And yet…

On a frosty morning, I pull my car out of the garage, drive down the street, turn the corner and stop. A figure sits on the curb. He (his clothing suggests a “he”) is hunched over with his feet in the gutter. His elbows rest on his knees; his head nestles between his arms. A hat conceals his head and an old blanket covers his shoulders, hanging down almost to his worn, black shoes. He is so covered by the hat, blanket and shoes that not a bit of his body shows. But this clothing couldn’t have provided much warmth against last night’s freezing temperatures. I pull up beside him, roll down my window and call out, “Hey … are you okay?” He doesn’t move.

I call twice again, louder each time, but no movement. So I park my car right there in the street, get out, and walk closer to him. I lean over and ask again, “Sir, are you OK?” Still no response.

Standing that close I study him carefully and notice, with rising panic, no detectable breathing motion in him. I wonder what to do. At that moment a woman walks past. I turn to her and motion toward him. She shrugs and responds as she walks by, “Yeah, I don’t know. He was there when I came by about half an hour ago.”

Half an hour ago? She saw him like this half an hour ago and just walked by? I shove away angry thoughts and focus on him. I’m too frightened by his stillness to try to shake him awake. But driving away wouldn’t be right.

I call the police. The dispatcher takes some info and says she’ll send someone. I ask if I should try to wake him up. She says, “No.” So I stand there guarding what I think might be a body while slow minutes crawl by.

In those minutes I find myself pondering the aloneness and suffering of this person. Sadness sets in as I wonder how long he’s been crouched there. I mourn what circumstances brought him to this cold, lonely place.

Two officers arrive. They ask me a couple of questions, then one walks over to the figure and says loudly, “Hey, buddy, you alright?” No response. He says it louder, but still no response. He finally reaches over and shakes the fellow. After a long moment, the young man groggily lifts his head. I am shocked by the level of relief that flows through me. I don’t know this man but rejoice when he shows life. That moment reveals how connected we humans are.

I leave him in the officers’ capable care. But his impact remains with me.

I’m certain many people saw him before I did. But no one helped him. That’s disturbing because aren’t we on this planet together to learn how to take care of each other? When we bump up against each other with our problems and issues and imperfections hanging out, we begin to see all the chances we give each other to do good and become better human beings in the doing. Or — we can just walk on by. Humanity’s greatest enemy just might be, “Not my problem.”

We revere people like Mother Teresa — the epitome of someone who made other people’s problems her business. Most of us will never rise to her level, but shouldn’t we at least try?

I’ll never see that young man again. But he’ll always be with me because I feared for his life, and then he was OK. His memory will be a blessing because I responded to his need. That’s the curious result of caring. You can’t lift someone else without lifting yourself.

So. Either we care or we don’t. We pay attention to what’s going on around us or we don’t. We make another person’s needs our business or we don’t. We do something about it or we don’t. And we embrace the chance to become a better person — or we just walk on by.