Sunday

Sunday morning is special. For years I wake up, go to the beach, making sure I get there early because the meters are free on Sunday. My first stop was at Costco, where I grumbled about the price of gas that had risen about a full dollar since my last trip, and blamed the increase on our politicians.

After parking and getting out of the car, I began walking to my favorite coffee shop. Next to my favorite shop is a Starbucks, which I never go to out of loyalty to the local place.

Then I saw him.

A man in a wheelchair, parked on the sidewalk in front of the Starbucks. I stopped to see if I had any cash in my wallet to give him as I walked by — and then the unexpected occurred. He stood up. His pants fell. And right there — in front of the coffee shop, in front of the morning foot traffic, in front of me — he crouched and defecated on the sidewalk.

I kept walking.

There were two women staring at the scene, and as I crossed the street I looked up and saw a campaign poster for my local councilperson on the wall of the shop. My inner critic began to shame me for not doing anything, calling me out for not being Christlike as I headed in to read my Bible. I recognized the trap. I purchased my coffee and pastry and headed up to my table. In the area where I was going to write, a man was on the phone talking with a friend about an upcoming camping trip, followed by a visit to a casino. Here was someone sitting in abundance, and right outside was suffering. There was the tension.

I felt guilty for my abundance and sad for the man outside — and I realized that guilt and grief are not the same thing. Guilt says you are the problem. Grief says this should not be. One turns inward and goes nowhere. The other turns outward and, if you let it, it moves you. I didn’t help him in the moment. But I haven’t stopped thinking about him either. His dignity deserved better than that sidewalk. And the fact that I am still carrying him — in my chest, in this post, in this conversation with you — tells me the compassion was real, even when my feet kept moving.

What I do know is this: there are people in our society working every day to help individuals like the man I saw this morning. And I know that I do good work daily to help prevent these situations from occurring in the first place. When we encounter moments like this one, they should not paralyze us with shame — they should motivate us to do good wherever we are. Shame, mocking, and laughing will never change his situation. But choosing to help, in whatever way we can, moves the needle.

After my walk along the pier, I returned to my car. In the spot where the man in the wheelchair had been, two city workers now stood, drinking Starbucks. I assumed they had cleaned up, and I hoped the man had received some help. Further down the street was another man in a wheelchair. He was eating french fries, and when I passed by he stuttered and asked for ice water — not cash. I didn’t have cash, so I walked into the nearest restaurant, purchased a bottle of water, and brought it back to him.

It reminded me of the classic story of the child on the beach, tossing starfish back into the ocean one at a time. Someone walks by and says, “There are thousands of them — what difference can you possibly make?” The child picks up another one, throws it in, and says, “Made a difference to that one.”

A bottle of water. That was my starfish this morning. We may not be able to fix everything — but each day gives us a chance to do good, right where we are. And something, multiplied across enough people who refuse to look away, changes the world.

What small act of kindness are you ready to offer the next time an opportunity finds you?