The unfair burdens of banking

Mr. George lived in a single-room unit in a government-subsidized high-rise apartment building across from the church I served in Little Rock, Arkansas. When he attended worship services, he came in his wheelchair with a volunteer who assisted him in crossing the street and rolled him up the ramp into the side entrance.

My visits with him in his home were not always pleasant. The odors of dirty laundry, stale tobacco and stagnant air greeted me whenever I entered his apartment. He usually had a smile on his face, but it seemed forced, more like a grimace, and he spoke in a gruff voice, slurring his words. A ruddy complexion made him appear angry. So when he called, complaining that he was about to be evicted because the bank had stolen all of his money, I went to see him—but I wasn't looking forward to the meeting.


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