She slipped down the hill from behind the pastor at the Bridge, a homeless friend who waved when she saw me.

My friend came over, and she got in my ear. “I’m mad. I’ve been waiting for justice for years. I’m not staying to listen to this.”

“I’m sorry. Stay for a bit. God can speak to you here.”

“I’m not sure He can.”

I found myself holding her shoulder with my hand, squeezing it with a friendly gesture, hoping she’d stay.

Her words went sour, her chatter erratic. She found my ...