In early 2017, I found myself drawn to the streets of Kensington in Philadelphia, a place both feared and forgotten by many. I wasn’t a social worker. I wasn’t an expert in addiction. I was simply someone whose heart broke open in the presence of suffering. I came because I believed—still believe—that every person deserves to be seen, known, and loved, especially those who the world walks past without a second glance.
That first visit was unforgettable. The encampment known as “Emerald City” had a pulse of its own—tents crammed under bridges, couples curled up against the cold, people watching each other’s backs in a world that had largely abandoned them. I was embarrassingly naive. When someone mentioned they were feeling “sick,” I asked if they had the flu. A woman gently smiled and said, “No, honey—I’m dope sick.” That moment marked the beginning of my education—not just in addiction, but in humanity, humility, and grace.
One of the first couples I met that day stood out to me. There was a quiet strength in how they leaned on each other, even as the storm of life howled around them. Over the years, I’ve often wondered about them. Life on the street is brutal. Few stories have happy endings. Yet I hoped.
Recently, I learned that she—this woman from that couple—has passed away. The news hit hard. Though time and distance separated us, her memory never left me. I don’t know all the details of her death, but I do know this: she was someone’s daughter, perhaps someone’s mother, certainly someone’s friend. She was a human being with dreams and dignity. And she mattered.
She still matters.
Please join me in prayer for this precious woman. Pray for her soul. Pray for those who loved her. Pray for the man who stood beside her in Emerald City, whose grief may be too deep for words. And pray for justice—for if injustice played any role in her death, let light shine upon it.
But don’t stop there.
Let us also pray for the living. For the people still struggling in Kensington and places like it—tents under highways, shelters full to capacity, detox beds unavailable, hearts broken by trauma, and bodies sick from the poisons sold on our streets. The system is failing them. Healthcare that should heal often turns them away. Faith communities that should embrace often condemn or avoid. And a society rich in resources somehow continues to allow this humanitarian crisis to fester in its own backyard.
This woman’s death is not just a personal loss. It is a symptom of a deeper national wound.
We live in a country where compassion has too often been replaced with bureaucracy, where recovery is discussed in boardrooms but denied in back alleys. We criminalize the addicted, moralize their pain, and walk away as if we don’t bear responsibility for the systems that perpetuate suffering.
But here’s the thing: we are not powerless.
We can advocate for better care—real care—that treats addiction as the disease it is, not a failure of character. We can support faith communities that open their doors instead of guarding their pews. We can listen without judgment, love without conditions, and refuse to give up on those who are hardest to reach.
We can also grieve—and we must. Grief honors the lost. It affirms that their lives had meaning. That they are not invisible. That someone noticed. That someone remembered.
To the woman who died: I saw you. You were not just another person in the encampment. You were part of a sacred story—a human story—that will not be forgotten. Your life, your love, your struggle… they mattered. They still do.
May you rest now in a peace that this world could not offer you. And may your memory stir in us the courage to build something better—for those who remain, and for the ones yet to come.
Scriptures for Reflection
Isaiah 58:6–7 (NIV)
"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?"
Matthew 25:35–40 (NIV)
"For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me." Then the righteous will answer him, "Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?" The King will reply, "Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."
Psalm 34:18 (NIV)
"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."
Micah 6:8 (NIV)
"He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."
In Her Memory—A Call to Action
If her story moves you, don’t let it end with mourning. Consider volunteering at a shelter. Advocate for expanded access to treatment. Support legislation that addresses housing and mental health. Donate to local outreach ministries and harm reduction efforts. Speak up when others speak down.
And above all: love without conditions. That’s where healing begins.
Amen.
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