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Post-Traumatic Church Syndrome

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Truth in the Grocery Aisle

Truth in the Grocery Aisle

Last updated on: August 18, 2014 at 11:47 am by Reba Riley

Truth in the Grocery Aisle 2014-08-18T11:47:09-04:00 Reba Riley

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I don’t give money to people on the street.

On a good day, I give coffee, pizza, directions to the Urban Monk’s Mission (a place my husband and I support). I offer a sandwich, a coat, kind words, or—at the very least—a smile.

On a bad day, when I’m rushing, worried, sick, impatient or just plain in a nasty mood—I avert my gaze and keep right on walking.

I am not proud of this, but it’s true.

Maybe I’ve become insensitive from years of downtown living. Maybe I’m just a mean person who likes to masquerade as a kind person. Maybe it’s the other way around. More than likely, it’s both at the same time.

Last Thursday was a bad day. I’d been up before the sun, worked for nine hours, driven for four more. On the way home I’d realized there was no food for dinner, so I stopped at the closest grocery—a place most of my neighbors avoid because the parking lot is full of taxi cabs, loiterers, and a disproportionate number of people under the influence. I can always count on witnessing at least one loud, verbal altercation over produce or cheating boyfriends (sometimes both at the same time).

Fumbling with my purse in the car, a loud knock on the driver’s window startled me. Now, unless someone is trying to politely inform me that either A) I have dropped my winning lotto ticket or B) My car is on fire, I do not appreciate anyone knocking on my window, ever.

Annoyed, I looked up expecting to see the usual suspect: a guy with a sob story that would break your heart if he hadn’t told you a different one last week. And the week before that.

But it wasn’t that guy. It was a short lady with one long, graying braid over her shoulder. She wore a stained shirt and ill-fitting pants. Giving an embarassed wave, she stepped back a few paces as though she could sense the personal space violation.

I opened the car door, but just a crack.

“Sorry to startle you,” she apologized, her shy smile revealing a few missing teeth. “I…” she appeared to struggle internally with the statement. “I need gas money.”

I wish I could tell you her plea touched my heart, but it didn’t because I didn’t really see her. I saw an annoyance– another few minutes between me, my dinner, and my bed.

I dug for change–not because I wanted to give, mind you, but because I wanted her out of my way.

“I don’t carry cash,” I said, reluctantly handing her the quarters I hoard for meters (with the very uncharitable thought that this lady was probably going to cost me a parking ticket in the near future).

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” I replied, conscience prickling with guilt I quickly shoved aside.

A few minutes later, I’d forgotten the incident. Intent on my late dinner mission, high heels clipping down the grocery aisle, I almost didn’t stop when I heard, “Miss? Miss?” behind me.

I turned. It was the woman from the lot.

“I followed you in,” she said, shifting from foot to foot. “I wanted to repay you for your kindness.” She pulled food stamps from her pocket. “Can I buy you a loaf of bread?”

I stared into her face and saw my own self-absorption. I’d spent an awful lot of time that day talking and writing about loving strangers, and precious little actually loving.

Love doesn’t always equal money, but love does always equal seeing the person in front of you. In that moment I saw this woman—Joan, as I later discovered–and knew the loving thing to do.

I dug through my wallet, looking for what I’d seen earlier but ignored. “This is a grocery card,” I said, offering it to her. “I think there is around twenty dollars on it.”

For a moment I was afraid she was going to pass out. She began to cry. “Thank you. Thank you. THANK YOU!” she threw her arms around me.

“I can’t repay you,” she said into my shoulder.

I hugged her back. She smelled of grease and smoke and truth.

“You already did,” I replied.

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