Homelessness. When I pass the sidewalks of the downtown East Side my heart breaks.
I look at the wreckage of one lost soul after another and wonder how did it come to be this way? How did yesterdays' child become todays' junkie? What does it do to the spirit to be without a home or even hovel to call your own? What does it do to the soul to see people pass you by with no more thought than they give the refuge lying about their feet. What does it do to the identity to know that when you die you may not even have a tombstone bearing your name? A name you might not have heard in years.
Last month I had lunch with a homeless man and he just kept repeating: "I'm Russ. My name is Russ. People won't even look at me, but I have a name. You can't pray for me without knowing my name, please remember it's Russ." I remember Russ. I see you. Or I try to. Because sometimes, many times, I'm one of the multitude passing on by. My hands more like those that drove in the nails than like Christs' own. How can this be? How can I allow myself to be indifferent. I know I care. I know I burn with passion, but now it is a cold blue fire. I search for the tools that will make me burn white hot. For Russ. And for all those whose names and faces I don't know, whose faces I've not looked into, whose names I didn't take the time to wonder about.
God forgive me.
For I know what I do not do.
more later.....
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