When Skip was alive, he did not get about very well because of his rheumatoid arthritis.  But still, when he was feeling particularly strong, we would take short walks in the neighborhood. Our neighborhood then was one of those I call a walking neighborhood. Always people were out for walks, and we would meet and chat with new people all the time. In front of Lanier Jr. High in Houston near the bus stop there, lived a homeless man. Every time we walked by, he would come out and ask us for a dollar, which of course we politely declined, since he made no secret it was to buy alcohol with. On holidays I would bake a loaf of bread, wrap it with wrapper and ribbon, and present it to him.  Most important, we would often stop and chat with him, as we did many of the homeless in our neighborhood.  It was clear he hungered for the conversation perhaps more than the dollar he invariably asked for to buy a drink. And we could feel perhaps just a bit smug at our own beneficence.

Then one day Skip became seriously ill, lying in the hospital in coma. I was spending all of my time there, sitting with him. One day when I went home to get a couple of hours rest, a friend came over and asked me to accompany him on a walk... hoping to unwind just a bit.  As we strolled in front of Lanier Jr. High, here came our homeless friend.  This time he did not ask for a dollar. He looked directly in my eyes and asked me where Skip was. I told him the story.  This dear man came to me, and gave me a compassionate hug.  He then reached deep into his pocket, which appeared empty. He explained as he pulled out a bundle of Kleenex that once he had fallen on hard times. I thought to myself, how could it be harder than living in front of Lanier Jr. High on the streets without a penny to your name. But he went on... a woman had come along at this time when he was at his lowest, and offered him a simple gift. It was his one possession. He opened the wad of Kleenex, and in it was a tiny silver cross. He took my hand and placed it there. He told me to take it to Skip, as his gift and prayer for him. With a tear in my eye, I accepted. 

Of course it was not destined that Skip should recover. A few days later he passed over.  But in that moment, that moment of such pain and need, this man with nothing gave from his need a most precious gift. And then I knew that it had not been he who was poor, but I. And in his act of selfless love, this gift from an angel, I had been blest indeed.

After Skip's death, I did not see the homeless man for about a year.  I learned he had been picked up by the police, and then sent to a hospital... He then hung out for awhile elsewhere, before returning to his familiar locale. When I saw him again, I ran up and gave him a huge hug. I told him the story, and offered to return his cross. He shook his head no, offering that I may encounter another in deepest need. We talked that day, not as a woman to a homeless man, but as equals. Soon after I moved, and did not see him again. But the gift of love he gave me that August day is burned in my heart forever.