"How does it feel to have to ask for help when in need?" That was one of the most difficult papers I had to write as an undergraduate student in social work. It was an assignment to help us learn and understand what people in need might be going through as they have to ask for help. It was a lesson in empathy. A question we might all ask ourselves during these hard times.

I don't remember what the problem was I wrote about in the paper, only how it made me feel — vulnerable, weak, inadequate, a failure, helpless and hating to ask for help. It conjured up childhood images of the men who came knocking at our door asking for help. It was during the Depression when people were hopping on trains, going from town to town looking for work and asking for food. And since we lived in an old yellow railroad car in the middle of several lines of railroad tracks on 700 West and 700 South, we were in the mainstream of those trying to survive. In their faces and eyes, I saw their sense of helplessness and vulnerability. To this day, it pains me to see the vulnerability in the face of someone having to ask for help.

My parents were one step away from poverty. They were immigrants. My father had a labor job, and we had a roof over our head. My mother, Chona, taught me empathy. She instinctively knew that people would be stopping by asking if they could do something for food. Each morning, she fired up the wooden stove to make a pot of beans and a stack of tortillas for those who would soon knock at the door asking if they could work for food — cut wood, gather coal. Her answer was simple: In her broken English, she said, "No. Hungry, eat." There was no means test, that was just her way of life that I try to emulate each day and what I now call "Chona's Rules for Giving." Give because it makes you feel fulfilled; give without expecting something in return; give without making a judgment about someone's life; give with no means test; and give without exacting the dignity from the person needing help. Her attitude was always, "Sea por Dios" (Be it for God).

Now, more in our community are losing their jobs and homes, and their dreams for a brighter future are slipping away. And I wonder what they are going through, not wanting to ask for help. I know what Chona would do: She would fire up the stove and reach out to help without anyone asking for it. As I travel around the city, I see more people looking for work, and longer food lines. I grew up at a time when the poor were among us. Today, we live in a more segmented community where we may not know each other and thus feel less empathy. However, I also see more acts of kindness by others who reach out and help. Slowly but surely, the empathy seems more visible in our community. And that may be the hidden gift of having our nation undergo hard times. It brings out the best in us as a people, that we care for each other and realize that we are not alone.

More important, by our children watching how we reach out to others, we pass on the greatest gift we can give them to make it a better world for others and to learn that no one makes it alone.

A Utah native, John Florez has founded several Hispanic civil-rights organizations; been on the staff of Sen. Orrin Hatch, served on more than 45 state, local and volunteer boards; and filled White House appointments, including deputy assistant secretary of labor and as a member of the commission on Hispanic education. E-mail: jdflorez@comcast.net.