Why does God allow homelessness?

Down―down falls the Christmas snow, circling down in soft baby-like flakes, as white-souled messengers from an unknown world! 

Down they fall, dotting the hedges and whitening the plains and lanes of the open country. 

Down―down they fall, spreading in little patches over the tattered and stained coat of an old man, footsore and hungry, crouching against the snow-tipped hedge. 

He tossed up his last copper on Christmas Eve, and lost that―he has had a long, long tramp since, and has been groping over those cold, long, weary miles, for some stray coin dropped by his god―chance―the only God he has ever known! 

Chance has frowned on him this Christmas Day, and he sinks exhausted by the wayside. 

Poor old Buffer!

Friendless and homeless, wifeless and childless, it has gone hard with him this merry Christmas, and he thinks, as he sits there, too nerveless to rise, what a lucky chance it would be if some fine gentleman should pass by and drop him a sixpence―or a shilling for his Christmas. 

Faintly sound on his ear the happy chimes from the distant cathedral tower.

Soft and white the snow falls, creeping nearer and nearer, like some sheltering friend, and his hungry, eager gaze dies out in a helpless look of endurance.

The snow falls faster and faster, the cold pierces deeper and deeper, He makes an effort to rise, but he cannot―his limbs are stiff with cold and famine, and yet life is dear to him. 

Life has been with him a constant conflict with the elements―a mere animal struggle for existence against earth's contending forces, and now, in his last moments, his only thought and wish is that some kind gentleman would give him a sixpence with which to buy a mug of ale and a slice of bacon for his Christmas dinner. 

Ring out, Christmas bells, another immortal soul is about to commence a long tramp over the unknown highway! 

The snow falls white―his weary body and tattered garments are alike covered by its pure cold robe.

Now slowly he raises his half-palsied arm and touches his battered cap.

He is making his exit from the world! 

He bows, but it is to a phantom gentleman who suddenly stands before him.

He is too far gone to question whence he came.

Is it the kind gentleman with the friendly sixpence he has been looking for?

Is he some good Christian from the cathedral town who has heard his hungry cry―or some noble lord from the neighbouring park?

He dreamily asks himself these questions, as the friendly person approaches nearer, takes him by the arm, and places to his parched lips a generous, life-reviving cordial.

Surely this must be the chance gentleman he has been thinking of all this Christmas Day. 

Presently, this unknown friend lifts him from the snowbound hedge and leads him to a curious chariot, gay as the fiery chariot of Elijah.

He resists at first―the kindness is too much for him―he is not used to such attentions, and shakes his head and draws back. 

When the gentleman, in answer to his hesitation, says―Come, my friend, I will take you to a good inn, where you shall have your Christmas dinner, he yields to the good chance, and they vanish together. 

Together, they glide on―on―over the spires of the cathedral―they hear the chimes ring out for Christmas, but no one sees them in their golden chariot. 

The good Christians eat their dinner and do not cast one thought to the poor wretches dying from cold and hunger beneath the snowy hedges of merry old England on Christmas Day!

Ring out, spirit world Christmas bells, for the poor who die on Christmas Days!

Poor homeless waifs of humanity―for once they shall have a merry Christmas!

―Charles Dickens in Spirit