Waiting for my taxi to carry me to home from the grocery, saw an older man laying on the sidewalk in front of Winn Dixie.
Having gotten hauled, at least twice, to Emergency Rooms when chronic anemia, urinary tract infections, and alcoholism prompted militant Samaritans near my apartment to call authorities, did not want to disturb his repose.
Jesus, the Winn Dixie guy kind of agreed with me, that as long as reclining fellow didn't bother anyone, we probably shouldn't bother him.
But what if the gent had actually fallen ill and fell, Jesus? The paramedics should check him out? Right?
At this juncture, let me confess my conceit, my constant conversation with Jesus, like those Father Don Camillo had ( The Little World of Don Camillo), myself hearing His voice as a small, still whisper in the silence of the night, maybe the last vesitige of my conscience that have so far failed to completely excise.
So honest to God, asked Jesus what I ought to do last night but His Son does not often answer me direct but makes me think things through and raises a gentle eyebrow or sad, sweet, understanding smile when hearing my justifications for actions as well failures to act.
Then, the fellow began groaning, a low sound starting in the abyss of human suffering, a moan of pain.
"OK, Lord, I get it, that Samaritan thing You parabled 'bout," and rolled the electric scooter around stored carts to approach him.
"Sir, are you OK? Can I call someone for you?"
"I'm fine," came back the ragged, rheumy rasp, followed by that low sound, now heard as deep, guttural, chuckle, not a sound of pain but maybe still a sound from the abyss of the human soul where tragedy dances with comedy because the pain and loss and love of each human springs from there.
The taxi came and took me and my groceries and butter pecan half price half gallon of ice cream to my hacienda where I pray today the gentleman lived and wished to have called the emt's and Jesus still ain't let me know if I did right last night.