It was dark outside, about seven or eight o’ clock at night, a few days just before Christmas. I had just sat down at the small table by the window in a Winston-Salem McDonald’s. My Fillet o’ Fish combo was sitting on the brown plastic tray, hot and ready to eat. I rubbed my hands together and shook off the chill from outside that still lingered with me. It had been a long day at work, and I had just finished with some Christmas shopping at the mall. A quiet, hot fast-food meal was the only thing on my mind, and of course, getting back home before it got much later.

As I began eating, I noticed that a weather-beaten, scruffy looking white old man was sitting two tables across from me, and we were facing each other. He hadn’t any tray of food in front of him, just a newspaper he was reading. I continued to eat my hot fish sandwich. I felt somewhat awkward for some reason. A couple of times he looked up from reading, and we made eye contact, which I promptly broke by looking down at my food, or out the window at the traffic stopped at the light at Stratford Road. Soon, the man finished with his reading and got up to leave. As he approached the table where I was sitting, he suddenly reached over toward the windowsill, between my table and the next, and picked up a cigarette out of the small black ashtray that was sitting there. It shocked me to see this, but I instinctively had the impression that he’d done it before, as he showed no hint of self-consciousness about it. He then walked outside. The exit was behind me. I turned to see if he was actually going to smoke the cigarette, and sure enough he had it already lit, exhaling the gray smoke into the cold night air. I watched him walk off toward Stratford, disappearing out of sight. I wondered if he was homeless.

Not long after that, someone walked right by the window alongside what looked like a young girl’s bicycle. I couldn’t make out the person’s face, but I could tell that some time ago the bicycle had been a shiny pink and white. Now it was a dirty, ancient, rusty contraption that seemed out of place and a little small for the adult who was leaning it against the shrubbery outside. A couple of black garbage bags hung from the rust and silver handlebars, and swung heavy as its owner entered the McDonald’s.

The bicycle owner walked by me and sat down at the same table in the same seat that the old man had just occupied. She had a small black plastic bag with her, from which she pulled out a small box, and then placed it back into the bag. Was it food or a container of something to drink? I couldn’t tell. I continued to eat my fries, trying not to stare. But I did glimpse at her. She was a small, black woman of about mid-forties, wearing a weathered blue hooded sweatshirt and jeans. She looked exhausted. She sniffled, and seemed to have a cold. She laid her arms upon the table and rested her head on top of them.

As I was finishing my dinner, I realized she wasn’t going to get anything to eat. She was homeless and somehow I knew it. That bicycle and the bags on it were probably all she had in the world. It was cold outside and she came in here for a moment of warmth and quiet. I had finished and got up to throw my trash away. Standing there, I felt I needed to do something. I turned and walked over to the lady at the table and said, “Excuse me. Excuse me, Ma’am.” She raised her head and looked at me, a tear seemed stuck to the corner of her right eye. “Would you like something to eat?” I asked her. “That would be nice,” she replied. “What would you like to have?” I asked. “Oh, a hamburger would be fine,” she said. “How about a Quarter Pounder with cheese?” “That would be nice.” “OK,” I said, “I’ll be right back.”

I went to the counter to order her the Quarter Pounder. I wondered if it would be enough. Maybe a Big Mac would be better, or one of the Chicken meals? I suddenly felt terrible. Is this all I can do, a fast food meal? But we were in McDonalds, and these are the choices. I ordered the Quarter Pounder combo with a Coke, and then asked the young girl behind the counter to add to that a ten-piece chicken nugget box in a to-go bag. I brought these to the tired woman who was still resting her head by the window. I made some verbal gesture to let her know I’d returned with some food for her and placed the tray in the space that was available in front of her. She didn’t respond, so I touched her shoulder. She raised her head and I repeated what I had said, and she replied, “Thank you.” I said she was welcome and gently told her good night. I turned to walk away, when from behind me the woman’s soft, cracked voice said, “Merry Christmas.” Of course, Merry Christmas, how could I forget? I turned and looked back, “Merry Christmas to you also.” She then rested her head again down on her arms. I walked out, got in my car and went on my way home.

As I was driving home down 52, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t done enough for her. I wrestled with my unsettled thoughts. So, I bought her some food, big deal. I should feel good about it, but how in the world could I really? It was freezing outside! All she had on was a hooded sweatshirt. Maybe she had something on underneath, but so what. I could have given her my coat! Why hadn’t I thought of that? It’s not a special coat, and I had my car to keep me warm. I could’ve done at least that! I thought about turning around and going back. I felt miserable, guilty. I could just give her my coat, I kept thinking to myself. Or even a hug, just one simple hug. How long has it been since anyone ever hugged her? Probably a long time, I’d guess. But I didn’t even do that. Not even a hug. Why? Was I afraid of “catching something”? I felt pathetic. But I didn’t turn around. No, I was heading home. I was going home. And still, I felt terrible, like I wanted to cry, like I wanted to scream at the entire world and at myself. Why did I feel such a sense of shame? Tears formed in my eyes but didn’t dare roll down my face. I felt choked-up. And I thought to myself how it was as though the whole modern story of America had just played itself out right there in that McDonald’s. Here, one person with everything, and here, one person with nothing. I was going home to the warmth and comfort of a house and loved ones, to a hot shower and clean bed, and she was going…where? To a cold, dark enclave somewhere, like a highway overpass? I just couldn’t imagine. And in my heart I knew she was alone. It was strange how I suddenly felt that way too.

As I approached my home, the engraving on the Statue of Liberty came to mind: “Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…” I wondered what was wrong with me. Why didn’t I do more? I just don’t know. Sometimes I want to think I am above it all, but I know I’m not. How many of us really are? But we want to think so, don’t we? It’s easy to do while in the comfort of a clean, warm home, with clean clothes on our backs and a belly full of food. Ultimately, however, it doesn’t matter how religious or caring any of us are, or even the little that we may do that contributes to helping others. The truth is, the tired, the poor, the huddled masses surround us every single day. We are all smack in the middle of them – and in the end, they are us.

In the richest nation on earth, I ask you, how is this possible? Something is wrong. Is it selfishness? Is it lack of true compassion? Is it fear? I really do not know. Where are our leaders? Where are all the pious clergy people from the churches, synagogues, and temples? Where are the scholars, the teachers, the lawyers, doctors, and the people of wealth, status and power? Where are the people from the middle class? Can we not find the solution together? Do we even want to find the solution? Maybe that last one is the real question we all need to address some day.

Days later, I wondered where they were now, the cigarette man and the woman in the blue hooded sweatshirt. They will never know that there is a stranger thinking of them today, hoping they are well, especially the woman who so much affected me that night, just before Christmas. Is she warm today? I will never really know. But I will always know how she could have been. If only…if only.

Being aware of that one man and one woman, and knowing of the countless others out there who are also tired, hungry and homeless, sometimes I just want to hide. Sometimes all I want to do is get out there and rally everyone to stand together and really make a profound and meaningful difference in this country and in this world.

And sometimes I just wish for a simple miracle.

Robert Healy