He was in his wheelchair, in the crosswalk, struggling mightily to cross the busy street before the traffic light turned to red. It was obvious he wouldn’t make it. The man, probably in his 80s, was slender, nearly bald, wearing a long-sleeved, flannel shirt, sturdy trousers and tennis shoes.
His wheelchair was wrong for what he was trying to do. It didn’t have the big drive wheels to propel it with some ease and swiftness. Instead, it had four, small wheels. It was designed to be pushed, not self-propelled. Nonetheless, he was working to move it himself by shuffling and sliding his feet.
When I first saw him, from about a half-block away, he was manipulating the chair into the crosswalk, getting ready for the traffic light to change. I was pretty sure he came from a nearby adult-care facility.
I watched him as I came closer, and I became frightened for his safety. “Why isn’t someone helping him?” I thought. Instantly I heard my mind’s response: “Why don’t you help him?” “No way,” went the mental conversation. “I don’t want to get involved.”
If I help him, I reasoned, he would just want something more from me. “He’ll ask for money, or he’ll want me to push him down the block to the drugstore or wherever he’s going. I don’t have time for that,” I told myself.
Time was short. I was walking during my lunch hour. I’d covered more than three miles, and I needed to be back to the office in a few minutes. “I can’t take time to help him,” I reasoned.
I willed him to find the strength and traction to rocket himself and his wheelchair to the far sidewalk and safety. It didn’t work. For sure he wouldn’t make it on his own before the light turned red. He’d soon be stuck in the crosswalk, in the middle of the street and in real danger.
“OK, God, show me what to do and tell me what to say,” I prayed, as I stepped off the curb into the crosswalk and rushed to the man’s chair. As I grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, I leaned forward and asked, “Can I help you?” His voice was as fragile as he was. He said something I couldn’t hear and at the same time nodded his head.
A handful of seconds later, as the light turned red, we were cruising up the access ramp at the far sidewalk. “There you are,” I said. “Anything else I can do?” He shook his head and said, “Thanks a million.”
A few minutes earlier, when I saw the old gentleman from a half-block away, I was tired from my walk. After pushing him across those lanes of traffic and his quiet “Thanks a million,” I felt energized, my tiredness dissipated. As I headed for the office, my step was lighter and my pace was quicker. That’s when I said a short prayer: “Thanks a million, Father, for showing me how to help him, and for the opportunity to do so.”
