Today I was walking along the street when a homeless woman asked me for some change. I gave her some money and stopped to talk to her for a while.

I asked her about how she ended up on the street and if there was a shelter she could go to. She told me about some of her struggles. She told me that she left home at seventeen and had been homeless since then. She said that her bag with all her clothes and possessions was stolen the night before, while she was sleeping outside a church. Shesaid that she went to the day centre every day and they made calls to try to find her a shelter but nothing was available, as all shelters for women were full up. It had been like this for months. I listened to her and said a few kind words to her. After we spoke, I told her that it was really nice to meet her and wished her all the best.

I left feeling really sad and frustrated that there was nothing I could do to ease her situation. I have spoken to a few other homeless people and I have heard about how difficult it is to get a place in a shelter, or sometimes some shelters can be so unsafe that it is better for them to sleep on the streets.

I was on my way to my flower store. While trimming(修剪)these kinds of beautiful flowers, I thought about the lady I had just met and other homeless people I had spoken to. I thought it must be frustrating not to be able to experience so many of the day-to-day things that I and many others take for granted such as a roof over our heads, a bed to sleep in, money to buy food and even money to buy presents for a dear one.

I decided that I could do something for her.

She raised her head suddenly, with her eyes full of surprise.

I have always been free and easy when it comes to handing out small change on the street, and a couple of months ago I lend 200 to a man I had never met before. Anyway, let me tell you about Brendan.

On my way back to London, I spotted a man with a large backpack and his thumb out to ask for a free lift. I pulled over and lowered the window.

“Which way are you heading?” I asked. “I’m going back to London.”

“Ah, that would be grand,” came his immediate reply. He opened the door and put his backpack on the back seat, “I’m Brendan,” he said with a smile. “I’ve had my thumb out for a day and half. Nobody seems to stop these days.”

As we headed cast along the motorway, Brendan told me about the two recent family tragedies that had pushed him out of his old life and on to the road. He told me that he was 52. He laughed a lot and enjoyed his off-grid (离网) lifestyle until the week before when he’d been mugged (抢劫). And now he just wanted to get some casual work in London, so he could then get himself home to Ireland.

It must have been the notion of home that got me and helping a man who’d clearly had a tough time seemed like the right thing to do. To my surprise I heard myself say: “Well, I’ll lend you 200 to fly home, Brendan.”

“Grand,” he replied excitedly. Then, after a pause, “and please don’t worry. I’ll definitely pay back the money when I get home.” He took my phone number and address, saying he’d call as soon as he could.

Eight weeks past, a call from Brendan made me disappointed.

A month after I got the call, to my surprise, a package was delivered to me.

Mail lay scattered across the kitchen table. I couldn’t put off sorting through it any longer. I checked the envelopes, putting aside the ones addressed to my husband.

It had been over three years since Bob had died. To friends and family it looked like I had moved past the worst of my sorrow. I took care of my house, socialised and kept up with community. On the outside everything appeared to be normal. But inside I worried I would never get better, never be myself again. They say sorrow has no set time limit, but I was so tired of feeling empty and hopeless. My sorrow was sharp and fresh as ever.   It was like a wall of pressure in my chest, pressing my heart.

I picked up a piece of Bob’s mail and held it out to tear in half, but stopped myself from cutting up the envelope. The letter was from an organisation that funded a Haitian orphanage called My Father’s House. Its founder, Carol Hawthorne, had given a presentation at our church. Bob and I had donated, and Bob ended up on the mailing list to receive the newsletter (通讯) with updates on the children.

I hadn’t read one since Bob died. But just three months before, in January, the country had been hit by a terrible earthquake. In my depressed state, it hadn’t even occurred to me to wonder whether the orphanage had survived. I opened the newsletter and was surprised to find out that My Father’s House was still standing. Of course now it was more crowded than ever. At the bottom of the page was an announcement about an upcoming trip to visit the orphanage in person. “I should go.” The thought wouldn’t leave me. I contacted Carol Hawthorne. “What would I do if I go?” I asked. “Build houses?”

“The Haitian people there are eager to work and they know what they’re doing,” said Carol. “What they need are raw materials, and we provide them. We also visit with the children. We go to clinics and schools, pass out supplies. You’ll be very busy, I promise!” I reserved a seat but didn’t mention it to any of my friends. Just a few weeks later, I was at the airport with seven strangers, waiting to board a plane to Haiti. Even after take-off I wasn’t really sure of what I was doing.

In Haiti we were met by Pastor Ronald Lefranc, the director of My Father’s House.

Carol and Pastor Ronald led us into the main building.