In serving the homeless on a consistent basis, you very often become attached to one or two that claim a place in your heart. For me one of these people was James. When I met him over ten years ago, he still had his sight, though it was failing even then.  He was probably in his early sixties, though you never really knew how many years of living on the open streets could age someone. He had a kind face and carried the patina of worn dirt that the homeless have as a layer of insulation against the elements. He struck me as someone who took pride in his appearance. Because he was a regular, always under the same bridge, I would always give him several lunches, or a blanket, bar of soap or a pair of socks. He never wanted to be burdened by things; he remarked, "just what I can put in a small box."

​James was memorizing the Bible, for he commented one day when I was delivering, that when he went blind, it would be a beautiful thing to read to himself and to share the word with others. He had lived on the streets for the past thirty-five years and felt that this was his way of doing penance for the reckless things he had done as a young man. I knew not to press him on this subject and merely listened as he quoted a particular tender bit of scripture or told a tale or two of what he had witnessed all these years living on the streets.
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