Her name was Tonya.

Sweet, kind, gentle, ragged, homeless, at times clearly having visual hallucinations.

Soft-spoken, gentle eyes, love.

She came for the clothing.

The congregation of the old church had dwindled, but the remnant was generous, caring, big-hearted, oozing with the love of God. They collected piles and piles of beautiful clothing, organized it, and gave it away to anyone in need, along with burgers, hotdogs, chips and hot drinks to brace against the cold.

Unlike all the others, Tonya kept coming.

Week after week.

Asking for nothing.

Robustly singing the old hymns and praying aloud for “the children who don’t have enough to eat.”

After the monthly potlucks, someone would prepare her a plate of leftovers to take with her.

I gave her bus fare once.

She brought me joy.

Then she was no longer there.

The media never bothered to report it.

Just another throwaway human being.

But on the streets they know.

Murdered.

No wake. No funeral. No burial. No mourners.

Gone.

But I misspoke.

We wept. We mourn.

We remember our sweet homeless sister.

Her name was Tonya.

Now she wears a crown of glory.