I met Michelle in a refuge for homeless and street people. She stood out from the tired and ragged crowd. Her clothes were colorful and eye-catching, her hair violet and spiked. We shared coffee together as she talked quickly and nervously, enlarging every sentence with circling hand movements while the cigarette in her fingers left swirling trails in the air. Delicate tattooed lines traced up her arms, threads of green and blue punctuated by dark needle marks.
Her conversation meandered around the contours of her life. She told me how she enjoyed spending her days soaking in the warmth of the refuge, sheltering from the cold street corner where by night she turned tricks to earn her daily bread. We talked about Sasha, her three-year-old daughter who moved between playgroups, friends, and grandparents, always under the watchful eye of anxious social workers. Michelle told me a little—but very little—of her own chaotic and troubled childhood and rather more of her unpredictable present, a life sketched out among the hookers, addicts, dealers, crazies, and johns who made up most of her world.
The longer Michelle talked, the more my heart was breaking. Hearing her story was like watching a road accident unfold in slow motion. Wounded by the degradations others had visited on her and surrounded by others equally damaged and desperate, she had made a series of tragically poor choices that had left her life a shattered wreck.
I wondered: where should Michelle go to church?
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