Senegal, West Africa, 1983:
Dusk was falling when the “bush taxi,” a battered Peugeot station wagon, pulled into a tiny desert town to stop for the night and let me out. I was a Peace Corps Volunteer, on my way home to my own village far downriver, but I could go no farther until morning. I knew no one in the town, and there was no hostel or hotel in that remote place. But—Allah akbar!—I had no concern, since everyone in rural Senegal knows and follows an ancient rule: Offer shelter to those who need it. Soon, I had been invited home for the night by one of the women packing up her stall in the town’s small market.

When I was young, I traveled widely. In Senegal and elsewhere, I was offered shelter when I most needed it, and sometimes just because I was a visitor.

Seattle, 1995:
I was a new volunteer at the Saturday Night Youth Shelter at University Baptist Church, and I had arrived at the locked door of the church too early for my first assignment. I joined a homeless man resting on the doorstep as I waited for other volunteers to arrive with the key. “How is it that Seattle’s churches stay locked at night,” he asked me, “while thousands of people sleep in the streets? Why not open them so people can come in to sleep? Aren’t they supposed to be places of sanctuary?”

I'm sure I know why the churches remain locked—the reasons are not much different from mine when I lock my own door each night. But I can never be fully reconciled to the situation. What if by some djinn’s magic a market woman were conducted out of Senegal’s desert and into Seattle on a typical night? She would be awed by the abundant evidence of material prosperity. She would be astonished by the grandeur of Seattle’s tall buildings, elegant shops, and bright skyline. But I know that she would be most amazed to find that in such a city, children, youth, and families sleep in the streets because no one offers them a place to stay. I can’t imagine how I ever could explain the situation to her.