Last Sunday I heard about a project that is well worth supporting. At Saint Boniface Catholic Church in the Tenderloin of San Francisco the homeless can come in during the day and sleep on the pews. There's a lot of reasons that they cannot sleep at night, but primarily it's fear. Fear that their few belongings will be stolen, or that they will be beaten, or perhaps fears that exist only in their own mental illness. This church, run by Franciscans, opens the doors, provides security, feeds them breakfast, and provides them a safe place to sleep.
A safe place to sleep. So many of us take that for granted every night.
Once upon a time, I didn't. It's only luck, or the Grace of God, or Divine Intervention - pick your term - that I didn't end up permanently on the street. Once upon a time - way back in the dark ages when I was a teenager - my family life was pretty rocky. My Mom had a dual addiction: alcohol and bad men. My little brother and two little sisters and I coped the best we could. Life took us to a small cottage behind my Mom's boyfriend at the time brothers house - two rooms and a tiny bathroom for six people. At least that was until Mom came home at 3am and made us all leave. It seemed that Mr. Boyfriend had gotten a bit abusive and she'd decided we had to leave - immediately. So a late thirties woman with four kids - aged from 17 (me) to 8 - ended up sitting in a donut shop until dawn. No money, no home, afraid to go to the only sliver of shelter that we could call 'home.'
We most definitely did not have a safe place to sleep.
Life twisted, and my brother and sisters went to live with my Dad in the midwest. I stayed - ironically - with the brother of my Mom's boyfriend, who owned the cottage and the house we'd stayed in. He gave me a safe place to sleep. I was 17 and trying to stay in high school. Mike, if you ever read this, please know that I am eternally grateful for letting me crash on your sofa for a few months. It may not have been a big deal to you, but it was to me. It was a safe place to sleep. I think about you often. After a while, my Mom got sober (but not necessarily sane) and within months I moved back in with her an my life moved into the next phase of growth.
But last week I sat and listened to a Jesuit Priest (who works with a group of Franciscan's at St. Boniface) speak passionately about the importance of providing a safe place to sleep for those who don't have it at all. I remembered my own past, my own brush with the chaos of the streets, and I deeply, passionately understood what he meant.
In a few minutes I will go crawl into bed next to my wife and sleep comfortably until morning. Just before that I will check on my kids and make sure they are covered up and that they didn't knock their pillow onto the floor. My family has a safe place to sleep. I am counting my blessings.
I hope and pray that you never experienced a lack of a safe place to sleep. I hope that none of us ever will experience that. But tonight, and every night, many people do. My heart reaches out to them, and I plan to do what I can to help. Please look into your own heart and find your own 'safe places to sleep' and do what you can for those less fortunate.
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