From Where I Stand

 This is a completely fictional story. His name is Jerry but that's all I know about him.
A fictional story from Jerry's perspective

"From Where I Stand" 
By Jerry

Every morning, I come to the same spot—Northside, I-240 Service Road and Western Ave. Doesn’t matter the weather. Cold, rain, heat—I’m here. Not because I want to be. Because this is what I’ve got. My name’s Jerry. I used to wear the uniform—Air Force. Now I wear this old jacket, holding a cardboard sign asking for help.

People see the sign before they see me. “HOMELESS. PLEASE HELP.” Some look away like I’m invisible. Some roll their windows down, hand me a dollar or a burger. Others just nod, like they’re ashamed to admit they see me. I get it. I used to be them.

I wasn’t always like this. I had a home, a wife once, and a son I was proud of. He tells people I’m homeless—says it like it’s a label, like it explains me. Maybe it’s easier that way. Easier than saying his dad fell apart after the war. That he drinks too much, sleeps under overpasses, and forgets things he doesn’t want to remember.

But I still believe. I don’t go to church, not anymore, but I remember the Bible. Especially one part that sticks with me—Matthew 25:
“I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink…”
I think about those words a lot while I’m out here. Makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, God hasn’t given up on me yet.

One morning a lady stopped. She had a soft smile, handed me a paper bag. Hot coffee, fresh sandwich. She didn’t flinch when our eyes met. She just said, “God bless you, sir.”

I swallowed hard, felt that lump in my throat I hate admitting to. I nodded and whispered, “He already has.”

You see, from where I stand, you learn something: People don’t have to fix you to be kind to you. And sometimes, the smallest gesture feels like a miracle.

I’m Jerry. I’m homeless. But I’m still here. Still hoping. Still human.