My friend Mary sleeps in a tent under a carport, where she has lived for over 15 years. Once brutally raped and beaten, she is afraid to leave the safety of her home. Everytime we visit she offers us a gift; a cracker, a fresh picked fig or a wildflower. I take her blood pressure and give her vitamins. She won't let us leave until we circle for prayer and she praises God for the provisions we leave and asks that He protect and guide us on our way. She blesses me.
Danny always greets me with a hug. He is happy to show off his latest "home improvements," a new dog pen, a fence-lined path. He refuses our blankets because someone else might need one, but he loves the bread. Goes good with his pot of stew. He hasn't seen New Orleans since he was rescued from floodwaters and jammed into a crowded bus to be unloaded at a Red Cross shelter in Shreveport. He makes me smile.
Cowboy builds waterproof shelters with screen doors. He shows newcomers how to use vines, logs and tarp to build their own. Most times they're grateful. Sometimes they take advantage of him. I bring him mustard seeds and squash plants and steroid cream for his hands. He reminds me to share.
Jan has lived under a bridge for 17 years. She is a retired nurse and tells me who is sick and who she's giving her medicine to. She loves to "shop" in the clothes closet and wear makeup. Her boyfriend knocks her around sometimes so she moves across the river with her kitten. She reminds we are all one step away from the underside of a bridge. Sometimes she frustrates me, mostly she makes me want to shelter her.
Robert lost his way in the storm. He sits on a rail next to an overpass. He hides in plain sight, so well the mowers ran over his steel-toed boots. He walks miles to eat a meal at the clinic and walks back so he can wait at the day labor building for a job. He buys beer to forget the horrors of the floods and his fears. He breaks my heart.
Anthony wears his closet under a long heavy coat and a burlap hood over his dreads. He sits on a bus stop bench in a attitude of prayer or isolation and rarely looks up. He smashed my face in once , thought I was the devil after him. I spent months running from his ghosts, until God put my feet on this highway and opened my eyes to the angels that live in the scary places, the encampments, under the bridges and in the woods. Those who have taught me the value of a can of beans, a box of ibuprofen, a new cardboard box, a kind word, grace in life, mercy, redemption, courage, trust and faith. God knows each of us by name NOT labels. I am grateful and leave food for Anthony.
Danny always greets me with a hug. He is happy to show off his latest "home improvements," a new dog pen, a fence-lined path. He refuses our blankets because someone else might need one, but he loves the bread. Goes good with his pot of stew. He hasn't seen New Orleans since he was rescued from floodwaters and jammed into a crowded bus to be unloaded at a Red Cross shelter in Shreveport. He makes me smile.
Cowboy builds waterproof shelters with screen doors. He shows newcomers how to use vines, logs and tarp to build their own. Most times they're grateful. Sometimes they take advantage of him. I bring him mustard seeds and squash plants and steroid cream for his hands. He reminds me to share.
Jan has lived under a bridge for 17 years. She is a retired nurse and tells me who is sick and who she's giving her medicine to. She loves to "shop" in the clothes closet and wear makeup. Her boyfriend knocks her around sometimes so she moves across the river with her kitten. She reminds we are all one step away from the underside of a bridge. Sometimes she frustrates me, mostly she makes me want to shelter her.
Robert lost his way in the storm. He sits on a rail next to an overpass. He hides in plain sight, so well the mowers ran over his steel-toed boots. He walks miles to eat a meal at the clinic and walks back so he can wait at the day labor building for a job. He buys beer to forget the horrors of the floods and his fears. He breaks my heart.
Anthony wears his closet under a long heavy coat and a burlap hood over his dreads. He sits on a bus stop bench in a attitude of prayer or isolation and rarely looks up. He smashed my face in once , thought I was the devil after him. I spent months running from his ghosts, until God put my feet on this highway and opened my eyes to the angels that live in the scary places, the encampments, under the bridges and in the woods. Those who have taught me the value of a can of beans, a box of ibuprofen, a new cardboard box, a kind word, grace in life, mercy, redemption, courage, trust and faith. God knows each of us by name NOT labels. I am grateful and leave food for Anthony.
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