Christmas Eve
Last night, as the world celebrated Christmas Eve with warmth, light, and togetherness, I set out into the chilly streets of Temple. My goal wasn’t to partake in the festivities, but out of curiosity, to see how some of my unhoused friends were spending their evening.
The streets were alive with contrast. Families and couples strolled through downtown, admiring the city’s extravagant Christmas decorations—giant lit trees, adorned lampposts, glowing displays. Many were dressed up, smiling for pictures under the lights. The scene felt like a postcard of Christmas cheer. Yet just a few steps away, the reality for others was starkly different.
In those few hours, I encountered several people who are homeless, one of which I hadn’t met before. Each was alone, when I came across them, outside for the night. I didn’t detect bitterness or anger in their demeanor; if anything, they seemed oddly content, as if they’d grown accustomed to circumstances that most of us would find unbearable. While I would say that contentment might keep them from knowing they can have a better life, they might say it’s a gift, an acceptance of reality.
One man was sitting on a bench by the train station, sipping from a bottle and watching videos on his phone. Another was pacing near his usual sleeping spot, chatting on the phone with someone. A third was absorbed in fixing his bicycle, hands busy in the dim light. One of my friends had found an acoustic guitar and was walking with it. When I asked him if he had any plans for the night, he said he was going to see if there was a pawn shop open so he could get some money for it.
What struck me most wasn’t just their solitude but my own. In some ways, my walk gave me a small taste of their world. I sat on a park bench for a while, watching families pass by. No one acknowledged me. They were busy capturing moments of joy, and I was just another shadow in the dark. For a moment, I felt invisible.
As I sat there, the thought of spending the night on the street crossed my mind, a desire to valiantly commiserate with the people who have no other choice. I had a warm, waterproof blanket in my bag, and the low temperature was only going to be 50 degrees—mild for winter. But as the reality of sleeping outside began to sink in, I knew I’d feel vulnerable. Where could I go to be safe? How would I avoid being noticed or harassed—or worse, arrested? The uncertainty was unsettling.
Walking back to my car, I found myself wondering: Was the joy I saw in those families downtown more meaningful than the quiet resilience I observed in my unhoused friends? I don’t know. The families had comfort, companionship, and security—blessings I wouldn’t begrudge anyone. But maybe some of them weren’t truly as happy as those who were sitting a few feet away alone and with very little.
What I took from last night wasn’t so much an epiphany as a deep awareness. I felt cold, alone, and unseen—just a fraction of what it must be like to live every day without a home, without security, without acknowledgment.
It’s easy to go through Christmas thinking about joy, generosity, and good cheer, but how often do we think about those who have none of these things? And how often do we see them—not just as problems to be solved (or avoided) but as people with stories, hopes, and struggles just like us?
The Christmas story itself is one of humility and displacement. Jesus gave up heaven to be born into the frailty and pain of humanness and live among sinful people like us- to save us. Perhaps the most Christlike thing we can do this season is to give up our own comfort to see those who are alone, lost, invisible, and to show them they’re worth being known and loved.
