As a California tourist unaccustomed to single digits, the bitter cold of that
December day in Washington, D.C., was dampening my holiday mood.
Accounting for the windchill factor, the temperature was below zero.
When I ducked into Union Station, I hoped only to get warm.
What I got was a lesson in the real meaning of the season – from a homeless
person.

Warmth was slowly being restored to my hands and feet as I settled onto one
of the public benches with a gleaming cup of coffee.
Now I was ready to relax and do some serious people-watching.
I noticed a homeless man seated nearby and several tables of diners spilling
out into the great hall from the upscale America Restaurant.
Heavenly aromas from gourmet treats were tempting me to consider an early
dinner.
From the longing look in my neighbor’s eye it was obvious that he, too, had
not failed to notice the banquet taking place around us.
I wondered how long it had been since he had eaten anything.
Expecting he would approach me for a handout, I welcomed such a plea on
his part.
He never did.
The more I took in this scene, the crueler his plight seemed.
My head and heart were battling it out: the former telling me to mind my own
business, and the latter urging me to make an immediate trip to the food court
on his behalf.

While this internal debate was raging, a well-dressed young couple suddenly
approached.
“Excuse me, sir,” began the husband.
“My wife and I just finished eating and our appetite wasn’t as big as we thought.
We hate to waste good food.
Can you help us out and put this to good use " ?
The kind stranger handed a large styrofoam container overflowing with goodies.
“God bless you both.
Merry Christmas,” came the grateful reply.
Feeling good about what I had seen, but dismayed by my own lack of action,
I observed my neighbor’s response to his sudden good fortune.
First he scrutinized his newfound bounty, arranging the soup crackers, inspecting
the club sandwich and stirring the salad dressing.
Then he slowly lifted the lid off the soup, inhaling the aroma and cupping his hands
around the steaming bowl. It was obvious that he was going to prolong the enjoyment
of this miracle meal.
Finally, he appeared ready for that long-dreamed-of first taste.
Meticulously unwrapping the plastic spoon, he filled it to overflowing, lifted it towards
his mouth and — with a suddenness that stunned me – stopped dead in his tracks.

The reason for this unexpected behavior soon became clear.
Entering the hall and shuffling in our direction was a new arrival.
In his seventies (or so he appeared), hatless and gloveless, he was clad in lightweight
pants, a threadbare jacket and open shoes.
His hands were raw and his face had a bluish tint.
I wasn’t alone in gasping aloud at this sad sight, but my neighbor was the only one
doing anything about it. Quickly pulling aside his treasure, he leaped up and guided
the elderly man to an adjacent seat.
He took the old man’s hands and rubbed them in his own.
He tenderly draped his down jacket over the older man’s shoulders.
Finally, he spoke. “Pop, my name’s Jack, and one of God’s angels brought me this
meal.
I just finished eating, and I hate to waste good food.
" Can you help me out " ?
Placing the steaming cup of soup in the stranger’s hands, he didn’t wait for an
answer.
But he got one. “Sure, Son, but only if you go halfway with me on that sandwich.
It’s too much for a man my age.”

It wasn’t easy making my way to the food court with tears blurring my vision, but
I soon returned with the largest containers of coffee and the biggest assortment
of pastries possible.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but…”

My parents, like yours, taught me to share, but it wasn’t until that day in Union
Station that I truly learned the meaning of that word.
I left the hall feeling warmer than I had ever thought possible...






Love Ya, ~Barbara