I left the dime in the rental car.
I went through the arm rest and wadded up the napkins. I grabbed the empty coffee cups. I took the half empty bottle of Purell and even checked to see if anything was left in the trunk. I threw it all away.
But I left the dime in the cupholder.
I had considered grabbing it. Stopped to think about taking it with me. Ten cents? Nah, I told myself. I’m not a rich man, but I can afford to leave a dime. It’s too much trouble. I don’t want it rattling around in my pocket with keys. What am I going to do with a dime anyway?
So I left it behind. I couldn’t throw it away. And I’m feeling awfully guilty now about even thinking that way.
For the third year, I spent my Labor Day weekend with a bunch of college journalism students in Hollywood, Florida. An organization called the COSAC Foundation runs a homeless shelter there and publishes its own newspaper, the Homeless Voice. It’s sold on street corners around the city. The money raised from those papers helps keep the shelter running.
Each year the Society of Professional Journalists hosts a program at the shelter called, “Will Write for Food.” College students from across the country come in to take over the paper — write stories, shoot photos, produce videos, layout the pages — all within 36 hours.
It’s a whirlwind, and I still haven’t caught up on my sleep.
Every year I go down as an adviser with Flagler College students, I come back inspired. These young journalists overcome intense situations and real fears. They push themselves to find compelling, gut-wrenching stories. They turn out great work in very little time.
Every year I realize something else: How lucky I have it. How much I take for granted. How appreciative I should be for the things I have.
Which is why I’m struggling with that decision to leave the dime behind.
The residents at the shelter don’t pass up a coin. Any coin. They spend long days in the punishing South Florida heat selling newspapers on street corners. This time of year the money slows down, they tell you. Most of the tourists have gone home, and the donations start to dry up. As they prowl the medians in pink Homeless Voice T-shirts, the plastic tubs don’t fill up so quick. So every cent counts.
They return to the shelter in the afternoon with their buckets. They sit in a dark, cramped hallway as they wait to turn the change and crumpled bills in at the office. As they sit and talk, the buckets jingle. All those shiny, precious coins.
The money from the newspaper helps keep the shelter going. Helps keep a roof above their head. It’s serious business. Sweat equity. And they take it seriously. Operating a shelter that can house up to 150 people isn’t cheap.
A sign hanging in a room says the water bill was $3,000 last month. That showers need to be short. Water needs to be rationed. The shelter can’t afford bills like that.
So they keep collecting change. It helps themselves, and the others at the shelter. Like the woman who walked in during dinner one night with her two little girls. They had beaded braids and smiled at the student journalists in the lobby. The mother looked tired, nervous, but relieved. She said her daughters were so excited to be eating there. They each had a piece of cake.
I put on a brave face and held the door to the cafeteria as they walked through. But all I could see was my own daughter. All I could imagine was what it must be like to make that decision — to come to the realization that I have nowhere else to turn. That the homeless shelter was now my best option. It broke my heart.
She talked to one of the students about her first night there. Normally families aren’t taken in, and there was no room for her. But they made an exception and put her and her daughters up on a mat in a hallway. Her daughters slept, but she couldn’t. She was too worried and stayed up all night watching them.
As I heard this, I got a lump in my throat. I imagined myself on that cold floor — too tired to keep my eyes open, but too afraid to close them. I pictured my hand on my daughter’s shoulder all night.
And now I think about the dime I left behind in the car. About how lucky I really am. About how I need to appreciate the things I have, and never take anything for granted.
For more on Will Write for Food, go to http://wwff.us