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Compassionately Struck

Updated on January 19, 2018

A rare Friday morning

It was one of those rare mornings when I desired to go downtown for breakfast at one of those places sprouting those famed golden arches. I worked in the city anyway, and I figured the trek wouldn't be too much out of my way. And it was a Friday! That also meant that I didn't have a lot of cash in my pocket. But, then, ah, I realized it was also a payday, that meaning too that more money was on the way.

Scrounging about I managed to scrape together a little change. I desirously hoped it was enough to satisfy my craving. I then set out on my journey.

In a little while, I reached my destination. Upon entering the restaurant, I pleasantly discovered I did have enough money in my "cash pocket" to purchase a good breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and hash browns. Soon – as what perhaps "fast food" implies – there before me on a tray was my order, ready for me to devour. Ah, but not so fast as I received the food, but to patiently enjoy my meal.

Handing the clerk my nearly last bit of cash, I then sought a table where I could begin dining. Seating myself then, yet before "digging" in, I thanked the Lord Jesus for this bit of nourishment to enable me to do my job well for His glory.

Something out of the ordinary

As I dined, I scanned the interior of the building. In my presence it was all adorned in pink; artificial plants and flowers arranged neatly throughout. Turning about, there behind me appeared another room of a little different décor than what was before me. That place was of red colored brick and entered through a series of simulated brick archways.

Chattering voices throughout the restaurant reminded me that I was not alone in that place. Others too were there enjoying their breakfast before the start of their day of business or study, that restaurant located near the university campus. Some were reading the morning newspaper as well. Some were well dressed, some casually so. Hence, I assumed some were business and professional people; some were students.

Continuing looking around enjoying my meal, suddenly something out of the ordinary caught my eye entering that McDonald's. Somewhat different from what was already inside, a tall, slim figure of a man – gray-haired and gray-bearded. His hair uncombed, probably windblown. He wore a light-colored topcoat, dirty and wrinkled. In his fingers at chest level, he held a dollar bill, perhaps having been given him by someone on the street.


The man approached the counter and waited in line, still holding that dollar bill before him. A nervous gesture slightly twitched his head. Shortly it was his turn. He placed his order and handed the girl behind the counter that bill. She took it and turned away. The girl soon returned, however, giving that man a regular cup of coffee with a package of cream and sugar.

With one hand he grasped the cup of coffee; with the other, he dropped the change from that dollar into his coat pocket, after examining it a bit. He turned about and returned to the direction of his entrance. Vanishing out of my sight, he seated himself on the other side of a wall – the last I could see of him.

Finished with a sigh

Hm-m, I sighed, finishing up the last bit of my meal that morning at that breakfast table in McDonald's. Suddenly I was struck with compassion for that man with the dollar bill in his hand.

If I had the money would I buy that man a breakfast such as I had bought for myself? Would Jesus? (I believe He would.)

How many other people in that restaurant could have afforded to buy that man a decent breakfast such as they bought for themselves? How many would?

I finished my dining. Disposing of the trash in the proper, provided receptacle, I headed toward the exit. As I left the restaurant, I glanced at that man fondling the now empty coffee cup.

"Oh, Lord Jesus, compel me more with compassion like Yours that would reach out to others as that man that would touch their lives with Your love," I prayed as I left that McDonald's restaurant with my satisfied appetite.

© 2016 Charles Newcombe

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