I bought dinner for a homeless man this week. I had stopped on my way home from work to get a good healthy dinner I didn’t have to cook myself. It’s a challenge to find those places these days, but a few made my list. I walked to the register, and a man approached me. He wasn’t clean, but he had made an attempt. His clothes were worn. He asked me a question, but the words didn’t quite make it past his lips. I asked him to repeat his question with the oh-so-genteel, “What?”

He looked down, staring at his hands as he repeated, “I’m living on the streets. Could you help me get a little something for dinner?”

He didn’t give me a creepy feeling. The one where your gut is screaming at you to get away—now. He didn’t ask me for money like a panhandler on a street corner. He asked for food. I obliged.

He wasn’t swindling me. He wasn’t looking for cash for quick fix. He seemed rational, but embarrassed of his situation. He may have been panhandling just before. I don’t know. He may have been able to scrape together enough change for a few side dishes or an entire meal. Somehow, it didn’t matter to me. He was straightforward. He asked for a dinner, and I chose to provide it.

The manager and staff angered me about the entire situation. The staff member at the register watched him approach me and mumble his question. Without waiting for my reaction, she ran to the back to get the manager. Shortly, three people stood behind the counter staring at this man as he ordered dinner. He was humbled enough having to ask a stranger for food. He checked with me before each item. Could he order a quarter chicken meal? Could he get an extra side? I nodded for him to go on. The staff was short with him and tried several times to talk him out of his order.

After we both finished, the manager asked me if my order was, “for here or to go.” I let him know I would dine in, and the homeless man responded with the same answer. This seemed to surprise the manager. The homeless man seemed to shrink. The twinge of anger in the manager’s response hurt even me. This impoverished man sulked to a table in the corner away from the other patrons. He was conscious of his place, remaining in sight of the register the entire time. The manager apologized to me, “…for the situation.” Really? I’m feeding a man. You’re the one being mean.

The counter staff watched the man as he sat in the corner eating his dinner. I know they wanted to push him out of the restaurant. People can’t handle seeing poverty up close, and the manager didn’t want customers to walk out. Some things in our society are embarrassing. We want to keep them hidden. Who is going to fix these things if we can’t see them? We need to be scared. We need to fear we could be in the same shoes as this man one day. Maybe then we’d realize we would want someone to help us.