“A quick reflection as the holidays approach.”
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Last weekend, I had the chance to make a quick trip back to my hometown of Pittsburgh. A good friend invited me in for a doubleheader of football — watching our alma mater, the University of Pittsburgh, take on Notre Dame on Saturday, followed by the Pittsburgh Steelers facing the Cincinnati Bengals on Sunday. Both games played in the same stadium, and the entire weekend served as a welcome excuse to reconnect with a few long-valued friends.
Rest assured, this note isn’t about the football games or a nostalgic travel recap – it’s pointing somewhere else.
As is my habit, I like to take a long walk through the streets of my hometown in the evening—after the games when the day settles and there are no commitments pulling me. It’s my quiet time, a chance to see whether old favorite restaurants are still standing and to let the memories surface. I hadn’t stayed downtown in several years, so this walk felt especially meaningful.
Pittsburgh is a remarkably beautiful city, where three rivers carve their way through rolling hills and countless bridges rise in every direction, giving the city its unmistakable character. An unfortunate reality, however, is that Pittsburgh—like so many American cities—has a significant homeless population living on its streets. To the casual observer, their numbers seem to ebb and flow, giving the occasional illusion that the situation might be improving, though for those living it, little truly changes. Pittsburgh’s winters can be unforgiving, and survival requires a toughness that’s hard to fathom. Yet even on this mild autumn weekend, I sensed a level of desperation in their circumstances that was jarring, even to someone like me who is anything but naïve.
One man in particular, standing outside a convenience store, caught my attention. He wore a tattered winter coat, his long gray hair matted, and a shaggy beard masking a reddish, weather-worn face. He seemed harmless enough but what made him impossible to overlook was that he had only one shoe—the other foot covered by nothing more than a thin white sweat sock, a literal recipe for disaster in a cold-weather city. I tend to carry myself a bit differently when walking through urban areas, so I made a mental note and kept moving. But the image stayed with me long after I passed him.
Later that evening, I crossed back over the renowned Roberto Clemente Bridge, ducked into a local pub, and ordered a chicken wrap with a vodka cocktail. The temperatures were beginning to drop, and autumn was giving its first real hints of the winter ahead. Sitting at the bar, I called my wife back home in Texas and told her about the man with only one shoe. She surprised me with a simple comment: “You should give him your shoes.” I had an extra pair in my hotel room for working out, so I knew exactly what she meant—but I was caught off guard, and frankly a little angry with myself, for not thinking of it first. It should have occurred to me, and it didn’t. By that hour, we both agreed it was too late—and perhaps not entirely safe—to go searching through the streets for the single-shoe stranger. But if I’m ever faced with a similar situation again, and the circumstances feel safe, I’ll set aside my “street-smarts” long enough to choose compassion.
Perhaps all of us could do a bit more of that and especially with the holidays fast approaching.
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