Photography by Karen Mitchell Smith

I saw his bike as soon as I pulled up to the convenience store. It was dusk, and having spent the day in my hometown, I was ready to make the hour-long drive to my home. Planning for a quick dash into the store to pick up a Coke, I suddenly was confronted with a ramshackle bicycle piled high with a bedroll and other odds and ends and a big sign on the back: Hungry.

He stood at the counter, a bag of Doritos and a cup of coffee beside a crumpled dollar bill and a pile of change. He looked at the corn dogs baking under the heat lamps and, although I couldn’t hear what he said, I assume he asked how much they cost because when the cashier answered, the man just shook his head and let his shoulders drop a little lower. I felt a little stunned. Not at the sight of a homeless man. I’ve lived in big cities and dealt with the homeless one-on-one in ministry on many occasions. No, the shock came from the fact that he was there, in Breckenridge, Texas, population just over 5,000. The Mayberry of my childhood. The place that I could always go home to for safety and security, for familiar faces, for love and acceptance. Not a perfect place by any means, but a place, for me at least, removed from some of the harshest realities life holds. And there he was. The symbol of despair, hopelessness, and worst of all, helplessness — all the things you might find in the big city, but not in your hometown.

He headed to a booth in the back of the store as I walked to the soda fountain. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he tore into the little bag of chips and devoured them like the starving man he most likely was. I caught his eye and he nodded a greeting. His unkempt, long white beard brushed his chest and the knitted stocking cap on his hair spoke of hard use. He wore a thin army-green coat with the collar turned up. Not much protection against the sharp wind blowing outside. I nodded back to him and smiled.

At the counter, I told the cashier I’d take his last two corn dogs. When I handed them to the surprised homeless man, I mumbled the cursory “God bless you,” wishing I had more to give him. Wishing I could change something for him, but knowing I could not. His surprised eyes met mine again. His were brown. Big and sad and devoid of hope. I prayed for him as I drove away from Mayberry and toward my warm, comfortable custom-built home, where I would soon curl up on my leather sofa with a good movie and a cozy blanket. I prayed for the man who would lie somewhere in a ditch tonight, with a shabby sleeping bag between him and the cold, hard ground. I asked God to give him hope, to give him mercy. To lead him to where someone could help him and show him the love of a Savior who was also a wanderer with no place to lay his head. And the thought that we, as a society, completely miss the point of life plagued me all the way home. We get and get and buy and buy. Consume and pile up things that have to be maintained and dusted and cleaned and organized, then we sell them in our garage sales and donate them to the Goodwill, so we can make room for more.

Change has been the buzz word since the November 2008 elections, and it is the engine that drove the Obama campaign to Pennsylvania Avenue. But corporate change begins with individual transformation. Change cannot be legislated. It can’t be mandated and it can’t be demanded. We each must find our place and do what we know to be the right thing.

I don’t know whether I made a difference in that homeless man’s life beyond this day. Maybe tonight he crawled into his bedroll without an empty gnawing in his stomach, but will he tomorrow night? What about the next? It’s nearly overwhelming to think about the enormity of this issue. Yet,  I’m reminded of the story about the man who found hundreds of living starfish washed onto the shore. He patiently threw them back one at a time and when someone asked what kind of difference he could possibly make, he answered, “I can’t save them all, but it matters to this one. And this one. And this one.”

My actions did matter to that man tonight, of that I’m sure. The real question is, can I matter to someone tomorrow?