A January Night

It is three in the morning, the middle of January. There is a cold, icy rain coming down. I am sitting here, watching over twenty-one homeless men who are sleeping on the floor. There is the gentle rythym of different snoring, and the pungent smell of wet feet. It is the only place I would choose to be on such a night...looking after these refugees lost here in the American jungle.

Tomorrow, I leave for New York for a week with my Brothers. It will be a much needed rest and respite, but already I am missing these broken and exhausted people, who have so little, and who I love so much. This is a solitary life, in a lonely hour of a winter night. But it is a holy and good way to live.

Good morning.