I keep thinking about him. The man who lives in the upstairs room of the church. Some would call him homeless. I would not. But I do know that a real home would make him remember Canada. And a wife, child, and love left behind. So he lives in a Sunday School room that goes unused.
And I think of the boy a few doors down. With the pants that just fit wrong and no smile ever and hours of manual labor. I knew something wasn't quite right. And that was true. His mama was newly dead. And all little boys no matter their age need their mamas.
And this is the thing I see in my life and all around me. That we're all a mess. Our homes, our hearts, our lives. That's why our relationships keep falling apart. Because if we come together with anything less than a big bold acknoledgement of our own junk? Well, then we're lying.
And it's hard to put your mess out there. For people to see, and judge, and label and hashtag and put a big ol' scarlet letter on it. But that is the option. We either stand as boldly as possible saying "this is what I bring to the table." Hurting, bleeding, bruised.
Or we never come to the table at all.
On Fridays I join a community of writers that encourages one another. You can join us here.