Sometimes I want to give up.

I see the long line stretching in the Alabama heat—people standing for hours, waiting for three afternoons a week just to get a free dinner and a box of free leftover produce from a grocery store or day-old bread from the bakery or whatever size bars of soap that some sweet soul donates along the way.

And I wonder: Is this really helping? Does anything change? What good are we doing?

I don’t see the girl begin to fall. She’s in line with her mother and they’re not yet to the shaded side of the building.

She starts going down. A man in line sees what’s happening and rushes to her. He catches her before she hits the ground.

Another lady in line also sees what’s happening and pulls out her cell phone. She dials 911.

I catch up with them as Winston is escorting them inside so she can sit down and cool off. Color is returning to her cheeks, but she still looks faint. Her mother is calm. She says this happens.

The paramedics find us and check her out as okay. She refuses their offer of a trip to the hospital.

They say she can drink, so I rummage around back and find a warm coke, thankful she asked for it that way. Winston and Mary Beth cut into the food line to gather several big bags of food for her so that her mom can take her home and not have to return later to get what she needs.

I wait with them as they get the food to go. I see the mother is disabled herself—I’d noticed a heavy limp—and the daughter tells me that her mom cares not only for her, but for a total of fifteen people in two houses. Some are family, others are just strays who need help.

May they be shown mercy. Healing. Rest.

A few more minutes pass. The mom leaves to get the car. I ask Ricky, a friend in line, to lend a strong arm to walk the girl outside to the car. He gladly does.

The girl thanks us for everything.

The outward happenings of any situation—whether a near fall or a line full of hungry people or a volunteer struggling to see grace—are mirror images of things also happening inside us. The girl needing help. Her fellow compatriots in line. Her mom and the volunteers and the paramedics and Ricky. And you reading it all.

• Are we seeing grace or not?
• Are we believing in mercy?
• Are we being compassionate?

May our hearts keep growing in love to see more, believe more, be more.

We close her car door. The next things still need to be done, so we all move along. Nobody else goes down today. . . .

Where have you recently seen or experienced grace in an unexpected way?

Share your thoughts in the comments.

Read more:

• 6 Lessons When Curiosity Meets Compassion
  Learning how to be compassionate is a lesson that never ends. After making it my Word of the Year years ago, I find myself revisiting it with a new One Word, Curiosity.
• What Can I Do? For Now, This Is My Something
  My friend needs something I can’t give. What can I do? For now, this is my something.
• “I’m not sure”—Is This Compassionate?
  Is being uncertain a path to compassion? Can admitting we don’t know open us to deeper connections?

revised from the archives

On a cold day a few weeks earlier, I sneaked her a little box of chocolates (these are just for you!) because I think every woman needs chocolate, right? I bought one for myself too. I tell her chocolate is one of my weaknesses.

It’s just a little thing you share when you spend time together.

Her family and mine have been friends for a few years. Her family has been in a pit for awhile. Once you fall too deep, it’s hard to climb back up.

So we help as we can. Not big things to us. Bigger to them.

One day we’re on a Walmart run together. She and I look at baby things; her husband and toddler slip off elsewhere.

We converge at the checkout.

Then her husband surprises me. He hands me this card he’s bought. It’s a beautiful sentiment of thanks.

And she adds a Hershey’s candy bar at the checkout for me.

I want to refuse, “No! Please, y’all, don’t do anything for me. You can’t afford it.”

But I understand that sometimes when you can’t pay back, you desperately want to at least say thanks.

And we should let ourselves be thanked. So I accept their gifts with humility.

Most of my friendships work in reciprocity: You treat me to dinner; I treat you to dinner. I buy you a Christmas gift; you have a gift for me. Round and round we go.

Until we can’t.

Sometimes a gift is is too big to repay in kind. I’ve received gifts that I could never repay. For those times, we need to stop trying to even things up, and just say thank you.

It works incredibly well.

Let go of the repayment guilt. And release the debt we hold over others. We can’t afford either one.

Love doesn’t work on a merit system.
The preferred exchange is grace.

Grace given. Grace received. Thank you very much.

So for my card, I say thank you very much. I’ll treasure it.

And the chocolate? I eat every delicious bite.

It’s all grace.

* * *

Is it harder for you to receive grace or to give it? Please share in the comments.

revised from the archives

We ran into each other again at Manna House on a Wednesday afternoon. It’s where we usually see each other.

Cowboy and I first met in his homeless camp. From first glance and first conversation, I knew Cowboy was rich in life stories.

When I couldn’t believe he was as old as he said—he didn’t look his age—he volunteered his ID to prove it. But as the stories added up, I knew he had lived many years. How else can you squeeze so much living into one lifetime?

For several months he’d been promising me a book. One that he’s been writing. It’s about his life.

I definitely want to read Cowboy’s book.

But Cowboy doesn’t always get to the library to type up his tales on the computers there. His health isn’t as great as it used to be. And his years continue to add up.

Will I ever get to read his book?

I’ve read a lot of books in my life. But I haven’t read enough. There are more books I still want to—need to—read.

There are more encounters with love I have yet to experience.

Each life tells a story. Each life shows a unique way to be a human. Cowboy’s life shows a side I didn’t grow up with. Perhaps more struggles. Rougher around the edges. Yet protective and gentle in its own way.

If Cowboy never gets his book finished, I hope I’ll continue running into him at Manna House or the library or occasionally at a mutual friend’s funeral.

I can hear his story, even if I never get to read it. He can talk about it, even when he doesn’t get a chance to write it out.

On the last Wednesday we talked, Cowboy and Susan needed a ride back to their homeless camp (they later moved into an apartment of their own again for a time before Susan passed away). We dropped them off at the edge of their woods.

As they walked deeper into the trees, farther than we could see, I thought again about Cowboy’s future book full of his past stories.

Even if I never get to read them, Cowboy’s stories have already enriched my stories. His life has enriched mine.

But I still hope he’ll finish his book.

You might want to read it, too.

* * *

Whose life story would you like to read? Have you written your own story? Please share in the comments.

revised from the archives

Read more:

• His Bread in My Car?
  The homeless boys know the forecast. Cold and stormy. I’ll have to turn up my electric blanket tonight. Life is so unfair.
• A Year from Homeless
  I asked the once-homeless wife, “Is there anything you miss about living outside, anything at all?” I thought the open air? Birds? People? But what she said surprised me…
• Whose World Is Real? Theirs or Ours?
  The world of the homeless camp feels brutally real. He tells me he knows who the survivors are. I think he’s right.

She says it aloud to no one in particular, “I need a ride home.”

I ask her when she needs to leave. She says after she talks to Mrs F. Let me know when you’re ready, I tell her. I’ll take you.

I’m not proud of myself for my willingness to do it. I’m excited I thought of it at all.

Because often I don’t even think of it.  

And especially in the moment. Maybe the idea will come later. Oh! I could have done that for her! By then, I’ve missed the opportunity for action.

My preemptive roadblocks of fear and selfishness and pride often choke off the action before it has a chance to surface.

Granted, having a homeless friend and knowing what she needs hasn’t exactly been a thought to consider until the past decade of my life.

How can I know what to do for somebody so different from me?

First, I have to listen.  

• I have to hear with ears wide open.
• I have to see with eyes looking deeper.
• I have to love with a heart gaping bare.

Then I can act.

I have to be watchful for the extraordinary to grab my attention. 

A half hour later, I get word my friend is ready to leave. She has a guy friend with her who also needs a ride back to under the bridge.

I ask his name as he gets into the car. He tells me, but he’s quiet. I ask a few more questions, wanting him to know I’m listening, not wanting him more wary of me than I am of him.

He needs to know he’s being heard. Everybody needs that.

My friend tells me to turn left at the light. It still feels weird letting them out at the curb, watching them melt invisible into the city. But they’re fine with it; it’s me still adjusting.

And I almost missed it.

I roll down my windows and drive away, wondering how in the world I know so little about the world. So little about the varied kinds of people in it. So little about how people work among themselves, in and around others alike and different.

I seek better hearing in the moments of opportunity. 

So I can . . .

• Learn more.
• Live more.
• Love more.

Because when I don’t listen, I don’t act.
And when I don’t act, I miss out on Love.

* * *

Share you thoughts about listening and loving in the comments.

revised from the archives

Read More:

• 3 Ways to Listen So People Will Talk
  Discover 3 ways to quiet down so you can hear the hearts of others.
• Wherever Truth Comes From, Listen 
  Don’t ignore the message, even if you don’t like the messenger.
• Why They Listen to You
  They’re listening for something. Why to you?

You can count on this: If it’s a horribly hot day—or a bitter cold day—our public library will fill up. With people who are unhoused. With those who have nowhere cool (or warm) to escape to.

That Wednesday was our most extreme weather day yet. I stopped by the library to grab a book, eat some chocolate, and drink a Diet Coke in between errands in town. You have to go to the lounge on the 2nd floor for that.

I’ll tell you what to expect on the 2nd floor of the library: the unexpected.

God was already up there. I knew that. (Where people are, God is.) All manner of people were gathered around the wooden tables sitting in the plastic chairs.

The only person in the room that you’d label conventional was the Coke machine guy doing his restocking.

• At the closest table to the door were two loud Black brothers talking random things—“Yeah, he tries too hard to be ghetto.”
• Another table held a disheveled white guy with a tiny Black woman, maybe 19. I’ve seen her around, usually with a different guy each time. As hard as it is be an unhoused man on the streets, it’s even harder to be a woman. Women sometimes find a guy to be their covering, but I’d seen and heard stories of how “helpful” that could be. My heart went out to this girl.
• A third table held a man in his 40s with a half loaf of bread. He was making a sandwich, muttering under this breath all the while. I could tell he was agitated.

Finally the man making the sandwich could take no more.

“Excuse me,” he started talking with an edge to the Coke machine guy. “There are some people here using crass language and they need to stop. Will you handle that?”

I looked up. What would the Coke guy do? The two men by the door just laughed. I assumed they were the ones being accused of the language.

The poor Coke guy.

He glanced up, barely, and muttered some response. Not much. He sped up his work and got out of there fast.

It crossed my mind to leave, too. I didn’t mind hanging out there, but I didn’t want to get caught in the midst of a brawl. Not prepared for that. Ever. But I stuck around anyway.

What happened next?

Nothing.

The white guy with the girl stood up and stretched. The Black men kept talking, laughing. The sandwich guy kept eating.

I finished my Coke, folded up the other half of my Dove bar for tomorrow, and walked back into the world of books.

Just as God had gone in first, I knew God would stay to the last. That’s what God does. God is always present.

And God likes it when we are present too. If God needs us to do more, God will let us know. And if we’re paying attention, we’ll act on that knowing.

So why had I been at the library that afternoon? No idea. Maybe just to observe. Maybe for someone else to observe. Like many other places I’ve found myself the past few years, I’m just showing up. Once I’m in, if God wants more from me, I’ll find out about it then.

And if not, so be it.

I’m finding contentment in just showing up with God. Stopping my overanalyzing. Releasing my hyper-responsibility to figure things out.

We don’t have to understand all we see. We don’t have to actively achieve something in all we witness.

Sometimes the most important thing we can do is just be present. Trust God to be present, too.

Presence was enough that day in the library.

* * *

When have you found doing “nothing” was the right thing to do? Please share in the comments.

revised from the archives

Read More:

• Just Get Your Body There; Your Spirit Will Follow
  You’re not ready? Just show up anyway. God will show up, too.
• Oh, God, the Places You Show Up
  And God became incarnate again that night in two more humans in the cab of Jeff’s truck.
• When You Don’t Want to Show Up
  I don’t feel qualified to teach this class. Should I not show up? Or maybe I’m missing the point?

sharing at these linkups

It seemed odd. In one week, I met two new friends, both named Travis.

Meet Travis 1, Travis 2

Friend 1:
It’s Friday afternoon. He says, “My name is Travis. But you can call me Trav.”

On Saturday morning, a different place, a different person. . .

Friend 2:
He says, “My name is Travis. But you can call me T. Or T-Bone.”

Friend 1 is a pastor of a Methodist church in my hometown.
Friend 2 is a homeless man looking for a ride to his family in Florence, an hour down the road.

Friend 1 is at school reading with Jenna’s 1^st graders.
Friend 2 is at Outdoor Church killing time.

At first glance, you’d think they have nothing in common.

• Friend 1, Trav, is white; Friend 2, T-Bone is black.
• Trav likely lives in a nice home in a nice neighborhood. T-Bone plans to sleep at the Salvation Army.
• Trav and I lack time to converse much, but T-Bone unravels his story all morning.

Alike or Different?

They both are very polite to me. They both are likely around the same age. It doesn’t come up with Trav, but T-Bone volunteers that he is 36.

But T-Bone has had a really bad week. He says he needs some lifting up. He says he can tell when he meets someone if they’ll uplift his spirit. He’s here today for that, hoping for that. I assure him he’s come to the right place.

He tells me about his girlfriend (she’s about to break up with him, he feels it; he wants to break up first). About his grandma. About being an Ohio State fan.

T-Bone talks about the nitty gritty of life. Openness happens when other things are stripped away, when you’re wondering where your next meal will come from.

I ask him if he’ll stay for lunch after Outdoor Church and he says he might as well; he has nowhere else to be.

But the more I talk to T-Bone on this Saturday morning, and think back to Trav on Friday afternoon, the more curious I am about their commonalities.

Sometimes outward differences blind us to likenesses. Our preconceived stereotypes pile on. Surface-level judgments cause us to miss community.

And Then Faith

And then T-Bone tells me about his faith.

That’s when the similarities between the two Travis’s come more into focus.

While Trav doesn’t say anything about his faith, I hope and assume he has a full one since he’s a Christian pastor. But T-bone is vocal about his. He says that through the storms, he knows he has Jesus.

I ask T-Bone where he got his faith. He says his grandma, definitely his grandma.

I haven’t seen T-Bone since that Saturday morning, nor Travis since that Friday afternoon. Our paths may not cross again this side of heaven.

But I’m glad they crossed so close in time that one week in December. So we could meet each other. Hear a little piece of each other’s story. And see what we had in common.

Everybody has something in common with everybody else.

Maybe a name. Maybe an age.

Maybe a Savior.

* * *

Do you share a name with any of your friends? Do you have friends who are totally opposite? Please share in the comments.

]]> https://lisanotes.com/meet-travis/feed/ 46 https://lisanotes.com/ordinary-day-extraordinary-story/ https://lisanotes.com/ordinary-day-extraordinary-story/#comments Wed, 15 Nov 2017 11:00:24 +0000 https://www.lisanotes.com/?p=13809 On “Ordinary” Days It seemed like an ordinary Saturday at Outdoor Church. It was 2012. Jeff and I showed up. And in an ordinary way, we met a man named… ]]>

On “Ordinary” Days

It seemed like an ordinary Saturday at Outdoor Church. It was 2012. Jeff and I showed up.

And in an ordinary way, we met a man named Walt.

I knew something was special about him, this homeless man who sang “Amazing Grace” like he fully understood it.

2012, Walter and me after Outdoor Church

But I didn’t know how much his specialness was going to stick with me.

Walt and I continued doing church together once a month at Outdoor Church when we each could make it. Occasionally we’d see each other during the week at Manna House if he needed food. Or at the annual King’s Banquet held at The Rock Family Worship Center where we serve our homeless guests as royalty.

2014, Walter and me at King’s Banquet

~ * ~

2015, Walter and me at Manna House

~ * ~

2016, Another King’s Banquet with Walt and me

~ * ~

Then one day I heard good news. Walt got housing. His homeless days were over.

We Make “Ordinary” Introductions

A few years later, another ordinary Saturday, I showed up at our Huntsville Dream Center for Servolution, an outreach into our community to show the love of God.

A four-year-old girl named Aleesa and her mom volunteered for the same assignment that morning.

I didn’t yet know Aleesa or her mom. Neither did Walt.

But all that was about to change. In big ways.

Aleesa, her mom, and I were put on the same team. We were to deliver goodie bags to a public housing unit – the one where Walt lived.

Door to door we knocked together. Eventually we knocked on Walt’s door. That was when Aleesa and Walt first met. She and her mom connected with Walt immediately.

And they stayed connected. They became friends.

I’d even say they became family.

A New Story Begins

Anybody can hear the beginning of their story. Because Aleesa wrote it down. With the help of her mom, she published their story in a book, The Day I Met Walt.

On yet another Saturday, last October 2016, Aleesa and Walt held a book launch.

Walt couldn’t have been more proud. He was dressed in his best and wore his biggest smile. Many of us lined up at the Huntsville Dream Center to get our copies autographed by Aleesa and Walt.

~ * ~

~ * ~

~ * ~

~ * ~

I treasure my copy.

Five months later, Walt died.

But the Story Continues

I no longer get to hear Walt sing at Outdoor Church. Or sing in the elevator for us at his apartment complex. I no longer get to hear him tell what God has done for him lately, how good God is.

I miss Walt.

But thanks to Aleesa and her book, his story lives on.

Aleesa now reads her book at schools and churches across our area, sharing her love for Walt and God’s love for us.

A few weeks ago, she read her book to the students where my daughter teaches. Jenna’s 1^st graders sat mesmerized as Aleesa read her book, with her mom by her side. Here was a fellow 1^st grader, just like them, who had written a real book. We gave them each a copy of their own to take home.

As Aleesa tells it, she may be little, but she serves a big God. I can hear Walt in my head, sharing that same sentiment.

Who Is in Your Story?

I know Aleesa will continue to do amazing things in service to her big God. She has a godly family leading the way. I’m grateful for the day I first met them and for the encounters we’ve had since.

We never know what will happen next when we meet a person. Aleesa and Walt couldn’t have known how their paths would merge on the day they first met. But I’m sure glad they did.

The day Aleesa met Walt not only changed their lives, but it continues to change other lives as well.

Stay alert to who you meet this week. It might seem like an ordinary day, but it could be the start of an extraordinary story.

* * *

When have you had an “ordinary” encounter that turned out to be extraordinary? Please share in the comments.

You can purchase Aleesa’s book, The Day I Met Walt, at Amazon or at Aleesa’s homepage. A portion of the proceeds are donated to the Huntsville Dream Center.

I wrote more about Walt here:

• Not Just Another Day in Church
• Are You Quiet Enough to Listen?
• A Chance Encounter?
• Who Are You Avoiding?

~ * ~

Watch Aleesa tell about her story here.

]]> https://lisanotes.com/ordinary-day-extraordinary-story/feed/ 58 https://lisanotes.com/just-say-youre-sorry/ https://lisanotes.com/just-say-youre-sorry/#comments Mon, 09 Oct 2017 10:00:25 +0000 https://www.lisanotes.com/?p=13505 You need to know about Julie. I just met her Saturday. But I already want to be like her. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ First Meet Anna I’ve… ]]>

You need to know about Julie. I just met her Saturday. But I already want to be like her.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

First Meet Anna

I’ve never met Julie. I am outside meeting a different lady (I’ll call her Anna here). Anna is one of our guests at Outdoor Church. She looks disturbed.

I ask Anna if she’d gotten her meal. A free lunch is always served to our homeless friends when Outdoor Church finishes each first Saturday of the month at Manna House.

This month’s service and meal are being hosted by Julie’s church. They are grilling barbecue chicken to bless all who show up.

Anna tells me they were rude to her on the meal line. That they said she was a rule-breaker. And that she knows she is not a rule-breaker.

I believe Anna believes that.

But I believe differently.

I have seen how loving the people from Julie’s church have been. How gentle. How generous.

I tell Anna everything will be fine. We can go back in line. She is welcome to get a meal.

She is finally convinced. But only if I will come with her.

Now Meet Julie

In line, Julie and her friends offer Anna a plate, as I knew they would.

But Anna begins pointing at Julie. “It’s her! She thinks I’m a rule-breaker.”

I see the shocked look on Julie’s face. She is clueless.

Julie has no idea what is going on. She does not know why this woman is pointing a finger at her.

I try to smooth things over with Anna, convince her that it’s all a misunderstanding, that Julie isn’t mad at her.

But Anna won’t have it. She keeps pointing at Julie.

I don’t know what to do. I often don’t in these situations. I need more skills.

But I’m getting nowhere with Anna. So I go behind the line to meet Julie.

She doesn’t know me; I don’t know her.

I tell Julie, “I know you did nothing wrong. But will you tell this lady you don’t think she’s a rule-breaker? She has mental problems.”

Julie probably thinks I am the one with mental problems (and I admit, I have my days).

But she listens to me. Then she turns to Anna.

The Best Part

And this is what Julie says. (This is the best part of the story.)

Julie tells Anna, “I am so sorry. I was wrong. I would love to give you some food.”

Anna leans in. She mumbles something again about not being a rule-breaker.

And Julie repeats, looking Anna in the eye with humility and sincerity, “I don’t think that about you. I am the one who is wrong. I’m sorry.”

And Anna melts to her kindness.

Her belligerence fades. Her resistance disappears. She says, “Ok.” She takes a plate and is on her way.

Now I am the one who can’t let it go.

I go back to give Julie a hug. To thank her for what she just did. For her gracious apology to a stranger who had falsely accused her.

She shrugs it off. She laughs. She says she’s used to saying she’s sorry.

I can laugh, too. The drama is over. I tell Julie I want to be more like her. I mean it.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Just Say This

Life would be sweeter if we would say “I’m sorry” more often.

Even if we are not in the wrong, we can still be sorry. We can still apologize. We can still be humble.

When Julie said, “I’m sorry” to Anna, I saw Jesus in her.

I want to see more of Jesus in me.

Maybe I need to say “I’m sorry” more often, too.

* * *

When’s the last time you said, “I’m sorry”? Is it hard or easy for you? When has someone else’s apology changed a situation for you? Please share in the comments.

Buck (not his real name) and I are engaged in a conversation. It’s about the government. It’s getting heated, not because we disagree but because the subject gets him riled up.

I’m getting uncomfortable. Maybe I should change the subject to something less volatile.

But then Buck says something that shakes me.

If the world as we know it ever comes to a halt, whether it be by our own government (Buck’s presumption) or by outside forces, he says he knows who the survivors will be: his kind.

His people—the homeless—know how to survive.

I believe him. They prove it in my city every day.

They are survivors. How else could they live day after day with the substandard food they eat, the poor sanitation they have, the diabetes and cancer and alcoholism and drug addictions and mental illnesses that many endure?

Some do die, of course. And eventually all die. As do we.

But many of the homeless live long. They’re survivors.

Sometimes I’m not sure whose world is the real one: theirs or ours.

My world feels comfortably real on my air-conditioned drive on the Parkway overpass, singing tunes bluetoothed in from my iPhone, bottled water in my cup holder, a full wallet by my side.

But underneath that same overpass is their world, a different world. It houses tents, a fire for cooking, and people with few possessions.

Their world feels brutally real as I stand among them that Saturday morning outside their garbage bags of belongings and chat with Buck as the loud train roars nearby.

But we return to our van and drive back to our home base. This is the world I know best. We close ranks, hold hands, and Norm words a prayer from all of us, for all of them—the survivors.

We’re thankful for the lessons those survivors teach us. If they can keep on going, so can we.

I want Buck and his friends—many are now my friends, too—on my side if the worlds we both know ever come to an end.

Because eventually, all our worlds get shaken up. 

So for now, I’ll keep stepping into Buck’s world and pray it makes mine a little less plastic and a lot more authentic. That it makes his a little less lonely and a lot more loved.

Our previous separate worlds will improve and merge at the intersection. It becomes less about our differences and more about our similarities.

I’m glad Buck and I are in this same world.

And we are survivors together.

* * *

Please share in the comments.

revised from the archives

My app tells me we’re in for thunderstorms. It’s mid-60s now, but it’ll be 34 degrees by morning.

I’ll have to crank up my electric blanket tonight. I don’t like cold weather. I may even have to turn up my heat.

I ask the two young men in my car if they keep up with the temperatures. “Oh, yes,” they say. “It’ll be 34 tomorrow.”

I don’t know how they know.

They’re homeless.

But they know.

I’d been talking to one of the boys earlier that night (I’ll call him Sean here), asking how he was doing, how his week has been.

“Not too good,” he says, “things haven’t been going well.”

I never know quite how to respond.

So I mainly just ask more questions. I listen harder.

I ask Sean if he has somewhere warm to stay tonight.

I already had heard that the sally (the Salvation Army) fills up fast. A mom we’d talked to earlier in the day was telling us that. Her grown homeless son was visiting her but he wasn’t allowed to spend the night. It’s against the rules in the public housing apartment where she lives. She asked us to come inside and pray over him. Night and cold and storms are coming.

Sean answers that he isn’t sure where he’ll stay tonight. I’m concerned.

So he asks if I could possibly drive him and his friend to the Rescue Mission.

Oh.

Well, it is on my way home. My car is warm. My tank is full of gas.

I run it by Jeff to get his okay. We both have known Sean for awhile. Sean used to be a volunteer at Manna House before he was homeless. He’d ride his bicycle there from where he lived with his dying mother.

His mother has since passed and Sean is on his own. He and his brother and girlfriend stayed at an apartment for awhile, but it didn’t work out and they were evicted.

Sean lays his backpack in the back of my SUV. His friend sits in the back seat with the loaf of bread he got from Manna House.

It’s all he has.

I ask them about the best places to stay around town, how the Mission compares to Breaking Free or the sally. They fill me in on things I’d never know on my own, about the food they like (or don’t), about the time dinner is served, etc.

I ask how long it would have taken them to walk to the Mission. The friend says an hour and a half, but Sean says longer for him because he walks slow.

We get near the Mission and they say they’ll get out at the stop sign and walk the rest of the way. Sean grabs his backpack. Both guys thank me (I’ve been “Yes, Ma’amed” all night, they are southern boys, after all). They wish me a really good night. Same back to them.

I drive home, a little colder now in my middle-class guilt.

But I roll down the windows anyway. I need to change the smell.

I pull in my garage and unload my own backpack with my Mac computer and one of my many warm jackets and my uncracked iPhone.

But what is on the floorboard of the back seat?

The friend’s loaf of bread.

That does it.

I cry.

It was all he had on him, and now it’s here in my car instead of in his belly.

This is not fair.

I hear the storms rolling in. I turn up my electric blanket a little bit higher.

Not fair at all.

* * *

How does life seem unfair to you? Please share in the comments.