I Lied

 

I lied. 

I said that I didn’t have any cash. 

But I did. 

I had six dollars and my squirrel. 

 

I don’t know why I lied. 

I could have given him money. 

I could have helped. 

But I didn’t. 

 

And once I declared that I wasn’t a cash carrier—

Which is usually true—

I couldn’t go back on my word

Because then he’d have known I was lying. 

 

So I doubled down on my lie. 

I told him I had Euros in my wallet. 

Which was really true. 

But Euros don’t help a man stranded in Winston Salem. 

 

I told him I’d be happy to buy him something

But I didn’t know what was open in downtown at night. 

He didn’t know either, 

And he didn’t want greasy food because of its effects on his diabetic body. 

 

He had nothing with him but a blanket. 

It was his first night on the streets. 

He loved music and God and education and talking and 

I did not feel threatened by him at all. 

 

I looked him in the eye and laughed with him. 

And I kept thinking:

What if this is an angel in disguise?

And you’re lying. 

 

He was an older black man experiencing homelessness 

And I was a middle aged white woman experiencing a moral failure. 

My name is Deanna and I lied. 

His name was Russell and he knew it. 

 

God, forgive me

For knowing a man’s dignity and worth 

But not valuing his life 

Anyhow. 

 

Forgive us 

When we do stupid things

Like double down on a lie to a stranger

Because we want to save face.

 

And help us, God, to swallow our pride 

And to do better 

Whenever we sense Your voice 

Calling. 

 

Amen.