I went to the street to visit with the homeless, and one woman carried the weight of accusations, sadness, and circumstances she couldn’t seem to escape.
Another man apparently needed conversation and friendship, too. He stayed nearby, quietly waiting for his turn to talk.
The woman and I stepped slightly aside, and she began sharing what had happened. She told me about the accusations being thrown at her, the grief she was carrying, and how peace seemed impossible to find.
Then she told me she had slept on someone’s porch the night before.
She had been worried.
Restless. Unable to settle.
My male friend stood nearby with an interesting talent for pretending he wasn’t listening while clearly hearing every word.
Then, during a pause in our conversation, he spoke. “I could be that person she’s talking about. It’s how I deal with things sometimes. I hurt others with my words.”
I turned toward him. His honesty caught me off guard.
Then he looked at the woman and said, “I’d let you stay with me at my camp, to give you a place. But I can see that wouldn’t be the right thing to do. It would add to your problem.”
She thanked him and agreed. Then she looked at me. “What should I do? How can I handle this?”
I reached for my Bible.
“It really doesn’t matter what I think,” I told her. “I might guide you wrong unless I guide you toward how God tells us to handle it.”
We ended up in Proverbs.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. Be not wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord, and turn away from evil.” —Proverbs 3:5–7 She ran her fingers along the words. She stood to my left. The man stood to my right. She sighed. He sighed.
And for a moment, it felt as though time stopped.
A woman stood caught in the crossfire of accusations. A man admitting that sometimes he was the one firing the words.
And then I saw myself standing between them, because on any given day, I could be either one.
I can be the wounded one, wondering why someone said what they said.
And I can be the difficult one—arguing, debating, speaking too quickly, or allowing my own frustration to wound someone else.
Suddenly, I realized they weren’t simply there so I could minister to them.
God was ministering to me.
The woman reminded me how easily my own heart can rebel when life doesn’t go the way I think it should. The man reminded me that my words can become weapons when I care more about making my point than showing grace.
So the three of us stood beside my car and talked about trusting God when our own understanding fails us. About fearing the Lord. About turning away from what pulls us away from Him.
For a few sweet minutes, God seemed to suspend the clock while three people laid different burdens at the same feet.
Then the woman said, “I sure needed to read that, because I get caught up in the stuff happening to me that I forget He is there to guide me through it.”
The man quietly added, “I fight to believe. I’ve ruined so much in my life.” And just like that, the clock seemed to start ticking again. But something had changed. We had remembered where to look.
When accusations chase us, we can trust God.
When we’re the ones who caused the hurt, we can ask forgiveness.
When our choices have left wreckage behind us, grace still invites us home. When we feel completely alone, Christ remains near.
And when the world makes someone feel forgotten, unwanted, overlooked, or invisible, Jesus says otherwise.
To be known by Christ means we are loved and precious to Him.
We belong to Him. And praise God, that truth has absolutely nothing to do with where we slept last night. Be it a porch.
Or a homeless camp. Or even a bed.
