In the middle of the night, just as I was about to drift into a dream, someone shook my shoulder to wake me. Half-asleep, I heard a voice:

“May I put my bag under your blanket?”

Rubbing my eyes, I looked up to see a woman with long golden hair, her face pale as paper. Struggling to lift a black plastic sack, she tried to shove it under my blanket, down by my feet.

“… No! No!”

Startled even in my drowsiness, I half-rose from my cot and shouted at her.

“… Put it over there, in the corner of the kitchen!”

I pointed firmly toward the darkened kitchen. She sighed deeply, then turned away silently, dragging her bag with her.

What kind of treasure could be in that black sack that she would want to hide it under someone else’s bedding?

Annoyance boiled inside me, as if something filthy had touched my feet on the cot where my sleep had been invaded. As always, I had trouble falling asleep amid the coughing, groaning, footsteps to the restroom, and snoring of the women around me. Slowly, I gathered myself and drifted again into a weary sleep.

---

Every Friday evening, about ten homeless women leave the Manhattan headquarters of the Partnership of Homeless Shelter around 7 p.m. and arrive by 9 p.m. at Embury U.M.C. in Queens Village, NY. As soon as they arrive, they sip tea and snacks, then sort through mountains of donated clothing stacked in the church. For a moment, they taste the joy of being fashion models.

They try on brightly colored dresses, plunging necklines, shimmering gowns like dragonfly wings, and silky nightgowns—checking the mirror to glimpse their own beauty once more. Whether Black, White, or Asian, they are beautiful. If only music were to play, they might have danced all night in sweet delight.

But reality soon returns. They choose warm coats, socks, and skirts to withstand tomorrow’s biting winter winds sweeping through the city. Then they go to bed.

---

Yet even sleep is uneasy. Even as they clutch all their belongings, they fear losing them. Each trip to the bathroom means dragging their heavy bags along. One reason many avoid city shelters is that their possessions often disappear without warning. Their spirits, always wearied by mistrust, lovelessness, and silent rejection, seemed endlessly tired.

By dawn, I awoke to the bustle of women gathering their things. Rising to prepare coffee, I saw, at a distance, the same woman who had tried to leave her bag with me. She stood motionless, clutching that black sack like a statue. She had kept vigil the whole night. Her pale face was not just wan but hardened like plaster, and her blue eyes, shadowed by fatigue and sorrow, seemed sunk in darkness.

Ah! She had longed for one night of rest! In the wide basement of the church, she must have thought the safest place was under my blanket. She had wished, just for a night, to entrust her burden to someone. She had hoped that her cold soul might find warmth in another’s heart… And I could not bear to meet her eyes. My pride—the illusion that my soul still held some warm, empty space—collapsed before her presence.

Perhaps she had waited the whole night for someone to throw her the rope of love into the swamp of her life. Perhaps she left only deeper scars of exhaustion upon her soul.

And I—who volunteered to serve—who was I really serving? Was my occasional playacting of Christ’s love among the homeless finally unmasked? A glittering package with nothing inside—that was me.

“Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28–30)

How many times have I cast my own dirty burdens upon the Lord without even asking, and not once has He turned me away? Instead, in my nights of distrust, loneliness, and despair, He has found me, cradled me to His warm heart, and given me rest.

---

At dawn, a yellow school bus arrived. About twenty homeless men, who had boarded elsewhere, greeted the women with blank faces: “Good morning.” The women, staggering under their loads, climbed aboard and collapsed into their seats. The woman with the black sack forced herself into the back, falling against the seat.

The bus turned toward the fading night, carrying them back into the city streets that awaited them like fate.

I waved as the bus disappeared, then hurried back to tidy the empty space they had left behind. Their beds still held the warmth of their bodies. But one cot stood untouched, its blanket neatly folded, cold and stiff—stirring my soul once more.

“May I put my bag under your blanket?”