Just a quarter

He made eye contact and approached me Saturday morning at the farmer's market.  A stereotypical homeless man, he had long, scraggly, dry hair; an overgrown beard, a beanie, and a face wrinkled and aged with dirt and faded, baggy clothes.  A lone Caucasian man at a high Asian-population market bustling with small families, he sticks out.

As usual, my heart jumps a beat or two at the approach of unfamiliarity, but with the people around I quickly reason that nothing could happen.  He asks for a quarter or something.  I'm in a good mood, so in a chipper tone I offer him a peach that I had just bought.

"I can't eat that, miss."

I feel dumb immediately.  After all, just last week I read an article that mentioned many people on the streets have bad teeth and therefore cannot eat an apple. Duh, Audrey, duh. Way to be considerate. Still, I bounce back quickly, offering to buy him food (as any one who has listened to a "how to love the poor" conversation seems to believe is the best thing to do).  He says no, no, just a quarter.  Then says thank you.

As is typical with my bouts with the homeless, my mind is flooded as I walk away.  Why did I just give a quarter, why not more?  Is it de-humanizing and taking his dignity to offer more? What does he really want with the quarter? Why don't I befriend him, ask him name, and pull a Jesus card--using a simple request as a quarter to probe for something deeper? 

And try as I might, I still feel ill-equipped in these situations. My brain calculates of all my interactions and ideals, but the man in front of me is still hungry and cannot eat a peach. He has 25 more cents than before I met him, but there has got be more to loving the poor than that, right?