The frosty winds of pain

It is three-thirty in the morning, and I am sitting with thirty-five homeless people who are sleeping. There is gentle snoring and occasionally someone talks or cries in their dreams. All but six of them are men, so there is also the flattulance and mildly sexual moans that men seem to emit. It is twenty-five degrees outside, so we open the Community Kitchen to anyone with no where else to go. The missions are full. And the city has put out the vendetta on the camps.
So, here we are. There was a mentally ill man named Calvin here earlier. But, Calvin was having some difficulty with the forces that control him...those cruel phantoms of his mental illness. He started screaming and became very agitated and went off down the street when we called the police. The officers were incredibly kind and compassionate, but Calvin refused to go to the hospital or to the crisis unit, so he left. I pray that he finds a warm place to wait out the night.

Last week, my dear old friend Stanley, died of AIDS.

The Monday before, my life-long friend Robin killed himself.

The world seems infinite in its capacity to hold pain. So many are wounded, and the suffering seems endless. So, why do we continue to search the horizon line for any glimpse of joy?
I think it is because something so deep, so primal within us believes in the amazing love of God. And we truly long for mercy and grace and the first water.
In this deep and frosty night, the breathing of these homeless men is all the evidence I need of God. That is hope enough for me.