A Lesson in Compassion

When helping people out, there is a fine line between being kind and being an enabler. I’m afraid I crossed the line Tuesday night.

As I was painting a room at church, a down-and-out young couple wandered into the building off the street. They asked if the church could put them up for the night. A wise benevolence committee long ago established a checklist that keeps our inner-city church from being an easy mark for anyone unaffiliated with the congregation looking for a handout. But in the need of the moment, I couldn’t recall any of its contents.

As I listened to the plea from the couple, I failed to follow the guidelines and fell prey to the heartstring notion that Jesus wanted me to help these folks. After all, I have the means and they don’t; surely the Lord would want me to be compassionate rather than hardhearted.

But I started to realize the folly of making a decision with my heart rather than my head as I pulled my car into the driveway of a nearby inexpensive motel.

“I can’t stay here,” the woman announced.

“Huh?” I responded.

She went on to explain that the proprietor thinks he can walk into a tenant’s room at any time. And besides, he refused to return a Precious Moment figurine of hers.

Oh.

Her companion suggested it would be OK, so in we went. The clerk at the desk took one look at the woman and said he couldn’t rent her a room. He suggested we try another budget motel down the street, which we did.

Everything seemed to go smoothly, even though my male passenger didn’t have any identification. Then the kind elderly woman behind the counter pulled out a notebook. She noted that the woman in front of her had stayed at the motel the previous week and caused a ruckus. An ambulance had been called and apparently there was an altercation with a police officer. At this point, I’m figuring out that the woman I’m trying to put up for the night believes most men are out to mistreat her.

“We can go somewhere else,” the young woman told the clerk.

By now I’m thinking I’m in the middle of a bad sitcom that may never end.

Thankfully, the clerk says she will rent a room this night — but there better not be any trouble.

The couple thanked me as we parted, and I made it clear that I, not the church, had paid for the room. This wasn’t out of pride, but rather embarrassment. By then I had seen enough red flags that I should have refused: the couples weren’t transients; they had lived in Springfield for years. They weren’t decrepit; they looked to be around 30 and in fairly good shape. It wasn’t a night of torrential rain; it was beautiful with a low around 65. Both admitted to receiving monthly government assistance checks, much of which likely is frittered away on addictive substances. And worst of all, they weren’t married as I first assumed. They had only known each other a couple of months, so I was paying for them to shack up!

As I drove away I felt that I had been taken, angry that I was out 43 bucks.

However, soon I stopped feeling sorry for myself and looked upon this man and woman with pity.

They have no discernable skills or education to earn an income in this depressed economy. And even if they do scam churches and individuals for a free night in a motel, there isn’t any future in that. What kind of life is it to not know where your next meal will come from or where you will sleep tonight?

Maybe providing one night’s comfort isn’t such an onerous act after all.