"That Is Their Job"

I must have been six or seven, walking down the street with my father, when we passed someone sitting against a storefront with a hat out for spare change. My father reached into his pocket, pulled out a couple of quarters, and then did something that confused me at the time: he placed the money in my hand and nodded toward the person.
"Go on," he said quietly.
But here was the part that stuck with me, the instruction that would echo through decades: "Put it in their hand. Not in the hat. In their hand."
It was a small gesture, but it contained everything. It said:
I see you.
My uncle Sam, my father's brother, didn't see it that way. Time and again, he'd scold my father: "Why are you giving money to them? They can go out and get a job like anybody else."
My father's answer never changed. It was simple, radical, and completely him:
"That is their job."
He'd let that sink in for a moment before continuing: "Their job is to remind us to be charitable, to be giving, to take care of each other."
To this day, I continue that practice. When I see someone on the streets, I hear my father's voice.
That is their job.
And I give. Not from a place of pity or superiority, but from an understanding that money is meant to flow. That kindness is meant to flow. It flows into my pockets, and it's meant to flow out to others who need it more. That money doesn't disappear into some void—it goes into the economy. It buys food. It buys shelter. It keeps people alive another day.
Of course, there are always people eager to voice the familiar refrain: "They're just going to spend it on booze or drugs."
To which I have a simple response: I could spend that money on booze and drugs, and you wouldn't think twice about it. You wouldn't think less of me. The judgment isn't about the substance—it's about the person. It's about who we deem worthy of dignity and agency over their own choices.
When we withhold help because we don't approve of potential choices, we're not protecting our money from waste. We're protecting ourselves from having to see another person as fully human, with all the complexity and struggle that entails.
My father understood something profound:generosity isn't just about the money. It's about recognition. It's about refusing to let another human being become invisible. That's why he insisted I put the money in their hand—not because it was more convenient or sanitary, but because it required me to acknowledge them. To look them in the eye. To recognize their humanity and my own in the same gesture.
He was teaching me that we need people who remind us to be generous, to be connected, to remember that we're all in this together. Some people show up in our lives as teachers, some as friends, some as family. And some show up sitting on a street corner with their hand out, giving us an opportunity to be better than we were five minutes ago.
So when I give now, I'm not just giving money. I'm participating in an economy of care that my father modeled for me. I'm saying
I see you
 to someone who often goes unseen. I'm keeping alive the understanding that the person in front of me isn't there to judge or to fix, but simply to meet, hand to hand, human to human.
And yes, that
is their job.