I had occasion to talk with a homeless veteran, and it brought to mind the following column, which I want to share with you on this Veterans Day. It is the first column published under the “Points of the Compass” banner.

I often see people holding signs that read, “Homeless, please help”, or words to that effect. One day, I noticed the sign holder at an intersection was a tall man. He was wearing a Marine Corps, utility cover. His face was masked with a beard. I could see only his eyes. I knew those eyes. I knew this man. He and I had served together in Vietnam. I knew him at one time, very well.

I was able to stop adjacent to him, and put my window down. He spoke first, “Semper Fi brother”.

“You recognize me,” I said, more as a question than a statement.

He nodded.  

“We were in Vietnam together?” Again, question and statement.

Again, he nodded. 

I spoke my name in introduction.

“I know.”

“Forgive me, but I can’t recall yours. Who are you, please?”

He smiled and said, “I won’t tell you.” That, and the look of relief in his eyes spoke volumes. He was relieved that his anonymity would be preserved, and he was embarrassed at his situation.

His sign read, “Homeless veteran, please help. God Bless.” I had given to these people on the corners before, but often with judgment. I reached for my wallet and emptied it. The amount was small. No matter how much I had given, it wouldn't plug the hole growing in my heart. He took the money with a smile and a heartfelt “thank you”. There were tears in both of our eyes as we parted. We were both relieved.

I understood his relief. He was glad an embarrassing moment was over, but why was I relieved? Was I embarrassed too? Was I ashamed? Why was I crying? 

I was embarrassed for my lack of compassion, for my judging, for my selfishness. I recalled the many times I had driven past people like my brother on the corner and thought, “Get a job”, “Go to work”, and worse. I was ashamed. Who was I to judge? Who was I to know their circumstances?

In my arrogance, I thought I was where I was because of my hard work. Had I achieved what I had on my own? No, I had help along the way, help from compassionate individuals who judged me worthy of it. Who am I to deny this same compassion to others? I was embarrassed and ashamed. That should have been sufficient for tears, but it wasn’t. 

There stood my brother on the corner who, at one time, had been my equal. We had worn the same uniform, drank from the same cup, eaten from the same bowl, sweated, and bled together. We had reached out in the terrors of battle to be reassured that we were not alone in that hell. We had shared our innermost feelings. Some were spoken, some were understood, as they had been today.

Where had our lives diverged? I had known my brother on the corner’s dreams and ambitions. What had happened? Why was my brother on the corner begging for his existence, and I had an abundance? I realized the foolishness of my judgments, for there, but by the grace of God, go I.

I never saw my brother on the corner again, but I think of him often. I do not give to every indigent that I see, but I do not judge them. When I can, I give with compassion and a prayer. “Oh Lord, please bless this gift to the betterment of their lives, and please bless me never to have to be in such a situation, but if I must, please bless me with the compassionate, those with the pure love of Christ, even charity.”

Amen my brother on the corner, amen.

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He is the author of Where the Mockingbird Sang, A Novel of the Civil War and I Followed the Wolf, Buck's Story, the prequel/sequel to Where the Mockingbird Sang. He may be contacted, and his other works viewed at: www.starchasers.us, or david@starchasers.us.