This beggar asks for money, a way
to get home, maybe to bury his wife again for a third or fourth time.  We know
this man, he’s a regular here in Itipini, South Africa.  In frustration I tell
him we have no money, wishing the reality of him to go away as quickly as
possible.  He is disabled, dirty, smelling of spirits and weeping.  I’ve seen
this all before.  “I’m sorry we have no money, but leave your ID number and
we’ll see if your disability grant has come through.”  Monica helped him apply
long ago.  “Give me your jacket,” he demands.  “Sorry, I have no jacket.”  “Give
me money to get home.” The answer is the same each time, frustration in me
building and patience gone by now.  “Drive me to the gate, at least.”  This I
can gladly do as all I want is for him to disappear.  At the gate he cries some
more begging for money to get to town (Umtata).  “Sorry, no money,” and he
stumbles out of the car, limping away. 

    I drive back to the house, realizing I did have two rand in my pocket which
would have at least gotten him to town.  Now my heart and soul are in despair,
cursing myself and the world that allows this situation to be.  Whatever you do
to the least of my brothers, you have done to me, flashed over and over.  I was
the poor one!   I missed another chance to meet Christ!   No rationalization
would work.  And no quiet came that day.