Disposable

Sara and I are standing in the doorway, waving good bye, when he shuffles around the corner, startling me. He clenches a torn sheet around his shoulders, his beard is overgrown, but it's his eyes that catch my attention. They're piercing, hurt, and look at me more directly than I've grown to expect from men on the street. He asks if we have any bread and Sara goes to get him some, while I stay in the open doorway. He greets me, I ask how he is. "Soy desechable" he tells me, "I'm disposable". It's a term used here to describe the homeless. Unwanted. Unworthy. Unvalued. "They might say that about you", I tell him. "But you're not, you're a human, made in God's image and likeness. You are worthy, and you have value." He thanks me, and I stand, not sure what to say or do next. Sara comes to the door with bread and cheese and hands it to him, and he shuffles off again.

And I wonder, did he know I really meant it? Were those few words, and a bite to eat offered from our house enough to give him even a glimmer of hope? Does he believe the lies he hears about himself? Is he, in his own mind, disposable?

I pray for him. I pray for me. I pray all of us, broken, reaching out to other broken lives.