A Season for Everything

I ran to the store this evening, just a quick in and out for a few things. Out in front was a man ringing a bell beside a familiar red kettle. I’ll catch him on the way out, I thought. Inside, I walked up and down the aisles doing my shopping, tossing several impulse items into the cart along with the needed things…..really “important” items, like candy canes for the Christmas tree and cranberry flavored ginger ale. I got in line at the register, placed my items on the belt, watched the cashier ring up each item and drop it into a bag, pulled out my handy little bank card and gave it a swipe. Would I like cash back? Umm…yeah, Hubby’s working tomorrow, he’ll want a couple of dollars for lunch. $10 should do it. Thank you, have a nice night. Out the door and….oh crap! The red kettle. I forgot about that. My change is in my purse and my hands are full. I dropped something in last time I was here. I can’t be expected to drop something in every single time I see one of these kettles. Have a nice evening the man with the bell calls after my fleeing figure. Same to you, I mumble as I scurry even faster toward the car.

Guilt.

Guilt.

Guilt.

I unload the groceries into the trunk and push the cart to the cart return, which is right across from the entrance and bell-ringing man with the red kettle. Crud. I can’t walk away. I hoist my purse onto the rail of the cart return and dig around in the bottom until I have a whole handful of quarters which I take over and drop in the kettle. Hello again and thank you so much says the man. I feel like poo accepting his thanks, knowing I’m doing this to ease my guilt not because I’m such a nice person.

Then I remember something. Can I ask you a strange question, I ask the man. Sure, he says. So, I tell him that I have a pair of virtually brand new men’s Nikes, size 10, in my trunk. My husband bought them, I say, and only wore them 2 or 3 times because they hurt his foot. Can I give them to you, I ask, and can you find someone who can use them? Someone other than me?, he asks. He says if I don’t want him to have them he will give them to the Salvation Army and they will find someone. I tell him that if he can use them he is welcome to them. He tells me that he wears a size 10 and was just thinking he needed a new pair of sneakers. Hold on, I tell him and rush back to the car to retrieve the shoes.

Walking back toward the man, shoes in hand, I notice for the first time as he moves around that his left side appears to be crippled. He walks with a severe limp. As I hold out the shoes, his gnarled hand reached out to stroke them. He proceeds to tell me how his mother buys most of his clothes at the thrift store and what a wonderful thing it is to get an early Christmas gift. His gratitude is so humbling and besides “thank you” his parting words are, “I’m glad you asked. There’s no such thing as a stupid question. So many people miss out on doing good because they don’t ask if they can help.” Wise words.

Go ask some “stupid” questions. I plan to make a habit of it.