A Short Story: I am here

Again, I have based this short story on a poem I wrote ages ago, loosely based on Isaiah 58:9.

I Am Here

The rain had been falling for hours, soaking the streets of Reading and the spirits of those who walked them. Marla stood beneath the awning of the shelter, arms crossed, watching the line of people stretch down the block. Some clutched blankets, others held plastic bags with all they owned. Most just waited, silent and soaked.

She had volunteered here for years, but tonight felt heavier. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was the man who had shouted at her earlier, angry that there weren’t enough beds. Maybe it was the way her own heart felt clenched, like a fist she couldn’t release.

Inside, the soup simmered. Bread was sliced. Volunteers moved with practiced rhythm. But Marla lingered at the door, unsure why she couldn’t step back in.

A voice broke her reverie: “You alright?” It was Thomas, the shelter’s night manager. His coat was damp, his eyes tired but kind. Marla hesitated. “I don’t know. I just… I feel like I’m failing. Like we’re all failing.” Thomas nodded slowly. “It’s easy to feel that way. But this isn’t about fixing everything. It’s about showing up.” She looked at him, unsure what to say.

He continued, “Isaiah says, ‘Share your food with the hungry, and do not turn away from your own flesh and blood.’ That’s not a strategy. It’s an act of love.” Marla blinked, surprised by the scripture. “You quoting prophets now?” Thomas smiled. “Only the good ones.” They stood in silence for a moment, the rain softening to a mist.

Then Marla saw her. A girl, maybe ten, standing at the edge of the line. No coat. No shoes. Just a soaked hoodie and a plastic bag clutched to her chest. Her lips were blue. Marla moved without thinking. She grabbed a blanket from the bin inside, a bowl of soup, and a pair of dry socks. She knelt before the girl, wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and offered the soup.

The girl looked at her with wide eyes, unsure whether to trust. “It’s okay,” Marla said gently. “You’re safe now.” The girl took the bowl, hands trembling. She didn’t speak, but her eyes said everything.

Marla sat beside her on the wet pavement, not caring about the cold. She didn’t ask questions. She just stayed.

And in that moment, something shifted. The clenched fist inside her heart loosened. The bitterness she hadn’t named began to dissolve. She felt the warmth of the soup, the weight of the blanket, the quiet presence of a child who had been brave enough to show up.

Later, as the girl slept in one of the last beds, Marla stood in the hallway and whispered a prayer—not polished, not perfect, just honest. “I’m tired. I’m angry. But I want to keep showing up. Help me.”

And in the silence that followed, she felt it: not a voice, not a miracle, but a presence. A nearness. As if the answer had already come. As if the words were already spoken: “I am here.”