Sigh.

Last night was humiliation. It is past noon and I have been weeping all day.

On Monday I rode my bike downtown to see if anything was happening on Main Street. On the way, I passed a grass island in a busy intersection that is frequented by homeless people. There were two men there, one sitting slightly hunched and looking like he was grinding or milling something, and the other lying and not moving with his head on a backpack. I wondered if I should go talk to them and rode small circles on Ouray Ave. while praying feverishly.

I decided to go, and they welcomed me warmly. The first man introduced himself as Miami, and in front of him was a piece of cardboard that he had been trying to flatten. The reverse-prostrate man told me his name was Tex, and Miami shot him a look that told me that name was news to him, too. Their friend Brian approached a moment later, handing Miami a Magic Marker and two dollars change. The latter began to carefully prepare his cardboard sign while telling me of his service in the first Gulf War when I was six. He killed three Iraqi people and was discharged. They all told me of the trouble they had in finding work in town.

Soon the mosquitoes bothered us all, so Miami offered his Cutter spray. Brian covered my limbs with slow precision and palmed the spray to apply it to my neck. I returned the favor, and felt like we were sharing in a private communion service. Tex grabbed the can after and threatened to spray Miami in the face, grunting menacingly. Brian warned him not to, and I noticed that he called Tex "George."

Then a pair of bicycle cops arrived and the men instantly became very defensive, disavowing any real knowledge of each other or relationship. Miami mentioned that he had only met the two others a week ago. I was saddened at their fear, but also touched by the surprising concern of the officers for these men who tend to get drunk and possibly get harmed. They left after taking my name and we all seemed to feel closer for having suffered two invasions: one of insects and one of government.

Soon, we began to talk of our faith. The coherent men told me that they are believers, even though they haven't been to church in some time. They agreed to come with me on Wednesday night, providing that I could give them a ride. They began to tell me how encouraged they were that I was with them, and that the Holy Spirit must have led me to them. They prayed thankfulness to God right in front of me. They prayed blessings on me and my family. When we parted that night, I felt joy in my heart like I have not felt in a long time.

Last night the men were not there. In their stead I found a lady I met at the homeless shelter two years ago, Valerie. Her husband Joe was incredibly and dangerously drunk, as was their friend Lucas. The latter sang songs he wrote, one about Jesus and another about masturbation. Joe gripped me fiercely and told me that he did not trust me. He advised me about Spain, having been born in Basque Country. However, he spoke without making sense and I slowly became very, very sad.

I arrived at church a half-hour late and with no companions. I stared at the ground while I sang instead of looking in my family's eyes. I tried not to weep while we prayed. I regretted that I did not get the chance to say, "I am only a humble servant doing my duty." I regretted not getting to serve God by serving my brothers.

I failed again.