As I pulled into the convenience store parking lot, I was drawn to a man with fuzzy gray hair sitting in his wheelchair. I parked the car but kept staring as he skillfully maneuvered his wheelchair, avoiding any potential collision. He tightly clutched a bag of chicken nuggets as he alternated one hand with the other to move closer to the end of the building. I finally stepped from the car to give him water and scripture cards to read. His marble- blue eyes glistened, and he dropped his nuggets when I bumped his arm with my clumsy self.
The panic on his face was evident—and he stared at me. He couldn’t quite reach his supper on the pavement. And he didn’t speak but did shake his head. He didn’t have legs to balance such a reach, or so I thought. But he tried anyway, and I helped, assuring him I’d replace his food.
I apologized, scrambled to my car, hurried to the nextdoor fast food restaurant, and returned with more nuggets. And while I was gone, he somehow retrieved the rest of the dirty ones (which I had said to leave) from the pavement— and they sat on his lap like a delicacy. “Don’t you want these? They’re warm. And fresh.”
