Mercy

It was May in Arizona, and the only slightly appealing place to eat in the tiny highway town was a fast-food restaurant. I was on a cross-country road trip taking my daughter back to her college town. Sighing at the limitations of our choices, we stopped to grab some lunch. After placing our order, I turned and found myself face-to-face with a small woman carrying a listless child.

“Excuse me, sir. Can you buy me some food? I have children. Please, sir, have mercy.”

Have mercy.

Mercy? My gut reaction was swift, her use of the word immediately making me picture a cinematic, heartfelt plea for leniency. Perhaps that was an unconscious expression of my own privilege, my own belonging to a historically oppressive group of society. Still, I did not feel like the oppressor in a transaction between two strangers in a fast-food restaurant. Besides, she really looked hungry. So I agreed to her request and asked what she wanted. She mentioned a combo meal, the child on her hip watching me timidly. Sheepishly, I looked at the price before consenting.

She asked if we could order at the counter, instead of using the self-ordering screen in front of us. Again, I agreed. We went up to the counter and she ordered the combo meal. As I reached for my wallet to pay for the meal, she very quickly rattled off several more meals and a number of add-ons. I watched, dismayed, as the numbers slipped upward to a shocking total (even for McDonald’s). She then turned to me and said, “Thank you, sir.” Her simple words stopped my protest, her face lined with definitive gratitude and sadness.

I felt trapped. My sinful heart reacted with an unspoken feeling that I had been duped by a person who had done this before. What was I to do?

Suddenly, the word “mercy” became much more real. A stranger specifically asked me for help, something I had been taught to expect, and even look for, in countless sermons, Sunday school lessons, and Scripture readings. My neighbor stood before me, and I was faced with a choice. Was I willing to love them as I love myself? I knew the answer had to be yes.

Despite this, I felt a tinge of resentment, followed by guilt. Reluctantly, I pulled out my card and paid. My daughter and I waited awkwardly until our food was ready, then walked out without saying goodbye to the woman.

By silent mutual agreement, we got in our car and waited, waiting for the woman to emerge. We were curious, but we were probably also ready to play judge and jury for the women’s situation. We wanted to see how badly we’d been fooled. After a few minutes, she came out to two vehicles that were parked next to each other.

Three adult men exited the vehicles, along with several more children. The vehicles were brimming with suitcases, boxes, and clothes, almost as if they were in a caravan. Many of the windows seemed covered with fabric, and the cars were dirty, as if they had been collecting road dust for miles. Questions peppered my thoughts. What was the story of this group? Were they traveling somewhere? Were they family? Was this all they had?

I replayed the sequence of events in my mind. The men had not come into the restaurant. Instead, the woman had entered, carrying a child. She may very well have told the truth, since she volunteered her status as a mother of children. Was it wrong that she did not tell me about the other members of her family that I would also be feeding? Was she manipulating her situation to make me pity her? Would I have agreed to her request if she had presented all aspects of her plan up front? Was I the one at fault for not asking more questions up front?

None of these questions would have answers unless I decided to exit my vehicle and ask—which I didn’t. As we drove away, my daughter and I talked about context. If I had all my family with me, plus a set of parents or a couple of friends, would I have happily paid the bill for the meal without thinking about it? Quite possibly. And if I was willing to display my love for my family through generosity, surely I am similarly called to love the stranger.

The woman exemplified that asking for help requires courage and vulnerability, no matter the circumstances. While I did not plan on covering the bill for strangers in every restaurant we visited, I could afford what the woman asked me to purchase that day. God had given me resources, and I was reminded that I should never refer to money in the bank as “mine.”

Deuteronomy 15 reminds us to give generously, and “not let your heart be grieved when you do so.” If I am honest, that day gave me a few moments of grief. I am grateful that God forgives our lack of faith, like when we forget that he might put people in our path so that we have an opportunity to show mercy.

May we continually ask God to open our hearts to whatever we encounter each day. There may be times where we utilize prayerful discernment and give something besides money, food, or other resources. Our default should always be a generous spirit, filled with joy and gratitude for what we have been given. Have mercy.