It was late February in Indianapolis. The snow had finally stopped. Cars driving through the salted streets created a four inch layer of cold sloppy mess. We were parked in front of the White Castle. A large tarp covered the boxes of clothes in the back of the truck. Steve had opened the side doors to the van and a faint smell of garlic, chicken noodle soup drifted through the air. Dorothy had just placed a sandwich, banana, and eggs into a snack bag.

“No eggs,” Larry said, “I don’t care for eggs.” Steve handed him a cup of soup. Larry looked carefully at the mixture. He sniffed it and carefully spooned a drop or two onto his tongue. “Thanks.”

He then came to the truck. “Do you have socks and underwear?”

“Sure,” I said reaching for the sock box. I handed him a pair of new white crew socks.  I then opened the underwear box. As a regular at the White Castle I knew his size. I handed him a pair of large briefs.

“Would you like some water?”

“Sure,” Larry replied. He took the water, thanked me and walked away.

We helped a few others with food, socks, gloves and found a winter coat for another. I looked over to the White Castle and saw Larry by the door. He opened the bottle, sniffed it and poured it out onto the drive. Replacing the cap, he put the empty bottle into the bag with his snacks. I had to grin. Poor Larry’s paranoia was greater than his thirst.

I turned my head an saw a tall black man wearing a long overcoat cross South Street, coming toward us. He walked with a strange gait, shuffling through the sloppy street. He looked at me with a great sadness in his eyes. “Do you have any shoes?” he asked.

“What size do you wear?” I replied.

“Thirteen.”

Just that afternoon someone had donated a pair of size thirteen work boots.

I looked down at his feet. He was wearing a pair of old size ten wing-tips. His heels stuck out behind his shoes. His feet were drenched in the sleet. I opened the back door of the truck and pulled out the boots. “Will these work?”
He nodded and looked at his blue numb hands and asked, “Can you help me with them?”

We walked around to the back of the truck. I knelt down and slipped off one shoe, put on  a dry sock and one of the boots.  It fit perfectly. As I was lacing up the boot, I heard him mumbling, “Thank You Jesus, Thank You Jesus, Thank You Jesus.”

After getting him into the other boot, I took him back to Steve to get a hot cup of soup.

Looking back I can’t recall what happened to the old pair of shoes he was wearing. I’m not sure we ever saw that man before, or ever again.  I am sure, however, that night, God was watching over that man and the one who had donated those boots. It’s in those moments that we also feel His  presence as He allows us to be His hands and feet.

Don Beckwith