The last few weeks of August in northeast Indiana were sweltering — high temperatures in the upper 80s and lower 90s, but it was the oppressive humidity that made things miserable.
Maybe it was because our air conditioning was running nonstop for weeks, or maybe it’s because we live in an older house with an electric system that’s well past its prime — probably both — but at the height of the recent heat wave, a faulty breaker met its untimely demise, knocking out power to our AC for four days. The thermostat confirmed our misery, as it reached a balmy 85 degrees inside during the late afternoons and early evenings. In our house, our kids fight almost constantly, even when it’s cool and comfortable. Those four days were like Wrestlemania.
By the last day or two, we were all overheated, exhausted and cranky. Putting anything on the stove or in the oven was out of the question. One evening, I ordered pizza, but more than just our normally large family-of-eight order. I thought I’d order a few extra pies with the idea that it could be breakfast and lunch the following day — or days, even. I didn’t care. Pizza for everybody!
As I was driving to the place to pick up our order, I noticed a man walking alongside the road. He was obviously homeless. He wasn’t wearing a shirt or shoes. To hold up his ill-fitting pants, he had made suspenders out of an old rope. He was carrying his few belongings in a couple of old plastic grocery sacks.
As I drove by him, I thought about the past couple of days, how we had managed to make it seem like not having air conditioning was akin to being boiled in oil. A real tragedy. Poor us and our suffering souls.
I drove back the way I came, hoping to see the man again. He couldn’t have gotten far, I thought. It was 90 degrees and he wasn’t wearing shoes. As I approached a set of railroad tracks, I saw him walking along a line of bushes about 15 yards away. I didn’t have any money on me, but I had an embarrassing amount of pizza. I stopped my car and rolled down my window. I shouted, “Sir! Sir!” to get his attention. He didn’t turn around. The wind was noisy, and the humidity was so thick that I imagined it just absorbed my words. Finally, he saw me, and I told him that I had ordered too much pizza and that he was welcome to one if he’d like. I shoved the box out of the window in case he didn’t hear me again. To my surprise, he waved his arms and told me to go away and leave him alone. He turned away and walked back toward the tracks.
When I got home, I told my wife and kids about the man, my attempt to feed him, and him telling me to go away. My 6-year-old piped up indignantly. “Who doesn’t like pizza!?” And I agreed with my whole heart.
All that night, I was annoyed by his reaction and replayed the scene in my head over and over again. I was trying to be merciful, and he was ungrateful. Who in need rejects a gift that is freely given? And then it hit me: I do. You do. My 6-year-old does. We all do. All the time.
Think of the gifts that God offers us and that we reject. Think of the times that we’ve turned our backs on him to walk our own paths, shirtless, shoeless, maybe even hopeless. Think of the times he wanted to feed us and, ungratefully, we shouted at him to go away. I’m not any better than the poor man walking down the road; I am that poor man.
But only when we recognize what it is that we are rejecting can we eventually appreciate what is truly being offered: The cool comfort of God’s boundless mercy.
Scott Warden is managing editor of Our Sunday Visitor.
