$100 Cash and a Big Bag of Jerky

The Man With the Cardboard Sign

The sign the older man held read, "Cash or Food Please." I saw him from the warm front seat of our car as my son and I drove past—and I cringed, thinking about his bare hands and face out in that bone-chilling Wyoming cold.

Just before that exit, we'd had our own brush with how fast life can spin out of your hands. Going about sixty, we'd hit a sudden sheet of black ice that covered the whole road, and for a few terrifying seconds we had no control at all over where the car would go. My son—who'd only had his permit a matter of months—kept his eyes forward, his hands steady, and didn't panic. He didn't overcorrect. He used the car's own momentum to ease us back onto the highway rather than risk stopping and getting stuck. I told him, over and over, how proud I was. We were in a stretch of eastern Wyoming where an ambulance could have taken hours to reach us. It could have gone so differently.

And as I sat there, still shaky, and looked at the man with the sign, a thought settled over me: life can send any of us skidding off the road without warning. I found myself wondering what black ice had sent him spinning to where he now stood, holding a piece of cardboard in the cold.

Stopping

I told my son I wanted to help him. While he pumped the gas, I went inside for the ATM, and though I wanted to give more, I tucked five twenties into my purse—enough, I hoped, to get the man closer to wherever he was trying to go. I grabbed a big bag of jerky, too.

A man behind me in line remarked that the fellow outside should "get a job instead of asking for money." Gently, I told him a little of my own story—that a few years back I couldn't speak, couldn't write, was losing my sight, and could barely walk or breathe, and that if it hadn't been for my family, I might have ended up on the street myself. He waved it off: "Ah, somebody would've taken you in." I told him quietly that my father had passed years earlier, and that not everyone has a soft place to land. He went silent. I hoped, just maybe, his heart softened a degree or two.

Why I can't look away

I have that much compassion for the hurting because I've been that helpless.

At my very worst, I flew to a clinic in Mexico searching for answers, and on my first night there I was so weak I couldn't even find the strength to press the call button. Through some mix-up, I was left alone far longer than I should have been—drifting in and out of consciousness, struggling to breathe, wondering if I would simply be found too late. When an administrator finally walked in and realized how long I'd been there, he rushed out, and within minutes nurses were at my side with an IV.

And then came the earth angels. A cleaning woman set down her work, appointed herself my adopted mother on the spot, and from that moment on she stroked my hair, helped me eat and drink, and told me again and again that I was going to be okay—that God had me, and that everyone there was praying for the wisdom to help me. I believed her. Surrounded by strangers who treated me like their own, I somehow knew I would survive.

I had almost no money for any of it. Before I left, in a brief window when I could move my hands, I'd managed to write a plea for help online. By the time I landed, kind people—including a sister-in-law who gave more than I could have imagined—had already begun to give. When I tearfully told my doctor I still didn't have enough and had asked my sister to sell my piano, he answered simply: your life is worth more to me than money. Relax. God will provide. Weeks of IVs, one surgery, and a great deal of grace later, I walked out of there on my own two feet, just before my fortieth birthday.

I know what it is to be completely dependent on the mercy of others. You don't forget that.

Trusting the nudge

After I paid, I asked my son to pull up beside the man. My son, thoughtful boy, worried aloud that I'd be "encouraging panhandling." I understood his point, and I told him there's wisdom in how and when we give—but also this: "When God touches your heart to do something, you don't always get to see the whole picture. He knows that person's heart. I hope you'll have the faith to obey the nudge."

I slipped the bills into the bag with the jerky, rolled down the window, and handed it over. He glimpsed the money, waved back, and thanked me with his eyes—no words. I had to swallow the tears. The grey beard, the beanie, those clear blue eyes… he looked so much like my father.

We drove on in silence for a while. I know some people take advantage of kindness. But I've decided I'd rather risk being generous to the wrong person than harden my heart to the right one. Any of us could be that man. He might be a veteran, or carrying an injury, or an illness, or a grief no one can see. Compassion doesn't require us to know the whole story first.

The dream I carry

That same day, I'd seen a post from a man with chronic illness who'd lost nearly everything—his business, his savings, and soon, it seemed, his home—now facing a Pennsylvania winter in a car that wouldn't run. My heart ached and my mind spun with how could I help?

It's stories like his that fuel a dream I hold close. One day, I want to build little places—I call them Celiac Shacks—where people worn thin by chronic illness could find warmth, a meal, rest, dignity, and someone who actually understands. Where learning how food and movement affect the body could be part of the care, walking right alongside real medical help. I dream of a world where shelters and social workers and teachers better recognize the invisible illnesses that get mistaken for so many other things, so fewer people fall through the cracks.

Making the mess a message

Twenty years ago, when I had to leave my dance major at college because my body was failing me, my bishop laid his hands on my head to give me a blessing of comfort. He said, "You've been given your trials for a reason. One day, you will share your message with the world."

I rolled my eyes. I shook his hand politely and, the moment he left, collapsed to the floor and crawled up the stairs to my room, aching as I watched my friends drive off to a church adventure I was far too weak to join. So much life, I thought, was being wasted.

Then I turned on the music—the very piece my dance company was choreographing, the rehearsals I couldn't attend. And there alone in my room, able to move nothing but my arms and hands, I danced. Slowly. Straight from my heart. It was some of the most authentic dancing I have ever done.

My trials taught me to dance like that—honestly, from the deepest place—and they taught me a compassion I might never have learned any other way. So now, when I see someone hurting or forgotten, I don't want to look away. I want to wrap my arms around them.

If you're reading this in your own hard season, please hear me: turn to God for the answers meant specifically for you. Work with people you trust, advocate for yourself, listen to your body, and never stop searching for what truly helps you heal—everyone's road looks a little different. And take heart, because somebody out there needs exactly the hard-won wisdom you're gathering right now.

May we each work, this coming year, to love a little more and judge a little less. You never know what invisible black ice sent someone spinning—or how close they are to finding their way back onto the road.

Let's help each other make our mess our message.

With much love,

Steffi