Faith: After the holidays continue to serve, celebrate good

This is not my church. I know it from afar. A transgender homeless woman who looked after me, a stranger who lived on the street for a while, told me about the early morning breakfasts at this church for hungry people and people with empty pockets.

We discussed our plans the night before going to bed, she on the porch of the second floor of an abandoned house, I on the porch of the first floor. She was going to go to church to clean up a bit and have breakfast. I skipped meals and went to bed.

On another occasion I spent the night at the door of this church with two young, unprotected, lost couples. Nobody chased us away. So grateful!

My first meal there was early in the morning, exhausted from wandering the streets with my backpack and blanket, and too tired to wait in line for food, I curled up in my chair at the round table. A scary old man with a long gray beard, disheveled hair and shabby clothes came up to me and said: “You look better. You slept last night. I’ve been watching you. I knew this man only by appearance. He wandered around the city, dragging a huge transparent plastic bag filled with garbage. People gave him a place on the sidewalk and made way for him. I’ve never heard him speak before.