She smiled as I paused at the stop sign, revealing missing teeth. The bags she carried, probably containing all her earthly possessions, seemed to weigh her down as she walked down the sidewalk. Her husband/lover/brother/friend walked down the sidewalk on the other side of the road with twice as much baggage as she carried. I waved and said hello out of the open window, sympathizing with how out of place she felt. She was in a foreign land: a land of Volvos and golden retrievers, a neighborhood full of wealthy families with manicured yards and swimming pools. I have been in a similar place, walking down a road where no one understands who you are or what you have been through.

Traveling the world as an American, I always felt like a spectacle: honking cars, men yelling, children following you and whispering about the white people. As an American in the third world you are constantly reminded that you don’t belong. While you are being chased by children without beds and clean water, you have a warm house to return to: a home full of food, a bed with lots of pillows, and family with more love than you could ever ask for.

However, while I knew how it felt to be an outsider in a completely foreign land, as I drove away, I knew I could never fully understand the burdens she was carrying. When I traveled the world, the unfamiliar neighborhoods welcomed me with open arms. Today, the families behind white picket fences were calling the police because homeless people threatening to steal their luxury SUVs. People would stare as they walked by, but not out of curiosity or wonder, but out of disgust that an “outsider” could cross the invisible fence less than a mile away, and then call a neighborhood association meeting on how to patch the gap in the fence.

Every day on my way to and from work, I drive over that fence. I pass laundromats full of people trying to get by on less than minimum wage. I slam on the brakes as they run across the street to the convenience store, probably to buy alcohol to ease the pain of the baggage they carry. Some days I get annoyed, but then feel guilty. I am blessed by a life of privilege. I am blessed to never know what it is to miss a meal, or live without heat or a bed, or even rely on a substance to escape the burden of everyday life.

Then there are days like today: days where I wish I wasn’t a small 25-year-old girl so I could invite this alien couple into my car, into my house, and show them the love that Jesus has for them. Days that I wish I was brave enough to do what Jesus would have. One day I hope that I don’t simply drive by the homeless woman in the upper middle class neighborhood. I pray that Christ would give me the strength to pull over and invite her into my safe, comfortable home and show her that she is worth more than the trash bags she carries around town. I hope I find the strength to tell her Christ loves her beautiful smile, a mouth full of gaps, the result of years of heartbreak and malnutrition. Today I wish I had loved that woman like Christ. Today I wish I had pulled over.

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