Today, my family and I walked the streets of uptown, and gazed into the eyes of people who lack a place to call home. Some were broken, battered, and mentally unstable. But all were beautiful.
We made bags and ordered biscuits, armed with prayer and eager to serve. I felt a stirring, an urge to make something meaningful out of this festive season. So many people serve the homeless on Thanksgiving, but who helps them in the aftermath of the holiday season? We wanted to be those people today.
Driving around uptown Charlotte, looking at the Ritz Carlton hotel, Long Horn Steakhouse, and Bank of America skyscrapers; the unequal distribution of wealth made my soul cry. Adorable families and business professionals roam these streets, but do they even see the woman who spends her days sitting in the bus stop? Do they say a prayer for the war veteran with PTSD wandering the streets in fatigues? I hope so. I really do. But my gut says no.
After a big Thanksgiving feast, I thought I couldn’t possibly eat another bite. But today I tasted humble pie, and my stomach turned at the thought of going another day without it.
I’m not writing to brag about what my family did, because honestly, I’m ashamed that I haven’t done more. Because if we were meant to be the hands and feet of Jesus, I think He would be on the streets every single day. This season, I want to make the days meaningful. I want to seize life in a way that matters.
I hope I never forget the hunger in those precious people’s eyes, the way they lit up at the sound of “Merry Christmas.” The way they said, “God bless you.” Their stories matter. Their desire to be recognized is palpable. I hope they felt a little love today.
In response to The Daily Post’s prompt: Humble Pie