An unexpected sense of shame can come calling, cap in hand

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There are moments in life when we're tested.

Important moments.

Like when we come to that fork in the road, and, without benefit of counsel, must decide which way to turn -- either down rationalization's familiar path or off in an entirely different direction.

I stumbled upon just such a choice Sunday evening, waiting in a spot I never expected, the parking lot of a discount department store.

As I got out of my car, I decided to slip into my purple jacket -- the one with the logo of the Sacramento Kings basketball team stitched on the front.

The jacket was lying sprawled across the back seat, on top of my Irish cap.

Opening the driver's side back door, I grabbed the jacket, flipped it into the air with my left hand and punched my right arm into the right sleeve -- grabbing the car door and slamming it shut as my gloveless hand emerged from the sleeve.

But as I turned and walked away, I didn't notice that my Donnegal cap -- given to me by my mother many years ago -- had, inadvertently, been brushed off the car's back seat and onto the pavement.

It's quite likely I never would have laid eyes on that cap again had it not been for a strange man in the parking lot.

I hadn't noticed him as I walked away from the car.

But he must have been nearby. Had to be. There's no other way he could have seen what had happened.

Later, as I was returning to the car -- with a shopping bag clutched in each hand -- I heard a man's voice call out.

He was yelling something.

Sounded like it was directed at me.

"You lost your hat!"

Hat? What hat? I wasn't wearing a hat. It couldn't be mine.

Nope. Not me. I didn't lose a hat.

The man persisted.

"I think it's your hat. It fell out of your car. It was laying over there; right next to your car. I didn't know what to do. So, I put it on your car. Do you see it?"

I avoided making eye contact and tried my best to ignore him.

But as I walked around the back of the car it came into view. There was my Irish cap perched atop the plastic housing holding the mirror on the driver's side of the car.

"Hey," I yelled back. "That is my hat. Thanks. Thanks a lot."

At that point, the man decided to open up and share, albeit briefly, his situation with me.

He said he was homeless and a little cold and hungry. Maybe I could help him out. You know. Enough money for a sandwich. Maybe a cup of coffee. Something.

Normally, I wouldn't have paid much attention.

I mean, guys like him are always working some kind of angle. He probably was looking to buy himself a drink, all right, but not coffee. Something stronger. A whole lot stronger.

Bumping into guys like him is one of the reasons I carry as little money as possible. Like I would reach for my wallet in front of some scruffy guy asking for a handout in a dimly lit parking lot.

C'mon. I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid.

After all, you know what happens to kind and trusting people?

They get burned. Victimized.

Better to treat the poor exactly the same way we treat street thugs and hoodlums -- avoid them at all costs.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

It gets easier to brush them off once Christmas is past.

It's OK. We've done our part. We've given to the charities of our choice.

Donated a couple of cans of baked beans. Dropped some spare change into a Salvation Army kettle or two.

Sure, I'd like to help the poor -- just as long as they're not too smelly or wild-eyed.

Are there no shelters?

Are there no havens for battered women and children?

Are there no Christian missions catering to the homeless and the drug- or alcohol-addled?