A Beggar’s Christmas

After retiring to Florida some years ago, we discovered Christmas here is as jolly as any we enjoyed up north, enveloped by snow.  And it’s especially joyous when our grandchildren come to visit.

One evening during our Christmas gathering, we went out to dinner—my wife, our daughter and her husband, and three of our grandchildren.  We’d spent the afternoon shopping at a large, festive mall, and were looking forward to enjoying the cheer of the season and the pleasure of each other’s company.

During dinner, we talked of our plans for the holiday.  Unlike the north, where tobogganing, skating, snowball fights, and warm fires were the order of the day, in Florida, the beach, the pool, and the golf course were all on the agenda.  We were looking forward to an old-fashioned holiday with lots of singing, plenty of fresh air and exercise, good food, and family to enjoy the tree with.

By the time we finished dinner, sharing our happy plans, we were feeling very fine—warm, full, comfortable.  We left the restaurant, chatting amiably, and began the walk back to the parking lot.  At the intersection, with its flashing green and red traffic lights adding to the merry Christmas air, we were accosted by a stranger.  He meant us no harm, but his sudden approach startled us. 

Tall and thin, face jutting from under a receding hairline, his beard was unkempt, his eyes red and rheumy.  He wore faded jeans, tattered and patched, and an old, blue sweatshirt with the collar turned up.  The children huddled behind their parents, afraid of such an apparition.

When he spoke to me, I could hardly hear him in the hum of the passing traffic.  He mumbled through that scraggly beard, through missing teeth, his words coming in disjointed phrases.  He was clutching a misspelled sign on a scrap of corrugated cardboard claiming to be a disabled veteran.

“No, sorry,” I muttered, watching for the green light allowing us to escape, and we walked away, slightly embarrassed, but relieved to leave him behind.

“Who was that guy, Daddy?” one of the kids asked her father.

“Did he wanna hurt us?” another chimed in.

Their parents reassured them he had meant no harm.  He was just a man asking for money.

“Is he sick, Mummy?  Will he be alright?”

None of us could really answer.

At the car, we clambered in silently, each of us lost in our thoughts.  As I drove back through the intersection, the beggar was still on the corner, huddling around himself, approaching passers-by.  He looked pathetic and utterly alone, and I hoped he didn’t see me staring at him.

Later that night, after everyone was in bed, I thought of him again, and at first, I chastised myself for not giving him something to help.  From somewhere, the scrap of a Bible verse teased a corner of my mind—Whatsoever ye do to the least of these, ye do also to me. 

But then, I rationalized that a token from me would not likely have helped.  He was obviously past the point where a solitary handout was going to make much of a difference.  He’d probably have wasted whatever we might have given him on booze or drugs, I told myself self-righteously.  At one point, I got angry that he had put me in such an uncomfortable position.

Still, underneath it all, I felt a nagging guilt.  ‘Tis the season to care for one’s fellow-creatures; yet I, so full of the Christmas spirit, had walked away.  Because I was fearful, because I hadn’t known how to respond…or because I didn’t care. 

Was it right to have ignored him and walked on?  Would it have been better to have given something, in the spirit of Christmas and with hope it would have helped?  I didn’t know.

But as I think about it now, almost a year later—sitting warm and safe at home at the onset of another Christmas season, surrounded by people who love me—I wonder where that stranger is and whether he’s okay.

And I believe I know now what I should have done.

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2023}