Am I a Bad Samaritan?

     Along our hiking trail we spotted a rickety wheelchair turned over and empty. My husband Duane and I ran toward it and discovered a man on all fours struggling to crawl toward it. He’d tumbled out and spent the night trapped between rocks.     
     We lifted him into his chair and asked what we could get him. He motioned to plastic bags scattered in the dirt. “My beer,” he slurred.     
     I dug into the torn bags and found jars of peanut butter and jelly, a dirty plastic spoon, and two liters of beer. I handed him a liter, and he cradled it.     
     He wanted to get to a 7-Eleven across a busy intersection, so Duane maneuvered him over the six lanes. “You gotta get sober to figure out what to do,” Duane called above the car noise.
     “I’m okay,” he answered.     
     He insisted on going the rest of the way on his own, but we called 9-1-1 to report him. They’d send a paramedic to check.     Confusion ran through me, that helplessness I always feel when I come across someone in poverty and don’t know how to truly help. Am I a Bad Samaritan?     
     I remember Charles Spurgeon, who reached out to London’s orphans 150 years ago. How did he make an impact in such overwhelming need? “The repetition of small efforts will accomplish more than the occasional use of great talents,” he said.    
​     I want to keep that in mind.