poverty on the church steps

(wrote this last fall)

There is a beautiful church down the road from my house. Replete with a majestic bell tower, magnificent stain glass windows, tall wooden doors, and intricate stonework. It stands out like a flower among the weeds of cramped old homes housing dirty college students like cockroaches in a tin can. As I rode by the beautiful structure this afternoon I spotted a homeless man resting on the steps of the church, his back propped against a stone wall to shield him from a harsh October wind. His belongings were strewn about him—his long burly beard his only real comfort as the days turned cold. I pitied him as I rode.

Across the road from the church I spotted a minivan. A middle-aged woman had her window rolled down with her arm outstretched, iphone in hand. Was she taking a picture of the poor homeless man? Was she that heartless? Was she some kind of soccer mom monster who relished documenting the misery of others? I glanced back at the homeless man, but his wind-shielding stone wall concealed him from view. She couldn’t even see him, I thought. She had simply stopped to take a picture of the pretty building… from inside her minivan… with an iphone. She couldn’t see the poverty behind the wall of the church steps. I pitied her as I rode.