My faith lives in Vancouver

Sitting cross-legged under a scraggly tree was a girl not much older than Jayna. She was staring straight ahead as if to tune out the tears. A poncho covered her thin shoulders and her cardboard sign read simply: "I am broke and hungry."

I walked by her, because that is what you are supposed to do with street people. There are so many and the need is so great that you cannot possibly make a difference. But, that stare and the young face haunted each step that took me down the block. My own tears pushed hard behind my eyes until they finally fell.

"How old do you think she was?" I asked Anne.

Anne had to think for a minute who I meant because we had gone three or four blocks past the girl. Then she answered, "Jayna?"

And, I cried.

Something about it hurt so much. Not knowing her story, I couldn't assume that she had a home. I couldn't assume that if she did, it was a happy or safe one. I couldn't assume that she was a drug addict. I couldn't assume that she wasn't. I just knew that if she had a better gig going on, she certainly would not be sitting on the cool October pavement at 10 o'clock at night asking for food.

You know sometimes you can feel compelled to do something even when you know it doesn't make sense? This was one of those times. I walked to the nearest store to buy her dinner. The turkey pita sandwich and apple juice I bought from 7 Eleven went into a bag along with the biggest, reddest apple I could find. I bought a couple of cereal bars and some chewing gum and retraced my steps to find the girl who had broken my heart.

At first I thought she was gone. But, then I could see that she had only hunched down further. Seemed smaller. More forlorn. I didn't trust my voice, but I knew that I had to speak. It was part of what was compelling me.

"Hey, how are you tonight?" I asked. The streetlight caught on the tears behind her stare.

"GO HOME, little girl," I wanted to scream, but, of course, I didn't.

"This is for you," I said as I knelt next to her. The bag of food hung as an offering between us. A dirty hand with broken nails came out from under the poncho.

"And, this is for you too." I dropped several Canadian coins into her palm. Enough to buy coffee or something warm.

She smiled, and then I saw that she was not as young as I thought. Her skin was older. Her teeth were starting to rot. Her matted hair had not been glossy for years. It startled me for a minute. It caused a moment of doubt in my judgment.

But, I had been compelled by something beyond that moment.

I don't practice my faith in a church. I don't even know what I believe or how I feel about those things any more. However, I have promised myself that I would always respond when I felt that tug to reach out to another human being.

My faith stands in two things...

First, we entertain angels unaware. I used to think that meant that actual angels were walking the earth seeking our hospitality. It was a pass/fail sort of test. Now I believe that the angels we entertain unaware are of this earth. Our fellow man. People who bless us when we help them.

And second, the scripture that reminds us: "Whatsoever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me." If you remember, on the day that counted, it was the ONLY thing that separated the sheep from the goats.

My angel was gone when we walked back by less than an hour later.