Homelessness surges 18% in US

One of the things that I've learned over the years is to search for beauty in the hard things. I've been thinking about Dylan today, our son who would have been 27 years old, but never had a chance to breathe. He died shortly before he was born. The ache of that is ancient-- I'm not alone in having to carry it. The gifts that came from it were hard won, but he taught me about love. Messy, imperfect, (all in) love. Love that will outlast us all.

Sometimes when I write about the lives of our unhoused friends, I worry that I'm so busy trying to showcase these tiny moments of beauty, that I miss capturing the rawness of suffering. I don't tell you about the adult diapers we discreetly place in the restrooms, because women have pulled me aside to confess that when they're living outside, a restroom is a privilege they don't always have access to, and yet our bodies do what they need to do. I can't imagine how it feels to not have that basic human right. I have the privilege to not have to worry about it. I don't tell you about the people (of all genders) who tell me that they are afraid of other people. They don't have the privilege of being able to close and lock a door. I can sort of imagine how it feels to not have that basic human right, but I can't tell you what that does to a person's self esteem, to their souls.

Their bodies ache. They tell me how much pain they're in day after day, with no end in sight. Many carry or push all their belongings along in carts, or carriages. Small cuts, blisters and burns are their daily affliction.

They are refugees. 770,000 people are homeless in America. Read that number one more time. That estimate is probably low, and it's higher than it's ever been. All it takes is a missed paycheck or two, a fire or other catastrophic event, and another family falls off the cliff of poverty.

This is us. How do we bounce back?