As Rachel left us last night we were indeed settling down for who knows what! The bedding consisted of a polythene sheet on the pavement, and then a layer of cardboard, and we used our own roll mats, sleeping bags and other assorted clothing. It had rained heavily about an hour before, but now the clouds had lightened and we looked forward to a warm and cosy sleep.
The first thing that we felt, was that we were very exposed to the passing traffic, both vehicles and pedestrians. We were opposite a busy hotel, where a free concert was being given by a funk group, and we expected "passing trade". I was assigned first watch, and all the others made a good impression of sleeping. I was immediately struck by the interest we were attracting from all those in the Market Place. Soon people wandered across and chatted to me - who were we, what were we doing, and why? I answered then all, and was really struck by the generosity of spirit and kind. Good for you! Can we make a donation to the Alabaré charity? Here, I've brought you some cake. Can I take a photo? You might like this soup in the early hours. People holding glasses of wine, people on their way home from events, people just whiling away some time.
The local Police car drifts pass, and the officers ask if all is OK, and assure us they will come and check from time to time. Local young people, proudly displaying their old but beautifully cared for small cars, drive into the car park and chat to each other through open car windows.
The night draws on, each quarter hour marked by the striking of the church clock, and we notice dew or condensation forming on the sleeping bags of the sleeping figures surrounding the Market Cross. It is midnight now, and the concert goers, and the evening staff are all making their way home, and the night belongs to the young drivers, and a few cyclists who seem to ride up to the hole-in-the-wall cash points and then cycle off - one cyclist appearing three times during the evening. What is this all about?
Between midnight and 0200, there are a steady flow of young people who break the silence with their chatter, which cannons off the elegant architecture, echoing into the blackness of the night sky. It is actually very bright in the Market Place - shop window lights flooding the pavements; street lights helping the CCTV identify the citizens [we wave at the cameras - but who knows if anyone is actually watching?] Cars pass, and toot their horns and people shout unhelpful choruses, creating not anxiety, but restlessness.
My colleagues sleep on, gently snoring in an orchestrated lullaby, pierced by an elegant descant. At 0200 I gently wake John, who has been assigned the 0200 - 0400 watch. As he sits up, and opens his reading material, I pull off my trainers, put on a second pair of socks, and climb into a dew covered sleeping bag, pull my hat over my eyes, and close my eyes.
Seconds later in my mind's eye, it is 0400, and the market traders' white vans are corralling in the Market Place, and voices shout as stalls are snapped into position and the day's fruit and veg are assembled to feed the citizens of Devizes. A barrow-lady comes across to us, and saying that we are doing something special, gifts us two large punnets of strawberries for breakfast. We roll up our mats, stow our sleeping bags, fold the cardboard and swig a welcome mug of butternut squash and sweet potato soup, which has kept piping hot in the donated thermos flasks, and we head off for a shower, brush our teeth, and coffee before our day begins.
What must it be like to do this day after day? Street homeless need washing facilities, somewhere sheltered and safe to rest, without being disrupted, some company to break the isolation, but above all, to know that people care about them, and that as God's children, the church cares and will provide for them too.
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