by Brenda Segna          

Homeless and runaway youth rank among America’s neediest and most vulnerable citizens. Thousands of teens are homeless. I have spoken to some of them. On a recent trip to Las Vegas, I decided to see just where the wind blew some of these kids. I was warned that they probably wouldn’t talk to me. Homeless teens do not trust adults.          

I kept that in mind when I encountered 17-year-old Raphael—homeless for two years. At first Raphael was shaken by my presence.            

"Why do you come here?” he asked.            

“Honestly, I want to understand, to learn what is going on,” I began. “What is life really like for homeless children?”          

“I can tell you what life is like,” Raphael said, “but you can’t change me and you can’t make me go home.”          

Once I convinced Raphael I wasn’t there to change him, he said he would show me around the Vegas he knew. So, armed with McDonald’s gift cards, phone cards, and bottles of water, we began our journey to see where homeless teens live.         

Available statistics are inaccurate—skewed much too low.  Homeless teens hide. Paranoia sets in when people shun them, when they are afraid, when people look away at sight of them. Few homeless teens want to be counted. But as the wind blows me through the streets of Vegas, what I glimpse is disquieting.          

Raphael takes us to his personal space, a forgotten slab of fenced, weedy cement between abandoned houses. A blanket is tossed across the cement. A rock serves as a chair. It doubles as a pillow.            

“I’ve been here for a few weeks,” Raphael says. “I’ll move on soon, but someone else will be happy to take over my sleeping spot.”          

A friend is taking photos. Raphael watches her snap pictures of his makeshift home. He smiles. But when the camera aims at him, he covers his face. I apologize. Raphael gave me permission to write what I wanted, but he did not want his picture taken. He didn’t want people looking for him. He didn’t want to embarrass his family.             

I sigh as I consider Raphael, his misery, and his kindness. Knowing that hope seems out of his reach, I have no easy answers.    

How can it be that in this time of prosperity, on any given night, more than 600,000 Americans are homeless?  The “2005 Status Report on Hunger and Homelessness in America’s Cities,” released by the United States Conference of Mayors, states that requests for emergency shelter and food rose by 12 percent last year.   

Eleanor Roosevelt, in 1934, said about the teens of her day, “I have moments of real terror when I think we may be losing this generation. We have got to bring these young people into the active life of the community and make them feel that they are necessary.”            

That it is not a new problem makes the obligations of our society no less real.           

Raphael, my photographer friend, and I walk on. We stumble upon two young girls, sitting on a stoop. We talk. Both say Vegas has been good to them. Some parts of Vegas are pleasant. Their Dumpster diving has been profitable.          

But they also have their hardships. They have been tossed away by their families, but they are trying to get ahead. They are taking a GED-prep class. They would like to work, but regular bathing, dressing appropriately, finding transportation—these are all barriers to success. Potential employers assume drugs and alcohol have caused their homelessness. As they recount their stories they assure me it’s not true. I believe them.          

Further into the homeless hub of Vegas, we are stopped by a 17-year-old girl. She fears for our safety. She tells us this is no place for women with a camera.          

We continue to roam. Some allow us to take pictures; most do not. Some are too sleepy to engage us. Others offer stories. All are very kind. Most are sick. Time on the streets without the basic comforts takes a toll.  

Two teenage panhandlers anger Raphael.            

“They are not homeless,” Raphael insists. “They have homes; it is because of them that people fear us.”          

I cross the street corner to talk to the boys. After a little coaxing, they admit they are from a different county and have came to bum money to pay for their dates later that night. They dress in dirty clothes, cuss, and threaten passersby.            

Truly homeless teens are not like this. Less visible, they collect cans, rummage in Dumpsters, occasionally try to keep a day job. They flow through the streets with the wind.          

Before I leave my young Latino friend I ask him one more question: “Raphael, do you believe in God?”          

“Creo en Dios, pero Dios no cree en mi,” Raphael says. “Como hacen usted confia en Dios que le ha tirado?”          

“I believe in God, but God doesn’t believe in me.”            

How do you trust a God whom you think has thrown you away?            

Raphael, God has not thrown you away. One day, I hope, you will discover that He believes in you, that He did not discard you. You are His beloved child, and He weeps as He watches the destructive winds in your life.          

It is hard to reach out and help someone who rejects honest efforts to help; yet we must continue to try. These children are precious gifts from God. The Raphaels of the world need to see the gospel in our actions of love.

Brenda Segna is a Montana native with two decades of media experience. She has also worked as a volunteer with runaway teens for 24 years. Good stories intrigue her. She loves to write stories that showcase God and how He touches and changes lives. When she's not tapping away on her computer keyboard, she can be found teaching creative writing at a local college, reading, volunteering, listening to music, and spending time with family and friends.