We lie in our beds in the dark. There is a picture of the children on
the bureau. A patch of moonlight catches our clothes thrown over the
back of a chair. We can hear the faint rumble of the furnace in the
cellar. We are surrounded by the reassurance of the familiar. When the
weather is bad, we have shelter. When things are bad in our lives, we
have a place where we can retreat to
lick our wounds while tens of thousands of people, many of them
children, wander the dark streets in search of some corner to lie down
in out of the wind.
Yet we are homeless even so in the sense of
having homes but not being really at home in them. To be really at home
is to be really at peace, and there can be no real peace for any of us
until there is some measure of real peace for all of us. When we close
our eyes to the deep needs of other people, whether they live on the
streets or under our own roof—and when we close our eyes to our own deep
need to reach out to them—we can never be fully at home anywhere.