Sorrow

–> This post is rated PG-13 <–
This is a fictional story.

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Coffee doesn’t ask silly questions. Coffee understands me. I take it black and bitter, like my mornings. I live in a walk-up, one-room apartment with a shared bathroom at the end of a dingy hall that hasn’t felt a wet mop since I was a child. The bathroom is at the south end of the hall. Any daylight that creeps in comes through a small, cracked window at the other end. The window has the kind of glass that looks like it has chicken wire inside, giving tenants a feeling of living in prison, something most have experienced.

I hate walking that hall. I hate finding the door locked, which it always is. I shuffle to the door, rattle the handle, and slide down the wall to wait. I can tell if a junkie is in there. For junkies, I let nature overcome nurture and piss under the door, then shuffle away. The other tenants will think that the junkie pissed himself. Sure, it stinks, but the hall already does, so what do I care?

After relieving myself, I walk past my apartment. There’s no reason to go in. I slept in the clothes I now have on, and the junkie at the end of the hall made sure I’m indistinguishable from every unhoused person I’ll pass as I make my way along the sidewalk that leads to the homeless shelter where I’ll squeeze in and get my bitter coffee and a hard bread roll. I like the roll’s toughness. It makes me feel like I have more to eat. I hope some do-gooder didn’t decide to donate donuts “for the poor.” Donuts are two bites worth of puff-and-air. We all leave hungry when a do-gooder wants to feel good about themselves. I’m hungry. I want a hard bread roll.

A kind, grey-haired woman at the shelter hands me two donuts, a small paper cup of coffee, and smiles. There’s sadness in her eyes. She knows. Reaching for them, I look at my hands and try to remember when I last washed them. Yesterday? No. Longer. If it’s not too late, I can make it to the Salvation Army local Corps Community Center before they stop serving breakfast. It’s a long walk. They serve “healthy” meals. I’d rather have a hard bread roll.

As I begin to walk past an alley, I see a young woman flirting with an old man in his business suit and polished wing-tips. Nothing to worry about; just a transaction; a brief moment, then both will feel sorrow, included at no extra cost.

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What I wrote is a snapshot of many people’s lives. They live hard to imagine lives. Through many difficulties, for some by their own choices, their thinking is hard, but they are not soulless. They are surviving. We cannot be followers of Jesus if we do not follow Jesus.

And when the Pharisees saw this, they said to his disciples, “Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” But when he heard it, he said, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.’ For I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.” – Matthew 9:11-13 ESV

Live for Jesus. That’s what matters.

#Christianity