“If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors. With our imagination as well as our eyes, that is to say like artists, we must see not just their faces but the life behind and within their faces. Here it is love that is the frame we see them in.” ―Frederick Buechner, "Whistling in the Dark: A Doubter's Dictionary"

I noticed him for the first time at a Starbucks. For some reason, he struck me as odd among all the other strangers. He seemed to be dressed properly enough. His hair was trimmed. He appeared no less domesticated than any other. He was so young, maybe even younger than me, but he also seemed old. And there was something else. Something I couldn't quite identify—was it that he was tired? Yes, he seemed unusually tired. In fact, he had remained haphazardly propped against a wall for much of the morning; his chin intermittently sliding down into his chest and jerking upwards again. The sunken spaces beneath his eyes were as dark as cast shadows. He had ordered nothing to eat or drink. He was also skinny. Very skinny. For some reason, I felt compelled to speak to him. But what could I say that could possibly justify interrupting the rest he so clearly desired? Besides, as a committed introvert, this compulsion completely contradicted my nature.

Then she walked in. I'd seen her before. The matted blonde hair beneath a faded Dodger cap, the windbreaker wrapped around so many other layers beneath and that raspy, theatrical voice you cannot miss. Because she likes to hang out here so often and, because her voice tends to carry, I know things about her. She is homeless. She is a drug addict, a mother to her son who is grown; they no longer speak. She is a serious animal lover. She believes in God. She is off her meds because she wants to get clean so that she can meet her granddaughter. She talks about this every time I see her. Sometimes she talks to strangers, sometimes to herself and other times to someone only she can see. She has a kind heart.

She sat next to him. My first thought, (which makes me terrible and normal at the same time), was to feel sorry for him. His nap was definitely over. The Starbucks lobby had reached a crescendo in the bustling early morning rush. I could not hear what she was saying. But he seemed open to her, welcoming. His face even registered familiarity.

For a while, I lost track of time, deep in my textbook. Until I realized it was just the three of us. She was giving instructions, or rather, directions. He could travel east down L.A. avenue, turn left on Tapo street, cut into the alley behind the strip, squeeze through a narrow opening of chain link that had been pried apart, crawl up a steep dirt slope and down the other side, drag his body between the dirt and the bottom of a second fence and he would find a tent. What did he need a tent for?

She continued to explain: the tent is hidden from view and is safe. The previous occupant, a young woman, recently took up with a man and has not been seen for a week. Her things are still there. He should take anything he wants because she is obviously not coming back. He can stay for the night, but he must promise to call in the morning so she can give him information on getting into a more permanent place. She says, "Please let me help you. Promise you will call. Promise. Promise me." His head is hung low; he seems apprehensive. She scribbles a string of numbers on the back of his hand. This is where he can reach her tomorrow morning. He promises to call before she says good luck, and walks outside.

Now I see him for the first time. It's the middle of winter. He is tired because he was outside all night, freezing. He must have waited for the Starbucks to open so he could find some shelter from the cold. He buys nothing because he has no money. He is homeless, too. While I sat frozen in this realization, he stood up and went into the bathroom. He was there a long time. I started to worry. Then the door opened and he came out again. Slowly, his feet slid reluctantly forward; his face far away. I wonder what he used in there, and I immediately felt guilty for it. Why couldn't I do anything but sit there? And if I could make myself move, what would I do? What could I do?

I never saw him there again. But I still see her. Sometimes I want to ask her, "Hey, what ever happened to that tired boy you loaned your tent to last winter?" But I keep my mouth shut. Of course, I do.

Sometimes one attempt at facing the reality and omnipresence of pain in others leaves me undone. Often, it only takes one glance, a single meeting of the eyes to reveal the truth. Revelation followed by responsibility; to reach out, to care. But my instincts betray me, when instead, a recognition of pain drives me further into myself; to a space I find more manageable, less intimidating. My instincts are to avoid this recognition at all, to keep my eyes down, to look through people instead of at them. My instincts are selfish. Someone else's pain reminds me of my own discomfort; my own uselessness to change it. Or worse, someone else's pain reminds me of how much I have to be thankful for.

I still think about this boy who spent that winter night in a tent behind an ally, just a few blocks from where I slept, warm in my bed. I cared, but I don't know if I cared enough. I don't know if I cared in a way that matters; in the way of true empathy that leaves my feelings out of it. But I really tried to see him, and what I saw has stayed with me. Maybe that is not enough, but it's a start.