Many of our layover cities are looking more and more like third world countries. The amount of homeless people in big cities is growing exponentially.

For the most part, I scurry past them, doing my level best not to make eye contact. The rationale for not giving resound in my head…they’ll just spend the money on booze and drugs. 

But the few times I have given, I’ve always walked away feeling I should have given more. Why didn’t I? The little I gave was nothing compared what I am able to give. 

Most of those I’ve given to are offering all they have to offer—their God-given ability to make beautiful music. Recently, a gifted saxophonist was playing his heart out and my friend and I walked right by him…until he starting playing “Hail to the Victor." My friend graduated from U of M and was wearing a Michigan sweatshirt. She retraced her steps and put a twenty dollar bill in his instrument case. “God bless you!” He replied with enthusiasm.

We have a flight attendant who, after checking into her room, goes and finds the nearest Subway, buys a dozen or so subs and passes them out to the homeless. As the story goes, one homeless man took one and beaned her in the face with it. But that incident hasn't deterred her. 

Sadly, if my generosity provoked an angry, violent response like that it would have put the kibosh to the whole endeavor. Which shows me my giving is not only not sacrificial but is also given with the expectancy of gratitude as well. 

In reality, I’ve only experienced one bad incident with a beggar. My daughter, Caitlin, and I were blessed to visit the city of Florence and while we waited in line to visit the Duomo, Caitlin stepped out of line to get a gelato. A young woman carrying a plastic cup inexplicably picked me out of the long line to beg for money. I tried to look away and ignore her but she was persistent, getting up in my face, speaking urgently in Italian and shaking her cup right under my nose. I only had a ten euro bill in my purse and we needed it to get into the Duomo. I tried, but obviously failed, to communicate to her that my daughter would be back soon with some change to give her. She angrily grabbed my hand and gave the top of it a hard, twisty pinch. It hurt like the dickens.

Caitlin also had an experience with a beggar while we were in Florence. She had gotten up early one morning to visit some churches. On the steps of one of them sat an old, blind woman with a plastic cup. Caitlin put a few coins in her cup and the woman took Caitlin's hand and held it to her cheek before gently kissing the top of it. It brought tears to Caitlin's eyes. A kiss for Caitlin; a vicious, twisty skin pinch for me.

As a child, I remember my dad always opening his wallet and giving to beggars. We were aghast. “Dad! They’re only going to spend it on beer. You shouldn't give them money.”

His answer was always the same, “Who am I to judge? I don’t know how they’ll spend it. All I know is I have it, and they don’t.”

I’ve been convicted be think more like my dad. I don’t how homeless people got there or how they’re going to spend the money. All I know is I have it, and they don’t. And that’s going to have to be enough for me.

“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” Hebrews 13:2 (KJV)