The rain, we all agreed, was torrential, Biblical, apocalyptic. And she with no god damn shoes. Homeless–tarped in a thin coat that glistened on the inside, sopped from head to foot–doesn’t do it justice. Her swamped life stowed in a handcart, lugged around behind her, looking for any sort of safe, dry place—and we said no. We with this big, empty building; this warm heart we profess to beat with the love of God’ we who gild the Samaritan in purest gold, we said no. We wrung our hands, dithering about paper cups for coffee, the smallest grace we could conceive of in a moment ruled by fear.

Out she went, wrestling all she carried with her. Again. She sheltered an extra stolen moment in our entryway, looking back over her shoulder. Evaluating. Wondering. Perhaps pitying, perhaps praying for these people who knew not what they were doing. Or fed one another the lie of it: the Body of Christ, broken for few; the Blood of Christ, poured out for some.

Or perhaps she spared one last look to shake the dust from her naked feet as we chased her silently back into the plague of rain

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