Alcohol is always at the scene of the crime. I started drinking when I was fifteen years old. I got sober when I was twenty-seven. It is a miracle that I am still alive. When I was a kid, alcohol seemed important. If my parents were having company over for dinner, wine was always offered. If we went to somebody’s house for dinner, wine was brought as a gift. Growing up in Sonoma County, wineries were where we took out of town guests. The phrase, “nice bottle of wine,” always makes me laugh. Does the nice bottle of wine volunteer at the senior center? Does the bottle of merlot tutor middle school students, struggling with algebra?

The first time I got drunk I was fifteen and I blacked out. My parents let me stay home alone and I drank three bottles of homemade wine with some friends in the park. I was sick for two days. When my band started to play at parties and bars, alcohol was how I was compensated. People love to give the guitar player free drinks. I was fired from my first job for being hungover. Before I took the SAT’S, I threw up in the parking lot because I was still drunk from the previous night. I drank a bottle of tequila the night before I graduated high school.

Reflecting on my high school drinking, I wonder why no one ever said anything. My parents caught me drinking many times. My mom found receipts for beer. My dad thanked me for only drinking five of the six beers in his fridge. When I moved out on my own, I was too drunk to make it to community college classes and eventually quit. I spent my time drinking. Working in restaurants, alcohol is everywhere. Free drinks in paper cups were how I maintained my buzz. I got into a car accident, with a beer in my hand, while delivering pizza. The police pulled me over with empty beer cans on my back seat. No one ever said anything.

“Some of you say, “We can do whatever we want to!” But I tell you not everything may be good or helpful (1 Corinthians 10:23 CEV).” My first church I attended as a sober person was into drinking. This community of faith loved their college years spent on Greek Row, and their faith reflected the image of a frat party. You haven’t lived until you’ve attended a prayer time with a keg. Social drinking was hard to navigate as a recovering alcoholic. One night after sharing my struggle with alcohol with my church’s small group, they immediately invited me to go out for drinks. During this time, I volunteered with a ministry that worked with homeless kids. Alcohol is always a part of a street youth’s story. Abuse, neglect, foster care, Child Protective Services, and abandonment are all framed with alcohol. The staff would meet once a week to pray and update each other on the status of clients. After crying and processing all the trauma homeless youth experience, the staff would go out for drinks. I know people can drink socially, but it always seemed strange to argue as a staff about farm to table produce, ethically sourced coffee beans, all in the name of being sensitive to the oppressed and marginalized, and not want to support those who are in recovery by abstaining from alcohol. We want to stand with the least of these, but when it comes to beer and wine at the fundraiser, well, “were not Mormons.” Alcoholics and addicts understand being alone with God.

Alcohol is the cruelest of addictions. Unlike other drugs, alcohol kills you slowly. Homeless people die the most tragic deaths because of booze. Alcohol related death is always slow and painful. Organ failure happens gradually, deterioration of the mind and body takes years and years to complete. Talking with people on the street who are drinking stolen vanilla extract and cooking sherry is surreal. I once had a friend rummage through a box of hygiene supplies in search of mouthwash. Some mouthwash has alcohol in it. Street alcoholics can drink twelve-hundred dollars of stimulus check money in a weekend. One of the saddest things is watching alcoholics lose control of their bowels. A friend of mine who has an apartment in low barrier housing asked me if I had a queen-sized mattress. While we were talking, I noticed a mattress covered in diarrhea by the dumpster. People drink themselves to death. The humiliation we put ourselves through kills our spirit long before our bodies. Recently, I helped a sixty-year-old man, who is sleeping in a tent, on the sidewalk, with his resume. Every time we talk, he asks me for underwear. He often cries when we pray, embarrassed that he keeps popping his pants. He asked me to pray that he would get sober tomorrow.

When I got credentialed with the Assemblies of God, I signed an agreement that I would abstain from alcohol. After twenty plus years of sobriety it was not a tough decision for me. I can’t tell you how many pastors I speak with who think the policy is too “legalistic.” They usually get angry and defensive, as if me being sober somehow ruins their right to have a “beer with the fellas.” Once, when I was talking with a mission’s pastor, he told me about an Assemblies of God minister that was “down to earth,” because he drank beer. For me, down to earth and alcohol equal death. God given potential and hope buried six feet in the ground.

Alcohol has been given lots of importance in America. The prohibition era in our history has welded alcohol with personal freedom. We believe the government should not regulate harmful products. It’s important that Anheuser-Busch remain profitable for its shareholders. We believe we have the right to drink ourselves to death. Viewed with a biblical understanding, we are not always entitled to do what we want. “Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own,for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body (1 Corinthians 6:19-20).” When we view our individual bodies as part of the larger body of Christ, we become a part of one another. Our lives are shaped by each other. “For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ (1 Corinthians 12:12).” If someone is in pain, then we are all in pain. Your suffering is my suffering. My healing becomes your healing.

Being sober, and ministering with people who struggle with addiction, I continue to experience the radical freedom from bondage and decay that the love of Christ provides. “On the last day of the feast, the great day, Jesus stood up and cried out, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water (John 7:37-38).” May we all receive the promise of new life that comes from the Holy Spirit. I am thankful to have twenty-six years of sobriety!

Michael Cox

“Thank you for saving my friend’s life.”  That’s how our prayer time ended. The Reverend Paul Benz and I were walking through the park when we saw a group of frantic young men scurrying around a group of picnic tables. One young man was laying on the ground with both of his feet resting on a bench. His face and lips were blue, and his friends were not sure if they had given him too much Narcan. Thankfully, the street ministers at Operation Nightwatch have been trained by the wonderful people from King County Public Health in harm reduction and substance abuse disorders. Narcan contains Naloxone which temporarily reverses the effects of an opioid overdose. It should be administered until the person wakes up. I told the group that there is no such thing as too much Narcan and called 911. Paul administered more Narcan, three doses in total. The 911 operator told me to start chest compressions and continue them until the ambulance arrives. After the third attempt the young man’s chest finally rose and filled with oxygen. He sat up and had no idea what was happening. He laid back down and told me that he was fine. I distracted him with questions, described the situation, and continued with the CPR. “My name is Michael. What’s your name? Where are you from? I am a street minister with Operation Nightwatch. Your friends and I are worried about you. The ambulance is on its way. Your face and lips are still blue. There sure are a lot of people out tonight for the art walk.”  The police and paramedics arrived in two minutes and began to care for our new friend. Paul and I talked with his friends and absorbed some or all of their grief and anxiety. The stigma of addiction fueling their shame and guilt. A cloud of sickness and death hanging around all of us like an uninvited guest.

 It’s a festive summer night and hundreds of people are out enjoying each other’s company. All of the galleries are open late, hosting the art walk. Live jazz music fills the cobblestoned promenade as the more fortunate laugh and hug each other between appetizers and glasses of chardonnay. This is all part of the city’s plan to “revitalize” downtown. They are calling it Sip and Stroll. How fun! This is what I think the apocalypse looks like. Poor people literally dying in the street while the wealthy don’t even notice. It amazes me that an ambulance, four paramedics, three police officers, two pastors wearing clergy collars, and a young man being wheeled off in a gurney, don’t illicit any response from any of the passersby.  It feels like we are all trained to turn away from each other and toward ourselves. Wine and art are different than poverty and opioids. My addictions aren’t as bad as yours. There is another person laying under his coat that won’t wake up. Another person that we will pretend doesn’t exist.

When the ambulance, paramedics, police, and resurrected leave for the hospital, we stand in a circle and pray. We thank God for life and for community. For not leaving or forsaking us. For being a God of rescue.  For not being ashamed to call us his beloved. “The Lord All-Powerful will destroy the power of death and wipe away all tears. No longer will his people be insulted everywhere. The Lord has spoken (Isaiah 25:8 CEV).” Thank you for saving my friend’s life.

Michael Cox

My ministry is dependent on hospitality. When I walk into a homeless encampment or set up chaffing dishes for the community dinner, I am both the host and the guest. The Spirit of God is given and received through the radical practice of mutual hospitality. When strangers welcome each other, the comfort and care of the Holy Spirit is evident. Our hearts are strengthened and nourished by the mutual love of relationships. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it (Hebrews 13:2 NSRV).”

My ministry is simple and uncomplicated. Every Thursday I stop by the St Francis House for coffee. It is a drop-in center that offers clothing, household items, and other resources helpful to those in need. I show up around noon, sit in the cafe, and wait for someone to start talking to me. This week it is busier than usual. All the tables are full and there are several folks waiting to access the clothing room. No one is talking to me. Over the years I have become incredibly comfortable sitting in what most would call awkward silence. After the room clears out, a man in his fifty’s waves at me and cheerfully shouts, “Good morning, Father!” What follows is Ian’s story. A story of God’s miraculous healing power. Ian had a heart attack in rehab and an angel of the Lord saved his life. As the story unfolds, memories of nurse’s shaving his chest, and the warm presence of God, are punctuated with the joyful laughter of gratitude. As we continue to talk, we realize that a church that hosts a community dinner has been instrumental in Ian’s recovery. After rehab and nowhere to go, the church welcomed Ian into their lives. They paid for a few nights in a motel and connected him to a housing case manager. Ian helps serve and volunteers at the dinner. The church literally embraced him. Ian tells me about how he has a statue by the door of his new apartment of an angel hugging a child. To go from being homeless and having a heart attack to being healed and housed is truly a miracle.

My ministry isn’t my ministry. As the St Francis House is cleaning up and closing, Ian tells me that he prays that God would hug all the people who are hurting and in pain. He tells me that the armor of God is a hug. That God battles the despair and hopelessness of addiction by wrapping his arms around us. “Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power. Put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on that evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm (Ephesians 6:10-14).” Ian and I exchange numbers and hug, putting on the full armor of God!

Michael Cox

When I first met Linda, she was sitting on the steps of the church surrounded by garbage. She was singing, and yelling incoherently at everybody and nobody, to anybody who would listen. She told me that I was a handsome man, that she was opening a crafting store in Walmart, and that she had to get to the bank and let them know to freeze her friends checking account. I gave her a bottle of water and invited her to the community dinner. Now she is a regular guest! It’s always exciting when she attends. Linda’s presence creates the full spectrum of joy, grief, and chaos. She is a tornado of song and soliloquy, spilling coffee on herself as she hugs and thanks me for being kind to her. One of the things I love about Linda is the way she is simultaneously organized and disorganized. In the span of three minutes, I have seen her eat a meal, change her clothes, put on a blue wig, and speed walk halfway down the block, yelling and screaming at everybody, nobody, and anyone who would listen. One night I saw her across the street making her way towards the meal. When she saw me, she yelled. “I am on my way pastor.” It means something to Linda to have a pastor stand in the rain by the bus stop, serve a delicious meal, share Scripture, and pray. It’s healing to be invited, welcomed, and received. When Linda arrives so does the kingdom of God.

On Mother’s Day Linda came to the Sunday morning church service at All Pilgrims Church. She is a member of this radically hospitable group and like me, and everyone else who regularly attends, has her own laminated name tag. At one point in the service, Linda stands up and declares a blessing for all the mothers. Her voice moves in and out of a modified Shakespearean accent and it feels more appropriate than disruptive. During the prayer time before communion, I feel someone blowing on the back of my neck. I look up and Linda is behind me smiling. I give her a hug and ask her how she is doing. She answers, “better now that you see me!” I am reminded of all the times in the Bible God breathes life into his people. Filling our gasping and panting souls with the fresh wind of his craetive Spirit. “Then the Lord God formed man from the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living being (Genesis 2:7 NRSV).”

After church, Linda asks if she can help serve at the dinner. When my wife and daughter respond with a hearty yes, Linda breaks down in tears, thankful to be welcomed and included. Leaving church, I wonder how realistic it is for Linda to show up and help. I worry about all the possible scenarios that could present themselves. What if Linda is drunk and I have to tell her not to throw hot coffee on someone that makes her mad. While I am walking to my car spiraling into doom, a bird poops on my neck, a humbling reminder of God’s care for creature’s big and small. A gross and gentle reminder not to worry or take myself too seriously. “Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they (Matthew 6:26).”

It’s Monday and I am setting up the community dinner church. It’s a record ninety degrees and Linda shows up on time ready to help. Her friend threw up yesterday from the heat and I suggest   that they both sit in the shade and drink some water. As we get closer to starting, Linda and I discuss the possibility of her serving next week when it’s not so hot. She agrees and I tell her that the community dinner believes that sitting at the table, sharing a meal, and talking with people is also a volunteer role. In fact, it may be the most important and meaningful way to serve. Linda smiles and loves this idea. She is calm and peaceful, knowing that she is invited, welcomed, and received. I give the Christ story about the ascension of Jesus and pray about his promise of hope. I ask God to breathe understanding and life into us all and marvel at how our heavenly Father feeds us. How he reveals himself through the flesh and blood reality of his scars. Through sharing his broken body and breath. How we recognize him when we eat together. “When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him (Luke 24:30-31a).” Linda, you are on your way!

Michael Cox

Samuel has been sleeping in front of the school for at least four years. When I see him, he is always friendly and chatty. He calls me and the other outreach workers “The Fathers.” As a street minister for Operation Nightwatch, I wear a clergy collar. Sometimes people assume I am a Catholic Priest. I will try and clarify, explaining that I am a Protestant Minister or Reverend. People usually glaze over with boredom as I drone on and on about how I am friends with Catholics and that I believe in the Priesthood of all believers. Last week while I was serving pizza casserole, pasta salad, and lemon cake, a young woman looked at me, got nervous, and referred to me as “your honor.” The awkward conversations around my, “get up” as one outreach worker from the county called it, are worth the moments of pastoral care and therapeutic relief that the clergy collar invites.

Samuel went to work with his brother last year and I bought him two pairs of jeans from Costco. He lost his temper, his sister died, and his brother is not speaking to him. Back on the street and sleeping in front of the school, Samuel has a host of health care needs. He has prostate cancer, back problems, and needs a catheter to urinate. His stories about trying to pee at the hospital have all of us doubled over laughing. The more we laugh the better his stories get. He tells us about raising llamas as a child, trying to ride them, and getting thrown off. He believes one particular llama, intentionally saved all the llama food in its cheek, cornered him, and pelted him in the face machine gun style. Not many people can say they have been shot at by a weaponized llama. Working day labor and staying on and off in cheap motels, Samuel has been able to survive the violence of the street and stay alive.

Over Christmas, I ran into Samuel downtown. He was sleeping in a shelter program and looked great. This week he came to our Monday Community Dinner and told me that he had his own apartment. He wanted me to come see it, letting me know that his size for jeans was still 32 32! When I arrived at his apartment, he was waiting for me in the lobby. The building and his room are nice and new. After showing me his DVD collection and refrigerator, we prayed. We lifted up the life and soul of his sister, thanking God for his rest and peace. We prayed reconciliation for him, and his brother, thanking God for restoration and reconciliation. We prayed a blessing on his apartment and for the other residents and staff, thanking God for protecting us with his mercy and kindness. When we’re done praying, Samuel takes me down the elevator, leads me through the lobby and opens the door for me. We hug and he says, “Thanks Father, tell the other Father’s I say hi!

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going (John 14:1-4).”

Michael Cox

Street ministry often feels like working for the Post Office. Lots of walking, driving, and carrying stuff. When I am moving cases of Costco water up and down stairs and packing the trunk of my car with donated bags of shoes, I hear the hallowed words of my mom who carried everyone’s baggage, both physical and emotional. One time at Disneyland she had all of me and my two sisters’ allowance money in her purse. Probably thirty pounds of loose change! “I am done schlepping all this crap around. I am not the prospector’s donkey.” The blue-collar nature of street ministry is challenging for people who perceive themselves as enlightened and sophisticated. It’s easy to get mired in resentment, walking around in the rain with pizza casserole all over your coat, being yelled at by the people you are trying to help. Over the years, I have seen many well intentioned and kindhearted volunteers get frustrated and quit because they were not able to “be successful”. People who “know how to get things done” have a challenging time on the street. The kingdom of God accomplishes victory through forgiveness and vulnerability, prioritizing the social outcast and marginalized, using dirt, spit, bread, blood, and words for healing. Jesus is a terrible CEO with an even worse business model. “If any of you wants to be my follower, you must give up your own way, take up your cross, and follow me. If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake, you will save it. And what do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul? Is anything worth more than your soul (Matthew 16:24-26 NLT)?”

 Steven ran across the street to tell me how God had saved his life. He suffered a stroke last week and now believes in the spiritual reality of angels and demons. In the two years I have known him he has been shot, stabbed, and had his tent along with all of his possessions burned to the ground. He is clean and sober now and can’t stop talking about the goodness of God. He walks with me through the encampment I am visiting and helps me pass out socks, gloves, and hand warmers. He tells me about his friend that he is praying for. She is stuck in the cycle of addiction, and he knows that she is being oppressed by the forces of darkness. He is manic in his sharing, and I do my best to listen and offer calm biblical instruction about spiritual warfare. We talk about the authority and power of Christ and how we can participate in his healing by giving and receiving forgiveness. We leave the encampment and continue talking. Steven introduces me to several of his friends and asks them if they need any beanies or snacks. We continue walking and run into Brian, a mutual friend from the street who shares the news that there has been another overdose death from fentanyl. The conversation briefly excludes me as Steven and Brian share conspiracy theories about how it’s impossible for the person who died to have overdosed. They don’t think he was a drug user and suspect foul play. Brian leaves and Steven and I continue talking about Jesus. About the light of the world overcoming death. I put my hand on Steven’s shoulder and pray, asking God for wisdom and protection. When we’re done praying, Steven takes a deep breath, thanks me, and tells me what I need to hear. “Thank you for doing the menial tasks. It’s the menial tasks that get people to open their hearts.” Thank you, Jesus, may we continue to schlep onward and upward!

Michael Cox

I met Sarah and her boyfriend a few months ago. I was struck by how self-aware and articulate she was. She grew up in my neighborhood and was prescribed mental health medication at the age of seven. When she talks about herself and her family, she uses clinical mental health terminology and sounds like a therapist. She seems to view the world and herself through the Diagnostic Statistical Manuel of Mental Disorders. “He has neurotic impulse control disorder. I struggle with intrusive thoughts and have major depression. My family all have ADHD.” The years spent in and out of mental health institutions have come to define Sarah’s identity. She sees herself as a diagnosis not as a daughter of God.

Sarah got into a Christian woman’s shelter and began to separate from her abusive boyfriend. Things were going well and then she was kicked out of her housing. Sarah shared how her depression makes her angry and frustrated. How the shelter promised to take her to the methadone clinic and then didn’t. She tells me how she filed a restraining order on her boyfriend. How she went to jail for scratching him while defending herself. She can go to a domestic violence shelter but feels safer on the street with her friend. I offer to pray with her, and she accepts. I pray for protection and safety, affirming the courage it takes to leave oppression and abuse. To take care of our mental health with a balance of therapy, community, and medication. I pray that we could all know the love of God and rediscover our identities as his beloved children. When were finished praying she is smiling from ear to ear and says, “That’s what I thought prayer was supposed to be!” She then gets out her phone and shows me a video. It’s the prayer time at the shelter that kicked her out. The staff are screaming about how God sits on the throne and judges our thoughts and minds. How God moves and heals in our submission and obedience.  I tell Sarah that the church has failed to understand mental health and that yelling at women who are fleeing domestic violence in the name of Jesus is spiritual abuse. I tell Sarah some of my own personal stories of being traumatized by the people of God.

We continue to talk, and allow the Holy Spirit to minister and heal the parts of our identities that have been malformed by rejection and neglect.  We part ways asking each other, how have we misunderstood the character and nature of God? What lies do we believe about God? About ourselves? “You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb. Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion, as I was woven together in the dark of the womb (Psalms 139: 13-15 NLT).”

Michael Cox

I saw you out of the corner of my eye. You were well hidden between the abandoned store front and busy bus stop. The vacant look in your eyes made me wonder if we should leave you alone. If talking to me would be upsetting for you. Gently, I offer some socks and handwarmers. You don’t hear me or understand what I am doing and look scared and worried. I hold out a pair of Kirkland brand tube socks and we start a conversation. Your story reveals that you’re forty-two, a Navy veteran, and that your brain is extremely tired. You are confused about the details of your Military service but are interested in talking with a counselor and accessing benefits. I give you my pen and you write down phone numbers, addresses, and bus routes. Gradually the countenance of your face becomes brighter, your speech more articulate. We discuss the two bloody scratches on your neck. They are deep and concerning. Emblematic signposts of your suffering and longing for safety. You genuinely seem to understand the danger you’re in. We kneel down on the busy sidewalk, hold hands, and pray for healing, peace, and rest.

Michael Cox

The dictionary defines frostbite as an “injury to body tissues caused by exposure to extreme cold, typically affecting the nose, fingers, or toes and sometimes resulting in gangrene.” I ran into my friend Bill in front of the library. He was sitting next to a fire he had created with avocado oil, woodchips, and rubbing alcohol. He had just been released from the hospital with frostbite and could barely walk. In a humane society, he would be able to heal and recover in a facility that offered respite care. In Seattle, because he is poor and homeless, he is left to figure out how to keep his toes while sleeping outside. Bill got frostbite from being outside. He fell asleep outside and woke up ten hours later in eighteen-degree weather. Unable to move and frozen to a bench, a nearby business owner heard Bill’s screams and called 911. Pouring boiling water on his back and legs, it took the fire department thirty-five minutes to get him unstuck. They took him to the emergency room where they had to soak his feet in boiling water to get his boots off.

Bill feels grateful that he was able to keep his toes. While were talking, other homeless men stop by and share horror stories of friends dying from exposure. I talk about George who had both of his legs amputated a few years ago from frostbite. Jerry comes by with a box of fried chicken and offers everyone a piece. He includes me in the street community communion table and offers me a drumstick. It is always nice to be invited. Bill tells me about a couple in the north end of the city that has set up a dozen food pantries around their neighborhood. People experiencing food insecurity are able to take what they need. I talk with Rodger who is seventy and dying of throat cancer. His speaking voice is a low gravely whisper. He shares with me about the violence of his childhood and his belief in living while we still can. He isn’t going to spend his last days in institutions that continue to traumatize him.

Later that night I meet another man with frostbite. I am in the middle of a prayer time at a church that hosts an emergency winter shelter when, a taxicab pulls up and drops off a man in a wheelchair. It’s raining and the shelter doesn’t open for two hours. The hospital paid one hundred and Ninety dollars for the cab ride. He was assured that there was a bed for him at the shelter. The shelter staff had no idea that he was coming and was at full capacity. After some creative thinking, the shelter figured out a way to have him stay the night. We made shelter arrangements for the following night through Operation Nightwatch and were able to eliminate an extra bus trip for our new friend. Hopefully he will be able to keep his toes.

Michael Cox

The list of names being read on the longest night of the year was as chilling as the weather. Two hundred and seventy names were read out loud. Names of the homeless who died last year without shelter in King County. Beautiful souls tragically lost to poverty, violence, neglect, and abuse. I staggered and almost fell over when I heard her name being read.

 I first met her over twenty years ago in a homeless youth drop-in center. She was one of the first street kids I really got to know. Her life and story were my introduction to street culture. She was fifteen and working in the sex industry. Her boyfriend was pimping her. He would eventually go to prison for second degree murder. She would attend our street church and pray with us. She told me a story once about how God saved her. She got in a car with a date and realized he had recently threatened to kill her. She began to pray, and the door of the moving car opened. She rolled out on to the highway unharmed and safe. Her mother died drinking herself to death at a bus stop. I was honored to be asked to facilitate the memorial service. All of her mom’s friends were in attendance and extremely inebriated. One of the guests stood up with a plastic dancing sunflower plant that sang, You Are My Sunshine. I took myself seriously back then and even wore a blazer with a tie. I met her sister who was in community college and wanted nothing to do with my now deceased friend. So many people I knew as homeless kids have passed away. If you grow up on the streets and are alive in your forties you are a miracle.

A voice was heard in Ramah,

weeping and loud lamentation,

Rachel weeping for her children;

she refused to be comforted, because they are no more.” Matthew 2:18

Michael Cox