Grilling Out On Old Dimes

About six months ago, I moved to Nashville. To make ends meet, I sold my coin collection. I collected old money for most of my youth, so it was a little disappointing when someone offered me only $35 for my whole set. I kept a $2 bill for sentimental reasons, which I’ve carried around in my wallet, refusing to spend even in desperate situations.

***

I drove past the park, and my heart jumped a little. The beats in my chest increased as I saw all kinds of human shapes camped out on benches, in the grass, and huddled in groups. Nashville’s homeless - my brothers and sisters. Was this fear? No, not fear - adrenaline. Two bags full of hotdogs, bratwursts, and buns hung from my arms, while I carried a small charcoal grill and some other tools to a nearby park bench. I started setting up immediately; there was already a group of ten dispersed throughout the park.

“Are you grilling out?” one of the men asked me.

“Yep,” I replied.

“You got some friends coming?” a woman asked me.

“Nope,” I said simply. They looked at me, dumbfounded, as I pulled out package after package of meat, covering the surface of the grill with at least twenty hotdogs, brats, and cheddarwursts.

“So, are we invited to the picnic?” another joked, laughing with his friends.

“Yes,” I said, and they all just looked at me.

Yet another man stood up and started walking towards me. He was a skinny African-American probably in his forties, and his name was Bobby. “Are you telling me that you came all the way here just to fix us lunch?”

I asked if they liked hotdogs, and they all nodded. “Well, then…yeah,” I said. Bobby talked to me while I cooked the meat, telling me how life on the streets was sometimes hard, but for the most part, pretty good. I met another guy who wore a straw hat and looked a little like Willie Nelson. His name was Phil, and he played music in bars each night, making enough money to fill his stomach and “have a beer or two.” Maybe he was Willie Nelson.

More and more people poured into the park: many homeless, some friends of theirs who had gotten off the streets, and others who were just hungry. It lasted a little over an hour - this collision of lives that resulted in all kinds of stories. Pretty soon, the groups started to get on with their days, and I began to clean up. Bobby helped me with the garbage and gave me a big hug to say “thank you.” I said that we’d see each other again.

I sighed with contentment. I felt free. I had been cooped up in my home office all week “doing ministry” - working with charitable causes, but not experiencing mercy first-hand. I needed this - to go out into the community and experience Jesus. There’s more to compassion than charity, and there’s more to poverty than lifestyle choices.

I started to leave, and a man in a baseball cap came up and asked if I needed any help. I declined, and then he asked if I knew where he could get a job for $11/hour. I said that I didn’t know of any place, and then he asked if I would drive him to Memphis for $25. Again, I declined.

His name was Eugene; he spoke articulately and looked like he was in his thirties. He had a job, but it was in Memphis. He had hitch-hiked 800 miles from Michigan only to get stuck in Nashville, a short 200 miles away from his destination. For the past two days, he had been asking people for a job. He only needed $11 more to buy a bus ticket. So far, everyone had turned him down.

“I could just go around and ask everyone for a dollar, but I’m not a bum. I want to earn it,”’ Eugene said. I nodded, as God began to tug on my heart. I had made a rule to myself that I wouldn’t give money out to homeless people, because I didn’t know how they would spend it. Yet, right then, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend $11.

“I think I have some money,” I said, reaching into my pocket. I pulled out my wallet, thumbing past the $2 bill, and pulled out a ten.

“This is all I have,” I said, handing it to him. He shrugged and said that it brought him a little closer to Memphis. My wallet was still open, and I reached back in to grab the remainder of my coin collection: “Here, take my lucky $2 bill.” He protested, but I insisted and said, “I hope it brings you luck.”
To “earn” it, he helped me carry the grill and supplies to the car. As we drove the few blocks to the Greyhound station, he told me how frustrating it was to be living on the streets, trying to get back on his feet, and for no one to help him. I resolved to not make any more rules about placing limits on generosity, especially if it meant that I might run into another “Eugene” again. Seeing every poor person just as a “bum” doesn’t feel right anymore.

As I watched him walk him walk away, I thought of how the early church believed that not sharing with the needy was the same as stealing. I also thought of all the worthless crap I probably would have spent that $12 on. To learn true mercy, I had to get away from all the fluffy religious talk and really experience it. I guess that $2 bill really was lucky - for the both of us.