Beloved, let us love one another

Today, I stumbled most unexpectedly upon the contradictions that are the United States.

After passing away the leisurely morning of a vacationing student, I ambled down to the local T-Mobile store, coatless and enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. Poor T-Mobile. It wants so badly to be a "real" cell phone provider but somehow, I received better reception in La Paz, Bolivia, than I do in my house and in The Duck in D.C. Go figure. Anyway, after a rather useless conversation with the rather vacant young man behind the counter, I decided to pop into a few stores to get to know this neighborhood better.

A store called "An American in Paris" showed some cute dresses in the window, so I tried to enter but the door was locked. Confused because of the "We're Open" sign, I scanned the doorway and saw a sign that said "Due to security reasons, our door is kept locked. Please knock and someone will answer." I obliged and a very nice woman let me in and quickly explained that hers is a high-end boutique and that I must not, under any circumstances, pull the clothes from the rack by the material. Instead, I must only touch the hangers.

Now, I don't pretend to be an expert in high-end boutique shopping, but I've never, ever heard of such a thing. I gave her a brief look of disbelief, but figured I should just be cooperative and browse, seeing as I wasn't going to buy anything anyway. Here's the queerest bit -- her selection, while very nice, was hardly exclusive. I mean, Nicole Miller dresses? You can buy those at Macy's. And you don't have to handle them by the hanger. Nothing that I could find in the store cost more than $450. Parents have spent that much on prom dresses for their high school daughters.

But that's not the point. I left the "high-end boutique" quickly, shaking my head at the uncalled for pretense, and then heard a woman call out to me on the street. I turned and she approached, limping and dressed rather raggedly in multiple layers and a hat pulled low. She explained that she was homeless and pregnant, that she needed me to pray to Jesus for her, and that she couldn't get into a shelter because she has no ID and doesn't have the money to get one. Then she asked if I could spare a few dollars so she could eat.

I generally don't give out money to homeless individual, out of respect for the hard work of shelters and other charitable organizations that are trying to end the cycle of homelessness. But I will occasionally offer to buy a meal. Which is what I offered this woman. We walked a block to Five Guys and I bought her a burger. We chatted for a few minutes and then I left. It was only when I was four blocks away that I realized I hadn't even asked her name.

I felt ashamed. There were a million of other things I could have done. At the very least, I could have listened -- a simple gift of compassion and selflessness and humanity. But there I was, rushing off to do more internship hunting. How classy. The American story, in many ways, is reflected in this microcosm of an afternoon, isn't it? On one side, the privileged, locked up behind secure doors, displaying their luxuries to the world around them. On the other, a woman with nothing, degraded and dehumanized, forced to ask strangers for money and food. And then there's the rest of us in the middle, enjoying the warmth of riches but faced with the rush and realities of life. How often do we choose what is easy over what is right? Okay, so that's a rather simplistic and dramatic way to explain it ... but, still, perhaps not too far from truth.

Over spring break, I'm trying to arrange a Habitat for Humanity trip to Costa Rica. I'm hoping some of the Gang of 100 will join me. We are encouraged to do "community service" in the program -- in fact, it's a requirement. But the "service" has generally just meant strolling along in the latest fundraising walk-a-thon. Call me a literalist, but community service should include actually serving someone. Not a generic body of people, but somebody. Somebody specific, somebody whose name you know, whose story you've heard. That's service. When you put that person's needs in front of your own and do it gladly. The best part of service is that everyone benefits in deeper and more meaningful ways that anyone could have imagined. So I hope I can pull together a band of misfits bound for Costa Rica and actually serve a family that needs and deserves a home. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I will be praying for that nameless woman on the street and may someone else aid her in the ways that I embarrassingly did not.