by Bo Armstrong

The newspaper article is concise and well written. Phrases like “working poor” and “less fortunate" are scattered prominently throughout the text. It elicits the desired response. The next day you telephone the Department of Human Services and patiently listen to a social worker provide a long explanation. It is unnecessary. You need no justification, after all it is Christmastime. Cut to the chase.

Finally you get the only information you really want to hear. “What do they need?” you ask. That is what you can bring to the task: efficiency. Make a list, items, quantities and cost. The social worker is hesitant, reluctant to ask for too much, to exceed the reasonable limits of charity. Canned goods, baby clothes, blankets, winter coats, shoes. No cash. Thank you.

You gather many of the items from your own largess, it gives you a measure of satisfaction, reassurance about your sincerity. The rest you purchase and gather into several large boxes. You travel across town to an area you have only heard about. It is only then that you begin to feel uncomfortable.

The weather is cold, damp and depressing, signs of poverty rush past your car window like scenes from a bad movie. The streets are poorly marked, but you eventually reach your destination: the most rundown dwelling in the area. “This will make you feel better,” you say out loud to help summon the courage to finish the job. You grab two boxes and march to the front door.

The young woman who opens the door is slender and attractive. You immediately blurt out the name of her social worker to explain your presence. The woman smiles and invites you in. You place the boxes on a flimsy table and go back for more.

On the third trip you carry the foodstuffs into the kitchen. “Almost finished,” you think to yourself. As you are walking toward the front door you notice the baby bed near the coal furnace. You step over to see the tiny infant. It makes you sad. Innocence amid the ugliness. For a moment you think of baby Jesus but you cut the thought short, it is time to leave.

The woman thanks you again; you believe she is grateful. You fumble for something to say and for a moment look at her instead of past her. The sweater she wears is old and too large, and the dress is faded. You avoid eye contact and look at the floor as you say goodbye. You see her feet wrapped in white athletic socks, see her toes wiggle against synthetic rubber sandals.

That is when it hits you. You smile and walk out the door but the knot in your throat will not go away. The cold air makes your eyes feel hot. You give one last glance and wave as you start your car. You drive down the empty street. By the time you turn on to the main boulevard, you are sobbing but continue to drive. It finally hits you, what the social worker had really said.

“She has no shoes.” Suddenly you scream out load, “My God, she has NO SHOES!”

You can still remember that day but not with a sense of shame or guilt. What remains are the lessons you learned.

Compassion involves risk. You run the risk of seeing another as a person rather than an object. You are in danger of seeing yourself reflected in that person, more alike than different. Your carefully constructed defenses can break down, revealing your own humanity, in all its beauty and brokenness.

You soon realize that you cry as much for yourself as for another.

Bo Armstrong is a communicant at St. Francis of Assisi, Ooltewah.