Riding the train from my home in the suburbs to center city Philadelphia is a short journey. When I catch an express, which skips many of the stops, it takes twenty-five minutes. But the two worlds are separated by other measures.  The houses near me are spacious, with attached garages, green yards, sometimes with pools and trampolines. One has a rack of four kayaks, and another has a playhouse for the children, though I have never seen evidence of them enjoying it. But gradually the homes shrink, then fade into apartments, with debris in the alleys, and street parking. Some buildings are abandoned, with broken windows, and graffiti splashed across the walls. 

I wonder about the people who sleep there. Are their families smaller? Are their dreams? 

Last week I was listening to a friend who traveled to Africa a few years ago. His descriptions of those dwellings made Philly sound positively posh. 

"There were shacks, with no electricity or running water." 

And yet being with those people, the ones whose circumstances were bleak, was the most transformative experience of his life. 

"The windows had no screens, or panes. They were open to the outside. Every morning I would hear the women walking to get water, with heavy jugs on their heads. They were singing. Not to entertain anyone, but simply from an inner joy."

He wears a beaded bracelet on his wrist that the children there gave him. He has never taken it off. Perhaps it reminds him that there is joy available, even when there are no faucets or outlets. There are other Sources for power and quenching thirst.