In this Season of Giving, Follow Your Heart

Don’t let others persuade you

I had a strong role model

It started when I was young. My mother was The Volunteer of All Volunteers. For our schools. For our church. For our community. She set an example of helping people who needed it. Simple as that.

She repaired clothes for a local home for boys who were mentally handicapped and three or four times a year, we’d go there and hang out. Cleaning. Talking. Giving a hug when needed. As a little girl, the residents frightened me. It didn’t matter. They needed us.

I grew up in an upper-middle class home. We didn’t have flashy cars or the hottest boats, but we weren’t suffering. The pantry bulged with canned goods from our garden and the freezer had plenty of meat. Mom pinched pennies when she didn’t have to, affording us vacations and experiences most families in our community could only dream about.

When someone we knew had trouble keeping food on the table, my mother gave generously. Never did she consider the fact this person bought a house they couldn’t afford, spent money they didn’t have on clothes to keep up appearances, or had habits that put them in a dire situation. Mom didn’t believe in “living above our means,” but she didn’t judge those who did.

That wasn’t her business. What was her business was that someone we knew needed help, and if she was able, my mother stepped up to the plate.

Plenty of experts are ready to give advice on who and how we help

Many alleged experts and organizations advise not to give cash to the homeless. In this article, their argument is compelling. That all makes sense as I’m reading it, but when I am passing by a person who desperately needs help, I don’t think my hastily written check to an organization is going to help this person today — or ever. They need help right now.

My story

When I was in my early twenties, I worked as a waitress while commuting to college. I lived with an abusive boyfriend. I left in the middle of the night with a bag of clothes and no shoes.

He figured I couldn’t leave if I didn’t have shoes. He was wrong.

I would have walked a hundred miles barefoot to get out of there. After borrowing a pair of shoes from a friend, I went to work at the local diner the next morning. It didn’t take long for gossip to fly and some well-meaning customers let me know about an apartment available. I put the deposit down that afternoon and stayed with friends for a few days until I could move in.

By that time, I was able to get most of my stuff out of the house I had lived in while my now ex-boyfriend was at work. My new apartment was old and tired with minimal furniture and a broken-down bed.

I didn’t care. I was thankful.

As I carried in my meager belongings, two men who were friends of mine pulled up with a brand-new TV. Tears poured down my face at this unexpected gift. It was too much. It wasn’t just any TV — it was a good one.

I tried to refuse it.

I will never forget their exchanged smiles before the one said, “Tracy, take it. All we want in return is for you to help someone else out when you can.”

After many hugs and thanks, I promised I would, and I took that vow seriously.

I made giving a habit

It didn’t take long for me to be back on my feet and I tried to fulfill my promise. The next few years, at Christmas time, I would buy presents for children who had parents that were struggling. Usually, the mothers worked with me at the diner. I would ask for some ideas, go shopping, wrap the presents, and bring them to the restaurant a few days before Christmas. The mothers knew what the gifts were, but I wanted to wrap them for three reasons:

• I loved to wrap presents
• Wrapping paper was just another burden to buy for families who can’t afford many gifts in the first place
• It saved time for the parents already overwhelmed with holiday duties.

When I moved to Toledo, Ohio, I found the need was greater than in the rural area I grew up in. Several years, on the way to visit my mother for the holidays, my boyfriend and I would pick up someone standing on the exit ramp of the expressway and give them a ride, some money, and a little hope. I’m not advocating picking up strangers, but we were acting from our hearts, not our heads.

Later, I did several years of outreach in the sketchiest streets of Toledo for street level prostitutes. We handed out necessities like toiletries, socks, and condoms. What they wanted the most was our unconditional love and a genuine hug.

When did we get so judgmental?

For years, while living in Toledo, I rode on a “party bus” up to a Detroit Lions game once a year. It cost about $100 for the ticket to the game, a six-inch submarine sandwich, a bag of chips, and all-you-can drink beer, water, and pop. There was always plenty of Jell-O shots to go around as well, made by a couple of fellow fun seekers. Everyone had extra money for when we hit the casino around the corner after the game.

I always ate my chips and saved my sandwich. I’d tuck a can of beer and a few Jell-O shots under my coat as we exited the bus. We were just one of dozens of charter busses that parked in the bus lane near Ford Field in Detroit.

They were waiting.

Groups of homeless people pushing grocery carts, wearing dirty, ill-fitting clothing, and shoes with worn soles gathered on the sidewalk, waiting for the passengers to disembark.

We all did the same thing.

Sandwiches were placed in eager hands, beer and Jell-O shots were covertly transferred from one person to the other, chip bags flew through the air along with water bottles and cans of Coca-Cola. Cigarettes were distributed with abandon.

There were always a series of high-fives, some hugs, a lot of whoops, dancing, and smiles. When the Lions had a home game, it was like a holiday for the homeless in Detroit.

Many people would get very angry about this. How dare we give the homeless a beer and a cigarette? Never mind that we were poised to go in the stadium and pay $8/beer and party all day. Not to mention the gambling. For us, no one raised an eyebrow. But the homeless? No. They should not be able to have a drink and a smoke. And as for our sandwiches, well that just encourages them.

Encourages them to do what exactly?

Apparently, they should be hitting up the local homeless shelter or soup kitchen and given what the authorities think they deserve.

It reminds me of when the Quakers tried to teach Native Americans how they should live and dictated their language, religion, and meals.

That didn’t work very well, did it?

Someone is always going to tell you you’re wrong

Probably due to social media, I find people seem more judgmental than ever. These keyboard warriors decide who is selfish, careless, and taking up space. They hate the rich and sneer at those who can’t support themselves.

They tell me what daily activities are acceptable and condemn those who don’t follow their edicts.

They tell me who deserves help and who doesn’t.

They tell me who and what I spend my money on. As they contradict each other with their zealous diatribes and seething condemnation, my head spins and I evict their holier-than-thou attitudes out of my head.

You should be donating to people, not animals!

Don’t give to people in other countries — our country comes first!

Amazon shoppers are the problem! Shop local!

Small business owners be damned! The whole country should be locked down!

People first! Economy last!

Screw the virus! Bar owners are dying out here!

Bars are evil! Think about Grandma!

The worst was when I read about “the savages” fondling the meat packages in the grocery store. Selfish bastards! Didn’t they realize they were spreading germs?

I cringed. I was a meat fondler from way back. Even worse, I fondled a lot of fruit before choosing just the right one.

I’m probably going to hell.

I’d rather my peers don’t manage my wallet or my decisions, thank you very much.

In a perfect world, organizations who receive millions of dollars meant for those in need would actually aid everyone in need. They don’t. They can’t. Many aren’t legit or give pennies on the dollar to the intended recipients. The rest goes to their CEOs.

I donate to organizations I have researched and give the vast majority of contributed monies to where I want it to go. Here is a handy guide.

Have I ever been burnt by people I tried to help? Oh, yeah!

Remember the waitresses with whom I worked and gave wrapped presents for their kids? That worked well for several years. Then a new girl was hired. She had four kids and her husband wasn’t in the picture. I was doing okay financially and went all-out to help her because she told anyone who would listen her sad story.

Many customers handed her cash and I told her she could pick the presents up in the back room of the diner two days before Christmas. She didn’t show up to work. Ever again. She sent someone three days after Christmas to pick up the gifts. I was told she had gone on a binge and her children were with their grandparents.

But she wasn’t the only one.

There was a man addicted to crack. He had a concrete business, was a hard worker, and had a good heart. He also had a crush on me. While I made it clear I was not interested in a romantic relationship, I tried to encourage him not to use. One of my ground rules was that I wouldn’t be around him if he was high. I’d have him over for homemade dinners and desserts, we’d play Scrabble or cards, and I’d know, at least for those hours, he wasn’t out on the street trying to score drugs.

For over a month, he went to meetings and worked an outpatient program. Finally, he was clean. And then, he wasn’t. Just like that, he was in jail and sentenced to 90 days. By the grace of God, the judge granted him a work program. He could leave jail during the day and do his concrete jobs, but he had to return by six in the evening.

One day on his lunch hour, he called me and bragged he was drinking a 40-ounce beer.

When I asked him why he was throwing an opportunity away, he told me he was thirsty.

I didn’t think it was funny. If he were caught, he’d be in jail for over a year. I couldn’t believe he was being so reckless with the gift of freedom during the day to go to work. He had a house and car payment.

After a few choice words, I told him not to call me again. I couldn’t stand by him if he chose to destroy himself. I have no idea what happened to him.

Most recently, I befriended a homeless prostitute I’d met doing outreach. She was my age and had been put on the streets by her cousins at thirteen. She’d already had a stroke. She was a heroin addict with a prison record for assault, forgery, and drug use. Her fiancé was serving a life sentence for killing a police officer.

There was something about her that touched my soul. Innately, I felt she was a good person who hadn’t had a chance. She had a host of mental illnesses including schizophrenia and manic-depressive disorder. After many long talks, she convinced me she was determined to get clean.

I met her mother, a 70-year-old marijuana dealer. I’m not sure what else she sold. After chatting, it became clear that my friend wasn’t raised with any definitive values or guidance.

As my friend awaited Section 8 housing, her mother and her had an argument. Her mother threatened to throw all her stored belongings out in the yard.

I felt bad for her and offered to store them in my little apartment. It was a temporary solution. My uncle helped us retrieve her stuff. I wanted a man with us as the mother lived in a dangerous neighborhood. After we packed his car, we eased down the street and were chased by a gang of woman who were targeting my friend.

Thankfully, we escaped unscathed.

I piled her totes and boxes in my place and one of them smelled funny. I can’t describe it, but it scared me. I couldn’t wait for her stuff to be out of my space.

Soon after, I moved to Michigan and my now-husband and I went down to Toledo to visit her every month or so. Sam bought her new pots and pans, a trash can, laundry detergent, cleaning supplies, and many other necessities needed to set up house.

We wrote letters to each other. Real letters. And we talked on the phone a lot.

I bought her monthly bus pass so she could get around town.

One day, she asked me for money to send her fiancé in prison.

I declined.

She got very angry and, in a rage, threatened to get her people to come up to Michigan and kill Sam and I.

I knew it was a drug-related rant, but I had to break contact. Luckily, in our written correspondence, I had given her the address to a business that gave me her letters while keeping my home address private.

Takeaway

This year, more than ever, those who have something to give have to make hard decisions. The need is great.

While I haven’t always made the best choices on who to give to, what to give, and how much to give, I don’t have any regrets. My money went where my soul told me it should go. Usually, it was the right decision.

For the times where it seemed like people didn’t appreciate it, I am not discouraged. How do I know for sure I didn’t make a difference? Maybe in retrospect, my small acts of kindness may have affected them more than I’ll ever know. Besides, there is no guarantee that a charity wouldn’t make mistakes too.

Regardless, I followed my heart, and truly believe if I continue to do so, I can’t ever go wrong.