Donald Vish is an attorney with the firm Middleton Reutlinger in Louisville, Kentucky and serves as president of the Board of Interfaith Paths to Peace.
Sometime after the new millennium, I incurred a debt .Today, it remains unpaid. And it’s grown.It is relevant to my story to tell you that on the day of myepiphany, my car is a Mercedes -Benz being serviced in St.Matthews; my shirt is c custom made, suit tailored , shoesbench-made and the cufflinks are gold . My pocket moneyis folded in a silver money clip: five $20 bills.As I walked to lunch, I crossed Chestnut Street nearThird. A passing bus advertised a special fa re: 25 cents.While crossing, I had a flashback from my youth in the50’s. The bus-stop at Chestnut and Third provides serviceto St . Matthews. So, I decided to skip lunch and ride thebus to pick up my car.I got on the bus, pulled out a $20 bill, extended it in thedirection of the driver who ignored it (and me) and saidin a voice addressed to the world-at-large, “ The fare is aquarter.” I said, “ Take it out of this $20.” The driver said,“We don’t make change. The fare is a quarter.”I said, “I don’t have a quarter. What do I do?”The driver said , “ Get off the bus—and get correctchange.”I want to pause for a moment, while you take in what Ijust told you .Many thoughts raced through my mind: Is this how it feelsto be poor? Is this what it feels like to be powerless? Isthis what it feels like to be other?By some standards, I was a rich man—but I lacked thecoin of the realm. Neither my gold cufflinks nor my silvertongue could keep me on that bus; my trappings were useless,worthless. I needed a quarter and didn’t have one.As the bus door opened for my departure, an old, whitehairedwoman seated in the back of the bus, bent overfrom age and care, a woman who was no taller standingthan she was sitting, rose with the aid of a cane and saidin a strong mezzo soprano voice, “I will pay his fare.”The driver stayed in place pending her a arrival at the farebox knowing that she couldn’t walk on a moving bus. Shearrived, dropped a quarter in the fare box and returnedto her seat. Stunned speechless by the events that hadjust unfolded, I sat down.As we approached St. Matthews, she rang the bell signalingher intention to get off at the next stop. I knewthis stop well. There is nothing there. Never has been.It’s just a large vacant parking lot, a convenient stagingarea for day-workers, such as domestics, to wait for theiremployers to pick them up. I got off with her. She toldme she did ironing.I reached into my pocket, pulled out the five $20 bills, extendedthem to her and said, “Here, give these to your minister onSunday.”“No, no,” she said. “That’s not the way charity works. Youmust now do for others what I have done for you.”Ladies and gentlemen, not a day goes by that I am nothounded and haunted by her injunction. And the moreI give, the more I owe her for making me a truly richman.
Sometime after the new millennium, I incurred a debt .Today, it remains unpaid. And it’s grown.It is relevant to my story to tell you that on the day of myepiphany, my car is a Mercedes -Benz being serviced in St.Matthews; my shirt is c custom made, suit tailored , shoesbench-made and the cufflinks are gold . My pocket moneyis folded in a silver money clip: five $20 bills.As I walked to lunch, I crossed Chestnut Street nearThird. A passing bus advertised a special fa re: 25 cents.While crossing, I had a flashback from my youth in the50’s. The bus-stop at Chestnut and Third provides serviceto St . Matthews. So, I decided to skip lunch and ride thebus to pick up my car.I got on the bus, pulled out a $20 bill, extended it in thedirection of the driver who ignored it (and me) and saidin a voice addressed to the world-at-large, “ The fare is aquarter.” I said, “ Take it out of this $20.” The driver said,“We don’t make change. The fare is a quarter.”I said, “I don’t have a quarter. What do I do?”The driver said , “ Get off the bus—and get correctchange.”I want to pause for a moment, while you take in what Ijust told you .Many thoughts raced through my mind: Is this how it feelsto be poor? Is this what it feels like to be powerless? Isthis what it feels like to be other?By some standards, I was a rich man—but I lacked thecoin of the realm. Neither my gold cufflinks nor my silvertongue could keep me on that bus; my trappings were useless,worthless. I needed a quarter and didn’t have one.As the bus door opened for my departure, an old, whitehairedwoman seated in the back of the bus, bent overfrom age and care, a woman who was no taller standingthan she was sitting, rose with the aid of a cane and saidin a strong mezzo soprano voice, “I will pay his fare.”The driver stayed in place pending her a arrival at the farebox knowing that she couldn’t walk on a moving bus. Shearrived, dropped a quarter in the fare box and returnedto her seat. Stunned speechless by the events that hadjust unfolded, I sat down.As we approached St. Matthews, she rang the bell signalingher intention to get off at the next stop. I knewthis stop well. There is nothing there. Never has been.It’s just a large vacant parking lot, a convenient stagingarea for day-workers, such as domestics, to wait for theiremployers to pick them up. I got off with her. She toldme she did ironing.I reached into my pocket, pulled out the five $20 bills, extendedthem to her and said, “Here, give these to your minister onSunday.”“No, no,” she said. “That’s not the way charity works. Youmust now do for others what I have done for you.”Ladies and gentlemen, not a day goes by that I am nothounded and haunted by her injunction. And the moreI give, the more I owe her for making me a truly richman.
posted by Interfaith Paths to Peace at 12:04 PM
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