A few years ago, we took our entire family to Southern France for summer vacation. One of our days was spent in the beautiful coastal city of St. Tropez. The shopping district was buzzing as many of the locals and tourists enjoyed the energetic open-air market, designer couture stores and the many trendy restaurants that wafted smells of beignets and croissants into the electric atmosphere. Our family of 32 people wanted to go in different directions, so we split up into smaller groups and took on the intriguing and chic city.
My 9-year-old grandson Brooks was with me and wanted to go to the open market first. So, we browsed through many of the crowded kiosks that spanned an entire block. The market was nestled under big evergreen oaks and umbrella pines and felt more like a popular park than an over-crowded bazaar.
After buying a floppy hat and a few other trinkets, we were ready to visit the more “hip” designer stores. So, as I stepped off the curb to the street it was if the ground just disappeared from beneath my feet. I fell to my knees onto the jagged asphalt road, twisting my ankle in the process.
There was no rush to help me from the many passersby, even though the side walks across the street were bustling with shoppers and the outdoor café in the near distance was filled with diners. It seemed like I was… invisible. Brooks sat down next to me concerned as people walked right past us. What are we going to do Nana? His sweet angelic face seemed to be filled with apprehension. I said I don’t know – at least not yet. Everyone around us were speaking French and pre-occupied with their own lives- not mine! As I examined my bleeding knees, I was pretty sure they were all talking about me. I looked around assessing my situation.
About 6 feet away, on the other side of a lamppost to my right, I noticed a man holding out a bottle of water with its label removed. I looked at him and realized he must have been homeless. He was dirty, in tattered clothes and we were both sitting on the same curb.
Several things were going through my mind as I looked at the water bottle being offered to me. The bottle looked dirty on the outside. I looked into the face of the homeless man, and I saw compassion- for me! The dirty, possession-less man wanted to help me. Then he said in English, “to wash your knees”.
I took the bottle and told him thank you. As I cleaned the blood off my knees, I heard what sounded like disdain from a few French-speaking ladies who walked past us. I looked back at them and just shook my head at their rudeness. When I looked back at the man, he had a roll of toilet paper and was tearing some pieces off. My mind raced again as I realized he was now offering me some of his toilet paper to dry my knee. I froze. I didn’t want to take the toilet paper, but I needed to dry my wet bleeding knees.
I immediately wondered why God had humbled me to be sitting next to this dirty man as he ministered to me with items that seemed not so sanitary. I had really had no other choice. So again, I said thank you and took the pieces of toilet paper.
“You speak English”? I asked. He answered, “Yes, I speak seven languages”. I looked up in surprise. Seven? How did you learn so many? He said he used to work on ships. He would learn from his shipmates and often he would be in ports in different countries for months at a time. “It was necessary” he told me.
“Well, I sure appreciate you helping me”, I told him. “I try to give what I have”, he answered humbly. Suddenly I felt a flood of tears pour out of my eyes. “Do you have family? I asked. “A brother… in Canada“ is all he said. There seem to be sadness in his voice. I asked if I could pray for him. He agreed. After our prayer, he realized I needed a few more sheets of toilet paper for my tears. I gave him back his dirty water bottle and found some money in my purse and told him to buy some more toilet paper. He thanked me as he reluctantly took the money from my hand.
I suddenly was aware of Brooks, who was hanging on to my waist tightly and resting his head on my arm. “Oh honey, I’m ok”. I told him. He pulled me up off the curb and we both thanked the man. As we walked (or in my case limped) down the street, we talked about the experience. “Was he angel in disguise Nana”? Brooks inquired. It was at that moment, as we passed the haute couture stores of Chanel, and Louis Vuitton that I realized that just moments ago I was on the same level as the homeless man. Needing help as the many busy and affluent shoppers ignored our needs. I was so humbled.
We entered the Gucci store where I found a seat near the shoes. At first nobody wanted to help me. I’m sure my sweaty brow, windblown hair and bleeding knees didn’t meet the decorum of the store. I told them I needed a new pair of shoes as the ones I had on probably caused a fall resulting in an injury. It was not until they checked their computers to find my profile, did they treat me seriously.
So, I told the sales reps about my experience. The homeless man, the water and toilet paper. It was not a story they were used to hearing in their posh surroundings. As four more grandchildren entered the store with bags from Dior and Givenchy to find me, the sales people began to realize I truly had an experience that was worth listening to. One lady whispered, I’m glad you helped that man. I immediately quipped, “No ma’am that man actually helped me”.
