The Art of Giving

Clare Morahan Drennan

There is a man who sits outside my office building. He is usually curled up, knees to chest as though he’s trying to make himself smaller. He holds a plastic container for change.

I’ve seen him shouting once or twice – enraged at something or someone or nothing. Mostly he is silent except for his wild eyes that chase passersby.

I notice him and I don’t notice him. I can sometimes feel uneasy at the unpredictability of our modern-day lepers cast out on the streets and showing all their scars.

But on that day, I had been reading about the Abuse in Care Royal Commission of Inquiry. When I popped out for lunch and saw this man, my hesitance was replaced by an overwhelming sense that he was owed something.

“Would you like a pie?”

He looked at me, nodded and then said quickly: “Love, could you get me some smokes?”

[…]

I’m put out. I’m offering a pie out of the goodness of my Christian heart and the limey bugger wants fags!

“I have schizophrenia,” he says. “A smoke really helps.”

I shook my head. “How about just a pie?” He thanked me and blessed me.

The man on the street blessed me. And words (that I think are from Suzanne Aubert but I’m not sure) came into my head. ‘To truly be of use to the poor we must have solidarity with the poor’.

I am poor in humility, in peace, in love. I am addicted to anger and resentment and thinking about myself. I suffered abuse – at the hands of overwrought parents and bad decisions.

I am a middle-aged, white woman wearing heels and a lanyard but this man on the street is my brother. I know that as clearly as I know there is sky above us.

I buy him the cigarettes. They are expensive, but not really.

I give them to him and it’s like a light goes on behind his eyes.

He laughs.

He hugs me and I hug him back

while the buses roll past

and the lunchtime crowds wander back to their offices

under clouds streaking an autumn sky

“God bless you sister,” he says. “God bless you.”