There is an interstate exit in my town with a stoplight at the end and, on most days, a scruffy looking person holding a familiar cardboard sign with “Homeless” or “Hungry” scrawled across it in black magic maker.  This exit is the perfect storm for panhandlers because the road is one way, the stoplight always seems to be red, and when you are one of the first cars in line, the homeless/hungry person is less than ten feet from your window.  I hate this exit because I’m usually the first car in the line and invariably have that inner struggle that goes something like this (yes, this train of thought will be a run-on sentence because I think in run-on sentences.  Read it really fast without breathing and you’ll get the feeling of what it’s like to be in my brain.):

“Should I give my hard-earned money to this fella who is probably just going to spend it on booze or drugs and really isn’t disabled and that cane is a prop to make me feel sad and I wish I had a sandwich to give him and should I make eye contact because it’s rude if I don’t and I bet he is scamming me and is more than likely part of a big pan-handling ring with the members making more per hour than I do and my child needs new school shoes and they are so expensive and, oh heavens, I will be able to afford them because I’m so blessed and I have no idea what it is like to walk in this man’s shoes and I wish that he would take a debit card because I don’t have any change but if he took a debit card then it really would look like a scam oh crap he has a dog with him oh why don’t I have dog food in my trunk do you think it really would be dangerous to ask if he needs a ride to a shelter don’t make eye contact don’t make eye contact dammit I made eye contact….”

Today, I hit that exit with exquisite timing.  I was the first car in line and the stoplight turned bright flippin’ red just as I pulled up.  Standing almost within arms reach of me was this little, old black man, holding that dang cardboard sign that simply said, “Hungry.”  I didn’t have to worry about making eye contact because he was staring fixedly at the horizon.  I couldn’t help it – I had to stare at him because his entire aura was a gut-wrenching mix of dignity, embarrassment, and sadness. He held himself erect with shoulders squared and ignored the cane leaning against his leg.  His short, grizzled beard and the lines on his face gave support to his air of dignity, but also broke my heart to the point that I began scrambling frantically for cash.

And the light turned green and my purse was empty.  I had to drive away and as I did, I felt sick.  There was something I could have and should have done.  Everything in me screamed that this man was deserving, that he is a person, that he is worthy of my time, my eye contact, and my kindness.

As I pulled away, a police car pulled up, blue lights flashing.  After all, this man was breaking the law.  I was down the street when I realized that I couldn’t leave him by himself.  I couldn’t help him, but I could bear witness.  That is the phrase that kept going through my mind. Don’t let him be alone.  Bear witness.

I had time to think about what that meant as I sat in the parking lot across from the exit and watched.  I wondered if I was there to bear witness to a racial incident, police brutality, or brutality against the police.  None of those things felt right.  I knew if I asked the police if I could help, they would tell me to move along, they are handling it.  So I sat and watched.  I bore witness.

Two white, male police officers approached the man, gigantic in comparison to his slight frame.  I teared up as the younger of the two officers put his hand under the old man’s elbow and gently guided him to the squad car, slowing his stride in consideration of the man’s cane and limp.  All I could see was this officer was walking with him, just as I did with my grandfather before he died, just as I will do someday with my father.  My heart ached that this elderly man was being escorted by a police officer, rather than by a loving child or grandchild.  And all I could do was bear witness.

They didn’t put him in handcuffs and they frisked him quickly before putting his backpack in the backseat of the squad car and helping him in.  I understand they had to frisk him – for their own protection – and I was touched that they appeared to do so in a respectful manner.  I was bearing witness.

And as he sat in the squad car and the officers stood talking for a few minutes, occasionally speaking into the radios on their shoulders, I prayed for him, for his next meal, his next place to lay his head.  I prayed for the world to treat him with kindness and for him to reciprocate.  I prayed for the police officers, for their safety, and thanked God that they were treating this little homeless man with such respect – as if he mattered to them.   As the officers got in the car and pulled into traffic, I prayed that they were heading to a compassion center, to a place that will help this man, and that this man will want to be helped.  I suddenly realized why I was sitting in an empty parking lot across the street from a panhandler’s arrest scene.

I just looked up the definition of bear witness.  If something bears witness to a fact, it proves that it is true.   I was to bear witness that this little old man who I will never meet was THERE –  a true and real part of that web of humanity that simultaneously brings beauty to this world while fostering so much hurt that my soul is often raw.  He did not go through this moment of his life alone.  I sat in my car, across the street and a world away from this man, and I became proof of his importance in this world, I bore witness to the fact that he touched my heart and became a part of my memory.  As you read this blog, he is becoming part of yours.  He IS and he is not alone.  And with this knowledge, we have a great responsibility.

Sometimes we are given the opportunity to get our hands dirty, to dive in with force and action, and make a difference that is tangible and mighty.  Today, I didn’t do that.  Instead, I said prayers and I sent him love and I whispered that I was there, that I saw, that I acknowledged that he is important.  I saw him as someone’s grandfather, as a real person, as and elderly man who has probably seen more of the dark side of this world than I will ever know.

I like to think that he felt my prayers and my presence, that he didn’t feel alone in the back seat of that squad car.  I will never know if that half an hour out of my life made the slightest bit of difference to him or to anyone else in this world. But it made a difference to me and I am grateful that I was the first car in line at that dang stoplight.  I didn’t change the world, but I bore witness.  And now you have, too.

Go. Make a change in the world.  Do big things.  But when you can’t, just stop, pray, and bear witness.  If enough of us do that, if enough of us bear witness that people are human and should be treated with kindness, then we are one tiny step closer to making it true.