I walk by a soup kitchen every day on the way to work.
Part of the reason is that it’s the straightest route to the office. But I also like to remind myself how blessed I am.
The scene is urban, always raw.
Toting backpacks and trash bags that hold their lives, the tired and hungry form long lines that snake through the parking lot. They come from every corner of the city to a place where no questions are asked, no sermons given.
Served along with the food are healthy doses of humanity.
The long faces of the masses draw you in, make you wonder. Who are these folks? What were their dreams before they were dashed?
The fall is not as far as one might think.
It starts with a wrong turn or the wrong crowd. There usually is addiction, maybe a run-in with the law or a rehab or two that didn’t take.
A strong support system sometimes helps, as can family. But not always.
Hope for some is as elusive as the next meal.