People enter your life in the oddest moments. Some you forget as soon as you look away, as if they are merely a prop in the background of life. With others, the memory lingers. Looking back, it's kind of like old Scooby Doo cartoons where you could tell where the action was going to happen by the bolder colors. The background would be muted but the one trap door where the boogy man was coming out would be brighter than the rest.

Today, I had a package to mail. After dropping off the girls at school, I parked in front of the post office, in a rarely empty spot, and had about five minutes to spare until they opened. I went inside with my key to the Homeowner's Association box. I wondered if I would find checks or complaints about the extra $20 we had to charge people this year. And then my mind wandered to the outrageous bill from our new landscaper who says he used a snowblower three times more than we even had deep snow. I respect that he's a small business owner creating jobs for locals but this stinks of a scam. And, so I've got that to deal with this week as the association president.

A postal worker warned me to be careful as I entered the lobby. He was mopping up salt residue left on the floor by snow boots and sneakers carrying in remnants of our last snow from the outside. A thin African American man sat in the window sill with a friendly open look on his face.

He looked at me as I tiptoed around the mop and through the lobby to the little alcove of mailboxes at the back.

"It's cold out there, isn't it?"

I politely nodded my head as I walked.

"Imagine sleeping out there in it."

I nodded my head again and gave the appropriate sigh of sympathy. At this point, I had my mail and he had a captive audience for the next three minutes until the mailroom doors opened and I could disappear inside to mail my package.

"I used to have a job. I worked at the hardware store making $45,000 just two years ago. They laid everyone off but me. . . . I was running the show. Then, I didn't have a job. Now, I've lost my place . . . . My son is living with my mother. She's got too much family sleeping on floors already. Told me to take care of myself. . . .My ear drains constantly. It smells real bad." Lovely. I probably wouldn't be eating breakfast either but at least I had a choice.

"I pray but I must have done something bad in life somewhere." What do you say to THAT? I made some remark like maybe God had a purpose for him there on the street – maybe someone he would help. Lame perhaps but it was the first thing to come to my mind. Who knows.

Then, I racked my brain for a few suggestions. Shelters I mentioned were too full. Another one had a 40 person waiting list apparently. The local free clinic wasn't taking any more clients, according to him. Too many to take care of already.  The local foodbank needs an address for him to receive food. He needed a roof over his head.

"He's been helping me figure out what to do," said Steve, gesturing to the sympathic worker behind the mop who looked back at me with a quiet smile and nod but didn't say a word. And then, talking into his lap, Steve said, "I rummaged through the trash for breakfast this morning. Wonder where I could get a donut."

The doors swung opened. I ducked my head inside and asked the man behind the desk about Steve. He said he didn't know but had seen the guy for a couple of days. "Sounds smart." I didn't have time to buy the man breakfast so I took out an extra $40.

Heading back throught the lobby, I asked him his name. "Steve" came the reply. And, I told him I would be praying for him and I gave him the $40. It wasn't much and he first tried to refuse but I insisted. I don't know his history or what he'll do with it. I hope he'll eat.

I know the poor will be with us always. I open my latest booklet from Compassion with technicolor pictures of poverty and destitution. I read about survivors still making their way through the rubble of the Haitian earthquake. My heart hurts for them. My heart hurts for Steve. I pray. How can I help? I have bills to pay too. But, I remind myself how little they have and anything I can give is something. That's why I sponsor a Compassion child and read the booklets when they come in — so that my heart will ache for them and so that I can share with you and so your heart will ache for them too.

We must pray and we must give of what we can because God tells us too. It's as simple as that.

Luke 12:48 "From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked."

My prayer today: May your heart ache for those who are hurting. May Steve have some glimmer of hope in his circumstance. May the Holy Spirit give us discernment where to wisely give and where to save.

{Update: I talked to a neighbor later. He remembers Steve running the hardware store. Wow. There, but by the grace of God, go I.}