Last Sunday morning while in Denver stopped at a gas station on Colfax Avenue, a homeless guy walked up to me while I was standing next to my car. He was seeking whatever it was that I could spare. At least I think that was what he was seeking. The truth is that I was too busy immersed in my own world to bother listening to what he was saying. I assumed he wanted some money, but while he was talking, I was simultaneously on the phone talking to my kid, who was also in Denver and trying to give me directions to the place he was nearby to pick him up.
I didn't think much about the homeless guy until a few hours later while in the car making the drive home. At the time the guy tried to communicate with me, I was more worried about the directions and the prospect of driving around downtown Denver at roughly the same time thousands of Broncos fans were flooding into the area for the football game about to be played a few blocks over. But now, in my car on the interstate, among the peace and quiet and with hours of free time ahead of me with nothing to do but think, I finally did turn my attention back to the homeless guy, and I got pretty pissed at myself.
Why did I even assume he was homeless in the first place? The bad home-done tattoos sketched all over his body (including his face and forehead), his tattered clothes and shoes, the lack of teeth, the disheveled hair, and his weathered, scarred skin pretty much gave it away. But I didn't bother asking his plight. I have a feeling we were roughly the same age, though he looked many years older, rougher, and worse for wear. But I don't know because I didn't ask.
The thing is that I could have done better than make assumptions. I could have found out for sure by actually stopping long enough and giving him more than money. I could have given him my courtesy. Instead, I handed him the few dollars that were in my pocket and went right back to talking on the phone. Even when he tried to thank me, profusely so, I didn't bother to take even five seconds to say much more than "you're welcome." What a waste.
What would have it cost me to have asked a few questions or just listen? A few minutes of my time? So what. Would have letting the guy look me in the eye and give thanks offset those lost minutes? Undeniably so.
The fact that I didn't do as much sucks. It sucks for me. Sucks for the lost opportunity to do more than fork over some bucks and instead actually engage. Sucks for the lost experience of otherwise recognizing what was brought before me, on a Sunday morning no less, and participating in some fellowship with a fellow human being down on his luck. Fellowship, perhaps one of the most worthwhile reasons to exist. I blew it.
In the end, I'm guessing the guy is far more satisfied with having gotten the money than with my would-be conversation, but I'm not. I'll gladly hand over the dollars again, but next time I'm getting something more out the exchange than the realization that once again I failed to recognize the importance of a moment as that moment was playing out.
I didn't think much about the homeless guy until a few hours later while in the car making the drive home. At the time the guy tried to communicate with me, I was more worried about the directions and the prospect of driving around downtown Denver at roughly the same time thousands of Broncos fans were flooding into the area for the football game about to be played a few blocks over. But now, in my car on the interstate, among the peace and quiet and with hours of free time ahead of me with nothing to do but think, I finally did turn my attention back to the homeless guy, and I got pretty pissed at myself.
Why did I even assume he was homeless in the first place? The bad home-done tattoos sketched all over his body (including his face and forehead), his tattered clothes and shoes, the lack of teeth, the disheveled hair, and his weathered, scarred skin pretty much gave it away. But I didn't bother asking his plight. I have a feeling we were roughly the same age, though he looked many years older, rougher, and worse for wear. But I don't know because I didn't ask.
The thing is that I could have done better than make assumptions. I could have found out for sure by actually stopping long enough and giving him more than money. I could have given him my courtesy. Instead, I handed him the few dollars that were in my pocket and went right back to talking on the phone. Even when he tried to thank me, profusely so, I didn't bother to take even five seconds to say much more than "you're welcome." What a waste.
What would have it cost me to have asked a few questions or just listen? A few minutes of my time? So what. Would have letting the guy look me in the eye and give thanks offset those lost minutes? Undeniably so.
The fact that I didn't do as much sucks. It sucks for me. Sucks for the lost opportunity to do more than fork over some bucks and instead actually engage. Sucks for the lost experience of otherwise recognizing what was brought before me, on a Sunday morning no less, and participating in some fellowship with a fellow human being down on his luck. Fellowship, perhaps one of the most worthwhile reasons to exist. I blew it.
In the end, I'm guessing the guy is far more satisfied with having gotten the money than with my would-be conversation, but I'm not. I'll gladly hand over the dollars again, but next time I'm getting something more out the exchange than the realization that once again I failed to recognize the importance of a moment as that moment was playing out.
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