A Thanksgiving Story

Last night, as I exited the restaurant where I had gone to pick up some takeout food for my wife and me, a man walked around my car from the parking lot, his eyes lowered, a grocery bag of clothing in one hand. "I've been homeless for a couple of days," he said. "Could you help me out with a hot meal?"
He looked up briefly as he asked, and there was something in those eyes that spoke of real need. "I sure could," I said. I dug in my wallet, the same wallet that moments before I had rummaged through without a thought to pay for the night's dinner for Ann and me. I handed him two fives. "That ought to do it," I said.
He thanked me quickly and darted off. I watched him, wondering where he was headed. My normal thought process when someone asks for money or stands on the corner with a sign is to not give because I don't want to be feeding a drug habit or helping an alcoholic get more booze. Part of me was worried that I had just done that with this guy.
Instead, I watched as he made is way across six lanes of traffic in a beeline for KFC. I knew then that I had truly helped someone who actually needed it, my hand began to move around my body to pat myself on the back.

And then one of the wolves in me began to whimper. This man needed more than food. Where was he going to go? How was he going to stay warm that night when the temperature got down in the 20s? I thought about going over there and giving him my coat, but I didn't do it. I thought about maybe offering him a ride to the homeless shelter, but I didn't do that either. Needing to make it home to relieve my wife who had had a tough day, burning a couple of pies and such, I did nothing else
Later last night, the wolf within began to howl.