On Tuesday, I saw a man injecting heroin. I was at the L, waiting for a train home. I was looking for a way to cross over the tracks and didn’t notice him at first. He was sitting on a bench, hunched over his right arm, as his whole universe collapsed to a 2-inch syringe plunged into his forearm.
I walked right by him. I got on my train.
I was afraid.
I went home and called my brother. It took me a long time to cry. My brother was patient, and drew the tears out, one by one. I cried, and cried, and cried.
What words could express the hopelessness I felt then?
Jesus, why?
That night, our house got together around our little coffee table. Is God present in this place? How could a holy deity dwell here, in such oppressive darkness?
Deborah was quiet for a long time. She was the last to speak, and her voice was clear and strong. God is found, and always has been found, among the broken and the lost. I had seen an image of God at the train station.
I had seen God, and, afraid, I had walked away.