopped. There were many reasons why he could be on the street, and none were mine to judge.
Hungry
A distant Gospel passage, as vague in my memory as the shapes in the fog, came floating back to me — “ was hungry and you gave me to eat.” At this moment, it seemed less like a memory than a command.
I reached into my pocket for some change. There was nothing there. A bit less cheerfully, I opened my billfold, looking for a bill or two to give him. I had only a ten-pound note — almost twenty dollars. He was watching intently. By looking for change I had given wings to his hope.
Against all my instincts and desires, I pulled out the ten and gave it to him. He looked at it with astonishment and thankfulness.
“Oh, Jeez, thank you, sir,” he said. “You didn’t need to —”
I waved him off. “You don’t need to thank me,” I said. “Just pass it on when you get a chance.” But the young man persisted. “No,” he said. “I need to thank you. You have to let me thank you. It’s all I have to give you in return.”
His words took me aback. He was close to tears with appreciation. “You’re right,” I said. “I appreciate your thanking me. It makes me feel like I’ve done something important.”
“You have,” he said. Then he turned and ran off into the mist.
He had touched me deeply, but I thought little more about him. The cold was quickly overtaking me, and I turned my mind again toward home.
Waiting
It wasn’t until months later, after I had returned to America, that he came back into my thoughts. I was delivering a book to a friend who is seldom able to leave her house. Her body is failing, but her mind is sharp. She is always anxious for visitors, and always anxious to engage in conversation.
It was a busy morning, filled with many stops and responsibilities. I had little time to spend with my friend, though I knew that my visit was going to be the centerpiece of her day. I arrived at her door, committed to making a quick and gracious exit.
She answered my knock almost instantly, as if she had been waiting, and gestured me warmly to the floral couch that sat against the far wall of her living room. I brought out the book and began to guide the conversation gently toward what I hoped would be a quick conclusion.
But she was having none of it. How was the family? Had the driving been bad? What did I think of the story she had seen on the news the previous day?
I gave short answers — polite, but without opening doors into other subjects she might be likely to pursue. After what seemed like a respectful time, I readied myself to leave. “Oh, just a minute,” she said, and went off into her kitchen.
I pulled my chore list from my pocket and began shaping my route for the rest of the day. Already I was behind schedule. Soon she returned with a plate of cookies, all arranged in a circle, each lying partially on top of the one next to it. In the center were two small chocolates.
“I made them this morning,” she said. “It’s a recipe I found in a magazine. Would you like some coffee or some milk?”
It was at that moment that the young man floated back to me out of the distant English mist. “I need to thank you. You have to let me thank you. It’s all I have to give.”
“Unless you’re in a hurry,” my friend said. She had seen my restlessness, and there was just a hint of sadness in her voice. I settled back in my chair and shoved the list deep into my pocket.
“No hurry,” I said. “I was just getting comfortable. And yes, a cup of coffee would be great.”
Excerpted from The Hidden Beauty of Everyday Life © New World Library, 2006. (Available through Faith At Work)
Kent Nerburn holds a PhD in religion and art, is the author of many books, and lives in Bemidji MN with his wife, Louise and their son, Nik. His website is www.kentnerburn.com.