In the heart of East Texas where I live, where the pine trees whisper secrets about what could have been and the sun casts a golden hue, I encountered a homeless man whose untold story of loss tugged at my heart. His eyes reflected a deepness of sorrow and loss as he shared with me in a moment of vulnerability, “I can’t breathe today; I stopped living when he died.”
Curious and concerned, I pressed gently, seeking to understand the source of his pain. “When who died?” I asked, stepping closer, a silent gesture of my willingness to share his burden. With a voice barely above a whisper, he confided, “My Son.” The simplicity of his words carried the depth of his grief, a wound so profound that even speaking of it seemed to reopen the scars of his heart.
He clung to his bicycle, an anchor in a sea of uncertainty, as he admitted, “I don’t talk of it.” His words were a shield against the pain of recollection. Yet, in that moment of guarded vulnerability, I offered to pray with and stand beside him in his pain. He hesitated, almost as if he might say yes to my praying, then declined, pedaling away into the distance, leaving a void filled with unspoken sorrow and unanswered prayers.
