The hand-lettered sign as I was leaving the health club caught my attention,
but not nearly as much as the man, woman, and two young girls standing with the
sign. As I waited for traffic to clear,
I saw another vehicle pause to talk. I confess that I was mildly relieved, that
there would be no need for me to engage the situation. But the paused vehicle
drove away after a few words. (I wonder
what that conversation was about?) The traffic
cleared, and I pulled up to say, “I’ll buy you a tank of gas.” The man smiled gratefully and herded the
family into a minivan with California plates to drive up to the pumps.
We met at the pump, and, in broken English, the man told me
the gist of the story. A job in St. Louis had ended, and they were trying to
get back to California. His wife and the two cute-as-a-button girls looked at
me uncertainly, not understanding what we were saying. I had been wearing a church
t-shirt while working out, so I used it as a visual aid to explain that I was
buying him a tank of gas on behalf of my church. He smiled gratefully, and we
filled his tank. “Are you hungry? I have food at church that I can give you, if
you’ll just follow me once we’re done.” After all, his sign had mentioned food, and I
kept looking at the two little girls. I had some toys for them at church, too. He didn’t seem to understand what I was
trying to communicate. “I wish I knew Spanish, so I could explain about the
food!” I exclaimed, but the man just looked at me, politely quizzical. I don’t
know if it was the language barrier, or if he wanted something more than the
peanut butter, cereal, and Vienna sausages that I could offer, but he declined.
And then he said, “340 miles. Until gas gone. 340 miles.” Aha. This tank of gas would not quite get him to the
Colorado border. I knew his hope, that I might buy him a gas card to get him
closer to his family’s destination. Our church policy wisely allows us to give only
an actual tank of gas, not a gift card that could be exchanged for something
else. I could help him for one step along his journey, but I couldn’t help him
get all the way home. He would have to rely on the next someone else for that. I
shook my head no, and he thanked me for the gas. As he and his family climbed
back into the van, I wished that I could do more. I wished that I could get him
home, get him a job, make sure his family was fed and cared for. I wished that
I spoke enough Spanish to explain about the food and my regrets about the gas
card. I wished that I could have
understood more about what had them standing in Blue Springs on a Wednesday
afternoon clutching a sign. Like every clergyperson who meets a string of
people with material needs that can’t be met, I wished.
As I stood there wishing, they drove off. And suddenly, one
Spanish phrase that I knew came to my mind, too late to speak to them: “Dios
bendiga.” My wishing became a prayer, a prayer for God’s blessing. When it
comes down to it, that’s pretty much the best I have to offer anyway.
