He Walked With a Limp

At first glance, I thought he was a character from one of the old Western movies I'd enjoyed as a kid. Maybe it was the craggy face that looked liked time had sculpted it with wind and sun, or maybe it was way he walked, straight-backed and erect, despite a pronounced limp. Visions of a middle-aged Clint Eastwood came to mind as the older gentleman approached the park bench where I enjoyed the sun on a crisp winter afternoon.

"Do you mind if I share the bench with you for a spell?" he asked in a friendly but assertive tone. I nodded okay and noticed he winced as he slowly eased his tall frame onto the bench.

"Thanks for moving over. I've been out for my usual walk and still have a ways to go, but this hip has been acting up today. Old war wound."

"Oh, which war?"

"Vietnam. I took a piece of shrapnel from a Viet Cong mortar during the Tet Offensive. But I was luckier than the guy next to me, who lost his life."

"Yeah, they say war is hell. I've never been in one, but I had buddies who were and that saying pretty much reflected their assessment," I chimed in.

"The Tet Offensive was hell, hell on earth, with the North Vietnamese military being the demons behind it. What bothered me the most was how many innocent civilians were killed during that campaign. It changed my life, young man."

Just then a homeless woman and her two small children came into view. When they saw us sitting on the bench, they stopped in front of it, and the woman began a well-rehearsed plea for money to buy some food. I was frankly repulsed by the blatant request for cash, and wondered how much of the money she received went for booze instead of food for the skinny-looking kids. So I was really surprised by my bench-mate's response.

"Lady, I've got something even better than a few dollars for some fast food. I'll give you an invite to the Saint Theresa Mission Shelter, where we can put you and your kids up for the night as well as giving you a hot wholesome supper. Here," he continued as he reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a business card. "My name is Tom Cassidy, and I run the place. It's just five blocks up this street on the right. You can't miss it."

"Well sir, I've grown accustomed to sleeping outside, and I don't want no one preaching to me at some sort of mission. But thanks, anyway."

Tom started to mention the weather forecast for the night was a hard freeze and that she and her kids would want to be inside. But he was interrupted by a police car stopping in front of our little conclave. Two cops jumped out and approached the homeless lady.

"Look, lady, we don't allow begging in public places in this city. In fact, the new Vagrancy Ordinance gives us the right to lock you up if you remain inside the city limits."

The look of dismay on the woman's care-worn face as she looked first at the officers and then at her children sent a pang of concern through my cynical heart. What's going to happen to her little kids if she gets carted off to jail?

"Look, here, officers," began Tom as he quickly stood up, favoring his bad hip. "This woman is not a vagrant. She's a guest of mine, and she's on her way to Saint Theresa's. Isn't that right, madam?"

"Uh, uh, that's right sir. Tom, sir," she stammered with gratitude.

"Okay, okay. But if we see you on the streets after dusk, lady, it'll be big trouble for you." And with that, the cops got back into the cruiser and drove away.

"You'd best proceed directly to Saint Theresa's, young lady. Do you want me to walk you and your children over there?" Tom asked.

She assured Tom that they'd go straight to the shelter and headed off in that direction. I then turned to Tom, and asked, "do you think that will do any good? I mean, won't she soon be back on the streets in another town, with those hapless children in tow?"

"Maybe so, maybe not. At Saint Theresa's we try to give them not just a hand out, but a hand up. We try to address the causes that put the homeless on the street, and try to help them better themselves."

"Does it really work?" I quizzed him with some skepticism.

"Well, son, I wished it worked for everyone. It works for some people and for some it doesn't. But one thing I know, it worked for me!"

When Tom noticed the startled look on my face, he continued, "after I got back from Vietnam and got discharged from a Veteran's hospital, I lost my way and went from bad to worse. I was filled with guilt over the horrors of war I'd seen and been unable to remedy, as well as consumed by self-pity about my bad hip. Thirty years ago, I showed up at Saint Theresa's, a broken down drug user, just looking for a warm bed. The love and care I received there turned me around. I eventually got a good job working here for the city government. When I retired from that a couple of years ago, I decided I wanted to spend the rest of my time and energy giving back to the community, and Saint Theresa's was looking for a new director. So here I am. That's probably a lot more than you'd wanted to hear, young man," he said apologetically.

"No, Tom. I needed to hear your story. It's given me some food for thought. Maybe I need to think more about helping others myself."

"Well I've got to get going back to the shelter. Have a Merry Christmas."

I watched him walk off with a limp.