SHE

Yesterday, while at my wit's end at having spent over 4 hours driving all over town in a failed attempt to finally, legally, become a Tennesseean, I met her. In the heat of the day and in the fogginess of exhaustion, the eyes of my heart found this unassuming old woman aimlessly walking about a parking lot full of luxury cars, across from the ritzy stores of the Green Hills mall.

She reminded me of the face of a famous Dorothea Lange photo -- the same forlorn and distant gaze of hopelessness in her eyes. The same leathery face, weathered from the sun and years of a hard life, now etched on the slate of my memory.

There was a distinct heaviness about her, a shroud of shame almost. As we walked towards Starbucks, her slow, pained steps broke my heart. I glanced down at her feet squeezed into canvas sneakers much too small and knew they revealed more than I was privy to -- a confession that it had been days since she'd last known rest. I was sure she was hungry, but she refused everything I offered, only asking for money to "go home." Her words still echo in the recesses of my mind.

There are so many like her these days. My sinful heart's initial reaction is to look away, to pretend that this is not a reality when I know it is. The piles of cases and letters and stories at work can testify to the fact that for many, survival is a moment by moment ordeal. These faceless stories are reminders that nothing is guaranteed.


(Well, almost nothing.)