The other day as I was leaving work, about to enter the freeway, I saw a family standing on the corner, hoping for a ride. A very large man holding a large sealed cardboard box. A fairly large woman holding a sleeping child, draped in an afghan. The child looked to be five or six, judging by the length of the body compared to the woman’s stature. It struck me deeply in many ways.
I wanted to stop and give them a ride. But I didn’t.
I see my own sleeping child. In my arms, he is just as big as that other child. I carry him upstairs to put him to bed. How grateful I am that my child is safe and sound in a warm home with plenty to eat and a comfortable and safe place to rest.
How frustrated I am that the possibility that these people weren’t who they represented themselves to be would overrule my natural inclination to help my fellow man.
How I wished my husband had been with me. Then we could have given them a ride.
Were they homeless? Where were they going? Where did they come from? My office is so close to the airport, and there are regularly scheduled buses. Could they not afford bus fare? Was everything they owned sealed carefully in that box?
