Icy winds whistle through the streets, his weary figure fades behind the door’s forbidden frame. Week after week, promise after promise, and still, he’s a slave to something that once satisfied.

Darkness dawns, he staggers from the depths of this deceptive snare. In his drunken stupor, he stumbles to the ground.

Blackness blinds his vision, his broken soul crumbles in this chaos.

Eventually, dawn breaks through the darkness, yet still his crumpled frame lies motionless in the morning light.

Its then that my feet press past this painful picture.

Day after day depicts the same depressing sight.

When at last he wakes, home he must wander, yet with what will he return?

Empty pockets, empty hands—an empty heart.

Days drag. She sits behind the shabby stand; she’s scarcely selling enough to survive.

The money is tight; there’s no telling if time will promise enough.

When at last darkness dawns, home she must wander, yet with what will she return?

Empty pockets, empty hands—an empty heart.

Eventually I leave these sights; return to my home a half a world away.

The contrast is stark, or maybe its subtly similar.

I step into a world where every want and wish are granted on the whim.

People hide behind some faulty promise of perfection—a fragile facade of false protection.

When at last darkness dawns, to their homes they must wander, but with what will they return?

Maybe their pockets have been filled, maybe their hands are full, but it’s with empty hearts that they return.

…Icy winds whistle through the streets; her weary figure fades behind the door’s familiar frame.

Exhaustion drains her hungry soul as she blindly searches for something that satisfies.

Yet she’s deliberately chosen this unbearable duty simply to divert and distract herself from the darkness of life’s depressing reality.

Her failure to prove enough is fuel for her fire of frustration.

When at last darkness dawns, home she will wander, yet with what will she return?

Maybe her pockets have been filled, maybe her hands are full, but it’s with an empty heart that she returns.

I walk down the acrid street. People lie on the ground knocked out cold from another drug overdose.

The stench of weed, urine, and cigar smoke hang heavy in the muggy air.

I pass people in the hopelessness of despair getting ready to shoot up another needle.

I peer down dark alleyways and glimpse drug dealers in action—people desperate for any way out.

When at last darkness dawns, home they will wander, yet with what will they return?

Maybe their pockets have been filled, maybe their hands are full, but it’s with empty hearts they must return.

And maybe the difference isn’t so stark.

Maybe humanity is one and the same—broken—no matter where in the world they are. Maybe each and every heart is desperate for love, no matter the place they live. Maybe every worn soul is seeking for something that can truly satisfy, no matter what country they’re in.  

And maybe the secret to abundance is in the emptying of my hands—in giving to others what God has given me.

Because to live is to give.

Maybe the secret to filling our hearts is in the letting go of what we believe is rightly ours and letting in God’s selfless love.

Because to live is to give.

And maybe the way to satisfaction is in reaching out—instead of in—and living blessed so I can bless.

Because to live is to give.

So, I reach out my hands—empty them and let Him fill them with His changeless love; let my hands become a connecting link to bind their wounded hearts to His healing heart.

Because to truly live is to give.