“Miss, I don’t believe in God, but can I talk with you for a minute?” He held his red bandana in his hand with a sense of awe and reverence not typically observed in our simple, one-room chapel on the first floor of the shelter. Jon was a tall, muscular young man whose quiet confidence instantly commanded my respect. I may have been older, but I could tell he was much wiser than I.
“You don’t have to believe in God to sit in the Chapel and talk. Tell me what’s on your mind,” I offered him a chair and some chocolate to share while we talked.
“Miss, I don’t really want to believe in God. I guess you could say that I got angry at God a while ago, and I can’t believe anymore.” Jon proceeded to tell me a story that I can’t forget. Read More
