A Suffering called, Manhattan

I woke up cold. My original plan was to hike it from Tompkins Park to the infamous Roosevelt Hotel with a goal of meeting a few people, maybe have a coffee and listen to some stories. It's cold, it's horribly cold. People are afraid about what tomorrow will bring. Right or wrong, I'd be a liar and a fool if I made a judgement on something I simply don't understand.

The park was oddly empty. So I pushed it to midtown, only to find that apparent sanctuary-hub surrounded by New York's finest. Not sure why, so I kept walking. If you want to sit with the poor, find the Franciscans. Those gray robed, bearded fellas in flip flops, doling out food and hugs to anyone in need. They're down on 31st, and every time I stop here to kneel and basque in some silence, I'm always witness to the gentlest caretaking of someone on the margins of life. Go there, you'll see. And sure enough, there they were, the homeless, elderly, suffering, all taking refuge in the warm silence and protection of this old chapel. For me, there is nothing more Holy.

I collected my thoughts and half cooked a prayer only to be distracted by a statue of Christ looking down at me from atop a wretched piece of twisted steel ... a 911 memorial commemorating the loss of two good friars during the attacks. It called me to reflect on that day and the hopelessness we all felt.

Some time passed, I thanked the kind friar who welcomed me to take photos, and then made my way down to St Patrick's ...

That place. So amazing, so blessed, so gross ... so packed you can smell the breath of every loud tourist pushing their way through cattle lines only to trip over families of Latino or eastern European faithful on their knees escaping the cold. Fathers, mothers, grandmothers shoulder to shoulder with their children all praying in their native languages, oblivious to the masses, begging before Our Lady of Guadalupe to pray for whatever they need praying for. Tons of them, all gathered desperately clenching their hands held high. Meanwhile this insanely affluent wedding procession is happening twenty feet away. It's nuts.

The contrast of it all, the humanity, vanity, purity, poverty, pageantry ... man, it's all there and a QR code if you want to give a few bucks ... and the Holy saints reflected in their golden icons and statues, behind those hundreds of $3 candles, they kinda look down at you kinda bewildered it seems, yet welcoming all.

When you go behind a cathedral, you will find the poor. Always. It makes no difference where in the world you are, they are there.

Maria had just arrived from Venezuela, and now sat on the corner of Madison and east 50th with a cardboard sign, begging. She'd walked for two months, with her two little girls and newborn. I said hi, handed her a little something for which she thanked me. The kids lit up when I asked if they wanted some hot chocolates in my horrible Spanish ... five minutes later and we're warming our hands, chugging cocoa with extra whipped-cream from starbucks. Those little girls were belly laughing at my failing español and proudly showing-off their new english skills. Maria smiled at me, for the moment. Meanwhile, this mother had no idea where her little girls would sleep tonight. As a Dad, I felt this.

It's cold.