The homeless man hands the pamphlet to her.
What a funny thing to say, she observes.
If God is really for her, why would she be in such a state of desertion and abandonment right now? If God really is here, why is she suffering this heartache, this pain, this misfortune? Where is God now?
Paroxysm of rage, sore and sour from disappointment, starts in her stomach and shoots up her lungs.
She stares at the words again, burning a hole into the crumbled page. The homeless man smiles a toothless smile. He wears a knit hat, covering his ears and unshaven sideburns. His prickly stubble sticks out like the bristles of a kitchen scrub, silver and white. He is wearing a mud green coat with a hood. It looks new and she wonders where he stole it. His swollen and raw fingers poke through his sleeves. His nails are jagged and bitten; his nail bed soaked with dirt and feculence.
He starts to speak:
“God bless you!”
Spit splatters on her painted cheeks. Her cat eyes narrow as she moves to wipe away the sputum.
She looks at him again, and his tin jar of rusted copper coins catches her attention. He nods and backs up. He takes out a few more pamphlets from his pocket. She imagines he does this often – this trick, to get people to give him money.
The frosty wind wraps around her. She pulls on her scarf and buries her face in it, reading the few lines again:
“If God is for us, who can be against?”
She takes her first step forward. Her golden curls tickle her ears and she buries the pamphlet deep in her pocket.
Maybe it is time to heal.