“Do you have some spare change?” said a grime-encrusted man before me. He held a sign which read, “Anything helps, God bless.”

The quarters and dimes in my pocket weighed heavily. If I said “no,” it would be a lie. But if I said “yes,” he’d expect me to give it to him. Why do homeless people have to ask such a manipulative question? Well, I suppose the change isn’t really spare. It’s not for him.

“No, sorry,” I replied, quickening my pace.

By the time I reached my car door, my conscience sagged in my gut like a cheap burrito. Jesus wanted me to stop and love that man. I just passed by Jesus in disguise. “I was homeless, and you did not give me spare change.”

But he would have just spent in on drugs, anyways.

Inner Struggle

I’m sure this has never happened to you. Never. Not once. Ever.
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