Cold. Frigid in fact. Salt-stained sidewalks and deceptive patches of black ice.

Walk. Same loop in fact. Obligation to take the pooch out to relieve herself.

Man. Homeless in fact. Encircled in a tight den of his only possessions.

“Can I get something for you, Sir? A hot chocolate perhaps.”

“Nah, no thanks.”

“You sure? It’s so cold.”

“Ya. I’m good.” The Man had a couple of small crumpled up Starbucks bags next to him. “I’ve had so much.”

Speechless. Stunned in fact. On a deadly-cold day, this Man was satisfied with a few pastries and one hot beverage.

I walked back to my warm and well decorated apartment, with its stocked cabinets and hot running water, with its tea kettle and heating pad, with its blankets and furry slippers and fluffy carpets.

I have so much, and yet I’m so concerned about not having enough.

He has so little, and yet he is so sure about having enough.

Why wouldn’t the Man accept my gift? Why wouldn’t He store it away for later? Are there not three meals in a day? How does He know He will have enough later when the night comes and the cold’s icy reign runs unfettered ’til dawn?

He must have hope. Faith in fact.

And so should I.