WHERE IS YOUR HOME?
I thought I was walking toward a dead man.
When I saw this man pushing everything he owned in that cart, one thought crossed my mind — could I carry my own closet like that? The answer was clearly no. And it left me with a question I couldn’t shake. What can any of us truly give a man whose deepest need may only be met by Jesus? Almost instinctively, I found myself saying, “Lord… how can I help him?” And the answer that came back was simple: Pray.
A few days ago, I thought I was walking toward a dead man.
It was late afternoon.
Traffic was heavy.
And somewhere between where I was going and where God was taking me —
Everything stopped.
DEDICATION
To Jesus Christ — whose presence turns wandering souls into citizens of a Kingdom that cannot be shaken.
To Marty — whose steady faith continues to remind me what a true home looks like.
To the afflicted and the homeless — especially those who are not there by choice, those who fight each day simply to survive, to find a meal, to search through a garbage can, to rest their heads somewhere safe. May God look upon them with mercy, compassion, and provision.
And to you, the reader — wherever life finds you today.
SCRIPTURE
“Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me.” — Revelation 3:20 (NKJV)
THE HOOK
I stepped out of the car before I had time to think about it.
Traffic was moving fast.
The afternoon sun was low.
And somewhere in the middle of all that motion —
a man was lying face down in the road.
Next to a shopping cart stacked with everything he owned.
My first thought wasn’t about the cart.
It was that someone was about to run him over.
In that traffic, a driver could easily assume he was already dead and keep going.
So I stopped.
Stepped out with my phone already in my hand.
Before I could reach him, another man suddenly ran over —
clearly someone who knew him —
yelling, grabbing him, pulling him back to his feet.
The moment he stood up, I raised my phone and took this photo.
Not because I planned to.
But because the scene had already stopped me.
And I wasn’t ready to look away.
THE STORY
His cart was stacked high.
Blankets.
Pillows.
Bags.
Clothes.
Pieces of a life piled together and rolling down the sidewalk.
Everything he owned was right there.
His house.
His closet.
His storage.
His security.
All of it balanced on four small wheels.
As I stood there watching him gather himself, something pressed deeper into my heart.
I couldn’t imagine pushing that cart every day.
Yet this man — maybe a third my size — had figured out how to carry his entire world with him.
And suddenly I realized something.
I wasn’t just looking at a homeless man.
I was looking at a question.
THE MOMENT
I walked back to the car slowly.
The cart was still sitting there at the curb.
Blankets piled high enough to block the light.
Black bags stretched to their limit.
Pieces of a life held together by nothing but gravity and stubbornness.
I stood there longer than I should have.
Long enough for the question to fully form.
Could I carry my whole life on four wheels?
I knew the answer before I finished asking.
Not a chance.
And then something shifted.
Everyone has a cart.
Some of ours just look nicer.
THE TURN
On the way home I had just paid to have my dogs bathed and cleaned.
They eat two good meals a day.
They sleep in safety.
They have good medical care.
They lay near our bed at night.
They are loved, protected, and cared for.
And I couldn’t help but think about the man I had just seen pushing his entire life down the sidewalk.
My dogs were probably living a safer life than that man was.
Sometimes this world can be a very harsh place.
Very unfair.
I don’t pretend to know what roads led that man to where he is today.
Some stories are shaped by addiction.
Some by mental illness.
Some by tragedy.
Some by decisions.
Some by things we may never understand.
But moments like that bring a deep sense of humility.
They remind me how much I have been given.
And how easy it is to forget that.
When I got home I told Marty what had happened and showed her the photo.
She looked at it quietly and said she had seen the same man earlier that morning when she dropped the dogs off.
She said it had broken her heart then.
We looked at each other for a moment.
Neither of us said much.
But we could see the thoughts in each other’s eyes.
The weight of it.
The humanity of it.
THE DRIFT
There is a voice that makes it easy to keep moving.
Someone else will help him.
There’s nothing I can do.
I don’t want to get involved.
That voice sounds like reason.
It isn’t.
Reason engages.
Indifference only passes by.
There is a kind of busyness that looks like responsibility on the outside —
but is just distance wearing a productive coat.
Distance from the uncomfortable.
Distance from the inconvenient.
Distance from the mirror that someone else’s suffering holds up to our own life.
That distance will keep a person moving through the world —
without ever being stopped by it.
I know. Because I kept moving. For years.
THE REFLECTION
And in that quiet moment with Marty, one word settled in my heart.
Where is my home?
Not my street address.
Not the place where my body sleeps.
But the place where my soul lives.
Because the truth is — none of us are here permanently.
This world is temporary.
We are all just passing through.
When Christ lives in you, something remarkable happens.
You may travel anywhere.
You may walk through trials.
You may lose things you once thought defined you.
But one thing never changes.
You are already home.
The man in the street carried his home on four wheels.
Most of us carry ours in quieter ways.
But every soul is moving toward the place it truly calls home.
The only question is who is waiting at the door.
WALKAWAY LINE
Home is not where you sleep — it is where your soul is anchored.
SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
If everything you owned disappeared tomorrow — where would your home be?
MY PRAYER
Heavenly Father,
For those wandering through hardship, poverty, addiction, loneliness, or despair —
we ask that Your mercy and provision reach them in ways only You can provide.
For those of us who have been given much —
remind us to walk humbly and never forget how fragile life can be.
Anchor our hearts in You —
so that our true home is not built on temporary things
but on the eternal presence of Christ within us.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
ABOUT G~
G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.
If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.
G~