Suddenly, the lobby door banged open to an elderly, grizzled woman trying to drag her shopping cart through the door. It wasn't working, and the awakened sleepers began yelling at her for making noise.

When Tracy, my sister volunteer, and I finally got over to help with the door, she was almost in tears.

"Gee, kid, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make everybody so mad." Her loud apology drew another chorus of "Shut ups!" from the ladies. She looked at me, her eyes pleading for a kind word. "It's okay, Mary. There's a mattress over here. Do you want something to eat?"

"No," she sighed. "I just want to sleep." She dug around in her cart awhile and finally settled into bed. Tracy walked around to check on everyone. She came back with, "You know, Mary is only half on her bed."

"What?"

"She's got her legs sticking out into the aisle."

We went back to her. She did indeed have her feet out in the aisle, far off her bed.

"Mary . . ." I whispered.

"Yes!?" she said loudly.

"Shhh," I said. "Hey, why don't you move all the way on to your bed? That way you'll be more comfortable and no one will trip over your feet."

"No, no, kid. My feet are filthy. I can't put my feet in the bed. I just can't."

"Mary, the bedding gets washed tomorrow anyway. Don't worry." Tracy reasoned. But she wouldn't do it. I gave up, went back to my sleeping bag and tried to rest. Some time passed and I began to wonder where Tracy was. I got up and looked around in the dark for her and realized she was over by Mary.

Tracy had gotten a pan of warm water and a cloth from the kitchen, and was gently, silently washing Mary's feet. Mary was weeping quietly into her pillow. I felt like I was intruding on something very personal, almost like walking in when someone is praying. I went back to our sleeping bags.

About twenty minutes later Tracy slipped into her place next to me.

"Why was she crying? Was she embarrassed?"

Tracy shook her head. "No, I think she was just tired."

"Did she say anything?"

"She kissed my hands." Tracy was quiet for a minute. "We're so lucky."

"Yeah," I said.

I knew she didn't mean lucky that we have a home and don't live on the streets. She meant we're so lucky to get to do this. Being kind to Mary was like touching God's face with our fingers, like putting our heads against His chest and listening to His heartbeat. It was a moment of complete satisfaction, lying there on our sleeping bags, listening to the ladies breathe, feeling so close to God.

First published in Cornerstone (ISSN 0275-2743), Vol. 28, Issue 116 (1999), p. 9.
© 1999 Cornerstone Communications, Inc.
Electronic version may contain minor changes and corrections from printed version.