"Help a Viet vet? Got some spare change?"

"Oh Lord, how often have I heard that one before," I mumbled. But after seeing this disheveled beggar close-up, his demeanor scared me right to the limit. In recent years I've seen plenty of different pan-handler types on these city streets, but this one rattled my inspiration and challenged my courage to the bone. I stopped on the busy downtown Market Street sidewalk and studied him.

He could well be a real veteran, I thought. Maybe not a phony. Perhaps a Delta Force person, an Airborne Ranger, or whomever those instinctive, chilling, specially trained killer types are. And now a member of the increasing rag-tag army of San Francisco homeless. Lord he was big, over six foot two, thin but broad. I think it was the combined image of the shaved head and the flaming red lightening bolt tattoo on his calf showing through the torn trousers that frightened me when I first saw him. Among all the homeless I've dealt with over the years here, this man looked the most threatening. A frightening image in filthy, ripped fatigues and decrepit old combat boots.

I guess that's why I decided to help him, hoping the pained, unshaven Caucasian face of a Green Beret type, wouldn't mind this short, gray haired old African American walking up and talking to him. Surly, he wouldn't pull out a bayonet or something, in a drugged rage and gut me. Right Lord?

If my Fellowship Ministry Of The Street was to be real and effective, I couldn't turn away from this poor soul. No matter how intimidating he looked.

I remember my mother's admonition about telling a book by its cover. All well and good, when you are in the comfort of your own church, among your own people in your little home town. I can't choose whom I offer the Lord's help to, can I? Every one should have an equal chance for redemption and salvation, shouldn't they?

I dropped a dollar bill into his Styrofoam cup that he held out to the passers-by near the corner of Van Ness street. Most people on the side walk took a wide avoidance route around him. A logical reaction I thought, from the looks of him. This social cast-off needed my help, I could feel it. Lord, if only he wasn't so frightening.

He looked down into his cup and saw the dollar bill, then looked down into my eyes with a vacant stare. Eye to eye, he seemed unable to comprehend the transaction. A deprogrammed giant. No spark. No life.

That's when I thought I may have found the right soul to save. He seemed an empty giant, out of touch with both life and God. I felt I must help him.

I inched toward him.

"Good afternoon, my son. I'm Reverend Williams. And I can help you."

As I neared the poor soul I could smell him. The closer I got to him the more rank he became. His clothes were muddy, threadbare and probably not his own. I had visions of lice and fleas but perhaps I was over reacting. Perhaps not.

He only nodded with shallow head movements. And then his blank eyes filled up. Droplets of tears formed, then, as if a reservoir broke a levee, he silently cried and sat down cross legged on the sidewalk. Some passers-by stopped for a moment to observe. Some shook their heads and continued on at a quick pace as most are wont to do. Others stood fast, transfixed, as if watching an accident on the freeway. I was hoping I could get to talk with him before any police intervened.

"Are you all right, do you hurt anywhere,?" I said.

He sobbed a quiet sob, and pointed with a dirty hand to his stomach. "I'm so hungry," he whispered.

When he spoke, I could see through his several day old beard that he hadn't been near a dentist in a very long time. He put his head back against the wall, clutching his money cup and closed his eyes. Late afternoon sunlight reflected from a thin wet line down each side of his soiled face.

As San Francisco is full of places to eat, having food from every corner of the globe readily accessible, I wasn't surprised to find a deli a few doors away.

"I'll be right back. I'm going to bring back some food for you." I felt it would be foolish for me to suggest that he not go anywhere. Although I'm poor at second guessing people, as I've been fooled many times over the years, I didn't think this gentle white giant would go away. I was sure he was too weak. All the on-lookers had gone on their way as if the two of us suddenly became invisible right there on the side walk.

I bought a baloney sandwich, a small carton of milk and handed the sandwich to him. He unwrapped it with care, like a kid with a Christmas gift and took a bite. He chewed, smiled a bit while examining the sandwich. He chewed some more, then consumed the rest like magic.

I handed him the opened carton of milk, which he drank down without spilling a drop, then looked into my eyes. I saw a faint glimmer of life in his eyes for the first time. He nodded his head, and whispered, "Thank you, little friend."

"When you can," I said, "Come to this address. It's only a few blocks from here in the Tenderloin." I handed him a photocopied brochure. "It's a store front, it's my church. I've some friends like you there, some recycled clothes and a shower. Just ask for Reverend Williams."

"Yes sir," his voice resounded with some new found feeling. His voice and expression erected the hair on the back of my neck. He raised his hand to shake mine and I saw a tattoo with Asian lettering on his biceps. "The Quick, The Quiet, The Deadly. Saigon."

I was glad I wasn't working those jungles. San Francisco was certainly tough enough for me.