I can hear the homeless person coughing outside my window.
He/she was there upon my return from the homecoming dance tonight at 1:00 am.
I called campus safety, figuring they could help somehow.
They didn’t even come over. So whether kind or stupidly dangerous I made some
tea in an insulated cup and grabbed an extra comforter and three pack of mini
peanut butter dip cups, and went to visit the stranger.
She didn’t wake up while I was there, but I could hear her
moaning with the cold as I covered her with the blanket.
The person at the doors of the church has no home.
I am lucky in that I have many homes. I can go to many parts
of the world, find a bed, and be safe and loved. Isn’t that all that “home” is
anyway? But I’m not really home yet. My life is transitory, spanning the globe
and in some indefinable state of
movement. I think the similarity between me and this stranger outside
our door is that neither of us are really at rest.
 |
| Rest in the hope of the Creator |
I question what the hope is in these situations. But I know
that in God both of us have a home. In God the poor say I am rich. In God we
will both find our final rest, and we will have no more cold nights. We can
hope for angels and be angels to everyone else until we can come home.
