This morning, the gentle hum of Shreveport waking up found me on my porch, a cherished space that has become far more than just an outdoor sitting area. It’s here, with the early light painting the sky, that I reflect on the profound shift in my life. Not long ago, the streets were my reality. Now, as I open my laptop to blog, a deep and quiet sense of blessing washes over me, a gratitude for the simple truth: I am not homeless today.
The words of Psalm 4:8, "In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety," resonate with a powerful truth.
I recall those long nights, the constant anxiety of finding a safe place to rest, the relentless uncertainty of where the next meal or moment of peace would come from. That stark contrast makes this morning’s calm a palpable miracle. When I see others still navigating the same struggles I faced, my heart goes out to them. I understand the weight of feeling invisible, the deep yearning for a stability that seems perpetually out of reach. Their paths are familiar, and their struggles are ones I vividly remember.
This apartment, though not my "forever, ideal place to live," is a sanctuary. It's the foundation upon which I'm rebuilding. Here, I can dedicate myself to healing from the severe health challenges—the strokes and heart attacks—that marked a difficult chapter of my life. It's a place where I can simply be, without the constant fight for survival. The stability it offers allows me to breathe, to focus, to write, and to pursue the slow, deliberate process of piecing my life back together, day by day. Every creak of the floorboards, every ray of sunlight through my window, is a reminder of this invaluable gift.
What truly anchors this newfound stability, beyond the physical walls, are the routines and responsibilities that now fill my days. My ability to care for my uncles, to get them where they need to go, and to fulfill their needs, has become a central part of my life. This responsibility isn't a burden; it's a profound source of meaning and purpose that was simply impossible during my time on the streets. It grounds me, providing structure and a sense of belonging that is a stark contrast to the isolation of homelessness.
It’s human nature to dream of more, to envision that perfect home, that ideal future. And those aspirations are vital for continued growth. But today, my focus is firmly rooted in the immense gratitude for what I possess right now: a safe bed, a locked door, and the undeniable peace of knowing I am secure. This isn't just a place to live; it’s a testament to resilience, a space for healing, and a home where purpose has found its way back into my life.
Well, I am off taking care of the uncles and getting them where they need to go and what I need to do for them. See you all Laters!
Yours for now, Captain Hedges
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