I watched the homeless boy come into our church cafe, his hoodie too big for his small frame, his shoes worn, his curly hair piled under a baseball cap. I served him a cup of coffee; he added sugar, canela, and took a swig. He pulled off his baseball cap, curls spilled out, and he pointed to his dented head where he was missing large chunks of hair.
“See this? My dad took a hammer to my head. Tried to kill me! But God. God’s real.” He took another swig of coffee, began to preach, and layered me in poetry from his salvaged bones. The system failed him, but God had not.
Continue reading over at SheLoves Magazine, where I’m guest posting this month.
A Cup of Coffee and a Piece of Hope (click here)!