What if that was me standing on the corner Not the version of me people see now — but the one life almost swallowed whole.

What if that was me after the funeral? After the relapse. After the abuse I didn’t tell anyone about. After the night I slept in my car and told myself it was “temporary” just to survive the shame. What if that cardboard sign wasn’t a choice — but the last thing left? Because homelessness doesn’t usually start with a sidewalk. It starts with a fracture.

A mom who dies. A dad who drinks. A childhood where safety never lived. A relationship that broke bones you can’t X-ray. A job lost during a season you were already drowning. A mind that won’t shut up long enough to function. It starts quietly. Then all at once.

No One Plans to End Up There.. No little girl dreams of sleeping outside. No teenager plans to trade dignity for survival. No adult wakes up and thinks, Today feels like a good day to disappear. But people don’t fall into homelessness — they slide. They unravel. They run out of places to land. And somewhere along the way, society decides they’re no longer relatable enough to deserve eye contact.

What Would I Need If It Was Me?

If that was me, I wouldn’t need a lecture. I wouldn’t need someone asking why I didn’t make better choices. I wouldn’t need a sermon shouted from a rolled-down window. I’d need water. Food. A cigarette to calm my nerves. Something — anything — that made the ache quieter for an hour.

And more than that? I’d need someone to look at me without flinching. To not act like my pain was contagious. To not treat me like a cautionary tale instead of a person.

If Jesus walked past me on that corner, I don’t think He’d hesitate. I don’t think He’d ask for proof. I don’t think He’d demand sobriety. I don’t think He’d care what I spent the money on. I think He’d kneel. I think He’d meet my eyes. I think He’d remind me I wasn’t invisible — even if the world had already decided I was. Because Jesus was never afraid of messy. Never afraid of addiction. Never afraid of people who scared polite society. He went straight to them.

The Truth We Avoid:

The truth is — that could be me. With different timing. Different support. One less safe person. One more bad night. The distance between “us” and “them” isn’t morality — it’s mercy. It’s access. It’s luck. It’s grace we didn’t earn. And when we forget that, compassion dries up and judgment moves in.

If That Was Me, I’d Want This:

I’d want help that didn’t humiliate me. Help that didn’t come with conditions. Help that didn’t require me to perform brokenness the right way. I’d want someone to say, “I can’t fix your life — but I won’t abandon you either.” And maybe that looks like a prepaid card. Or a conversation. Or simply refusing to look away.

Maybe This Is the Point

Maybe loving people like this isn’t about changing them. Maybe it’s about changing us. Softening the parts that grew calloused just to survive. Remembering that grace only makes sense when it costs us something. Letting faith show up in places that make us uncomfortable. Because the gospel doesn’t live in theory. It lives on sidewalks. At stoplights. In moments where we choose to see ourselves in someone else’s pain.

Closing Prayer 🌿

God,

if that were me, I’d want mercy — not measurement. Teach me to love like I could be next. Like grace is the only reason I’m not. Break my heart open where it’s grown afraid. And let my faith reach the places my comfort never would.

Amen.

XOXO, The Healing WildFlower