Chapter 6: The One I Lost

Chapter 6: The One I Lost

Of all the people I’ve walked with through this work, none affected me quite like her. And nothing has broken me more than the day she was gone.

You already know the kind of person she was—barefoot, loud, unpredictable. Most saw her as a nuisance. Some were afraid of her. But not me. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, she let me in when she wouldn’t let many others come close. She’d sit in my office and laugh, crack jokes that made me blush, and ask for things in a way that wasn’t really asking—it was more like daring you to say no.

She had horrible feet—calloused, cracked, sometimes bleeding. Because of that, it wasn’t unusual for her to ask me for a ride, especially if it meant walking to her camp. I gave her rides more than I probably should have. But over time, others started asking, too. If I didn’t draw a boundary somewhere, I would’ve become a cab driver with a ministry badge. So I began saying no. Even to her.

And then came the pandemic.

“Shelter in place” was the headline of the day. But for those with no shelter at all, the pandemic made life even harder. Stores closed their doors. Public restrooms were locked. People with no homes had no options—no warmth, no water, no dignity. We tried our best to pivot: hot meals through plexiglass, masks and gloves on, and a firm stop on any transportation services.

The last time she asked me for a ride, it was just a short trip. She shrugged when I told her no, and I tried to shrug it off too. It was only five minutes away. I told myself she’d be fine.

But she wasn’t.

I left work about half an hour later, driving to my mom’s house when I saw the flashing lights—an ambulance, fire trucks, chaos. And my heart sank.

Another client who regularly panhandled nearby was screaming as I pulled up. What I stepped into next is something I still have trouble describing. She was gone. The only fatality in a pedestrian-versus-vehicle accident. Gone instantly.

A paramedic made me stand back, shielding me from the worst of it, and gently asked if I knew her name and birthday. I did. He told me to go back to my office and pull her file so I could provide her identification to the coroner.

I went through the motions. Pulled her file. Made copies of her driver’s license.

I accidentally made ten.

I stood there staring at them, at the last printed image of her face I might ever see. I still carry one of those copies in my Bible—a quiet memorial in the pages where I go to wrestle with God.

Because for a long time, I believed I was responsible for her death.

That my “no” was the deciding factor between her life and her death.

It took time. Prayer. Counseling. The kind of grace that comes slow and steady. I had to learn what grief and guilt look like when they hold hands. I had to learn that I’m not God. That I don’t control outcomes, even when my heart wants to believe I do.

Later that night, I found the man who had witnessed her death. We wept together. I don’t remember if we prayed. I don’t think it mattered. God was there.

A week later, that same man started collecting change from his panhandling spot. A dollar here, a handful of coins there. Enough to buy her a gravestone. It sits under a tree at our ministry center now—quiet and dignified. He gave what little he had to honor her. And we’ll keep that stone in place as long as the center stands.

Her absence hollowed me out. I fell into a depression I didn’t know how to name. But in time, I started to remember what a friend told me: One moment does not undo a lifetime of care.

That day didn’t erase the foot washings, or the laughter, or the mornings she called me “her girl” and grinned like I was the only person who had ever seen her as more than a case file. It didn’t erase the shoes we slid onto her aching feet, or the trust we built brick by stubborn brick.

She wasn’t just a client. She was a friend.

I still miss her.

But I thank God—truly—that He has begun to restore what her death broke in me.

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Final Takeaways:

• Grief is heavy, but guilt is heavier—and only grace can carry it.

• We are not responsible for outcomes, only obedience.

• Ministry means loving people so deeply that losing them leaves a mark.

• God grieves with us, even when words are gone.

• One moment does not define a whole story. God sees the whole story.