"What are you reading?" I ask. At first I think she hasn’t answered me, but it is a small voice that has answered my query.

"John," she says. I look into the worn Bible with her. It is apparent by the rounded-off edges and highlighted blocks of passages that this is not a new possession.

"I’ve been trying to make my way through for a year now," I say. She smiles a smile that instantaneously puts me at ease. I lean in closer to her securely bundled body. She is the epitome of what a middle-class taxpayer thinks of as a homeless woman, adorned in layers upon layers of jackets, secured by a large coat. Her head is wrapped in a stocking cap. All layers blend with her dark skin. She is a master at her disguise.

I know the disguise well. Perhaps this is why I can pry into hers, why she can unravel mine. They are one in the same.

Her name is Grace. For half an hour we talk about the Bible. We share favorite passages, carefully leafing through the fragile, powerful pages. I tell her about Psalms ninety-one. "It gives me courage," I say. "It gives me hope."

Her hope is what sustains her, she says. I tell her mine is wavering. I think life is too hard. When she asks why, I list my problems for her: school, boys, family, friends. That’s what helps you through, though, she says, and proceeds to tell me the story that got her here.

"I’ve been here for two years," she says. "I was in a real bad car accident." She didn’t have insurance to pay the hospital bills that ensued. Her home and car were taken to pay for the bills. "I lost everything," she says. She closes her eyes briefly before she goes on. "My Mom took me to court for custody of my kids."

The court awarded Grace’s mother custody of her five children, ranging from ages 5-12. The worst part of narrative is yet to come. It is about her present circumstance involving a vicious battle with her mother.